Duel in the Moonlit Snow by Michael Merriam

The high, insistent wailing brought Rija back to her senses. She pushed herself up from where she lay in the snow. She did not know how long she had lain there, but her face was numb from the cold, as were her exposed hands. Her head throbbed.

The wailing filled her ears. She began to roll over, then gasped and nearly retched as the combination of pain and nausea struck her. She sat up, slow and careful, blinking back tears and ignoring the scream for attention coming from a few feet away.

The arrow had taken her through the calf of her left leg, slicing into the muscle, but fortunately missing the artery. A blow to the back of her head as she collapsed had left her face-down and unconscious in the snow.

The shrill wailing of the child turned to steady crying. Rija took a quick look around. She spotted the bodies of the three hired-swords, sprawled in the bloody snow, pierced by multiple arrows. Two of the three wagons were overturned, a dead ox still hitched to one, their drovers faring no better than the guards.

She could not find any sign of the couple who owned the wagons, or their daughter. The crying could only be the couple's four-month old son.

Rija took two quick breaths to steady herself. She crawled backward, toward the nearest overturned wagon, dragging her impaled leg and leaving a crimson smear in her wake.

She found the baby beside the wagon, half-covered by his father's body. Baby Tiranis was cold, miserable, and shivering, but alive.

"Shh, hush little one," Rija said, taking the child from under his dead parent and rocking him gently. "Hush, it will be all right."

Rija tried to decide on a course action while she reassured the child. The caravan was still almost a half-day's travel from the crossroads inn when the attack came. They had planned to stay overnight at the inn for safety. It was well known among the merchant travels that the local Road-Guard used the Wheel and Whip as a rest stop.

She would have to strike out for the inn. She and Tiranis would likely not survive exposure to the elements overnight. Wolves and other predators would come to feast on the dead and she feared the bandits would return after dark, checking for any small treasures they may have missed.

Making sure her squalling charge was wrapped up against the cold, she turned to the body of the baby's father. The bandits had failed to take his heavy cloak or his gloves, for which Rija was thankful. She would need them.

Fighting back another wave of nausea, Rija drew her small knife and cut the fabric of the dead man's rough trousers. Satisfied with the pieces of material she had sliced off, Rija turned to her next task.

She knew she would not get far with an arrow embedded in her leg.

Rija took the arrow in her hands and, with a sharp twist, snapped the feathered end off the shaft. Pain filled her as the arrow shifted in her leg. Rija swallowed and took a series of sharp, gasping breaths as new tears flowed down her cheeks. Steeling herself, she pushed the arrow forward.

Rija bit back a scream as the shaft slid through her leg. She took the bloody front of the arrow, careful not to grasp the sharp head, and slowly pulled the shaft out of her calf. She gave a final tearful gasp and blinked back the pain threatening to snuff out her consciousness.

She wrapped the bleeding wound with a strip of material taken from the dead man's trousers, tying it tightly. Satisfied with her work, she peeled off the man's cloak and gloves, ignoring the crimson stain on his shirt front and his wide, unseeing eyes.

Rija improvised a baby sling from the rest of the trouser fabric. She placed the struggling, mewing infant into the sling, then pulled the salvaged cloak over her shoulders and slipped on the too-big gloves.

Rija crawled out from under the wagon, carrying the child. She stood, trying to place as little pressure as possible on her injured leg.

She surveyed the field of slaughter. Tracks led off into the wilderness going both north and south. It would be unwise to leave the road, she thought. There was no telling which direction the attackers had gone, and she would be unable to move silently with a crying infant. Rija found no sign of Tiranis' mother, Keana, or his sweet-faced older sister, Joyna. Rija hoped that neither had been taken captive by the bandits.

Rija realized the bandits must have assumed she was dead, not just unconscious; otherwise she was sure they would have taken her.

Turning east, Rija struck out for the inn. It was still five hours away at the pace of the wagons, so she figured it would take her at least eight hours on foot, given her condition. She set off at a slow limp.

She had barely hobbled a mile when she heard the first howls. Trying to walk faster, Rija hoped the wolves would be content to feast on the dead and not follow her trail. Rija adjusted the child in the sling. His cries of hunger and indignation had turned to gentle sniffles and finally to sleep after the first quarter mile.

What she needed was a weapon, something more than the knife she carried. Moving with slow, careful steps, Rija moved off the road, searching for a stout limb. It would not only be useful as a weapon against the wolves, but she could use it as a crutch to speed her travel.

A short hunt yielded a solid tree limb, thick as her arm and tall as her shoulders. It would do. Rija made her way back to the road, leaning heavily on her new crutch.

She noticed hoof prints in the snow, signs of a beast moving in the direction she was walking. Had Tiranis' older sister managed to escape? Rija had a vague recollection of Joyna riding on the fine young filly her parents had gifted her for her tenth birthday.

"Lord, Lady, and Luck be with us all," Rija muttered, hoping the girl would have the sense to summon aid at the inn.

More howls, closer now. Rija tried to add speed to her steps, but the jarring pain in her ruined calf muscle made her stumble. She caught herself before falling flat, but the change in walking rhythm woke Tiranis, who began to scream and cry in earnest.

The howls and barks seemed to be on top of her now. She peered through the gathering darkness and saw a handful of wolves, lean and hungry looking, coming toward her. Rija broke out in a frightened sweat and focused on not panicking.

Rija left the road -- it offered no cover, nothing she could put her back against. Staggering through the thick, snow covered trees, Rija searched for anything to stand before: a tall tree, a boulder, anything would work.

She turned as the first wolf closed in her heels. Rija struck with the makeshift staff, fear and adrenaline giving added strength to her arm. She caught the wolf a blow to the head. The wounded animal yelped and fell, making whining noises as it rolled in the snow. Rija looked up at the other wolves. There were only three. Probably part of a larger pack, she reasoned.

Rija kept her eyes on the wolves and backed away, holding her weapon before her. Tiranis was screaming in full voice now and her leg felt on fire. She could feel warm blood running down her leg and into her boot.

Rija sniffed and gasped. What she really wanted to do was burst into tears. She had taken the position with the family two months ago because it promised safety in numbers on the open road and the relatively easy work of tending their children. She had meant to stay with them until they reached Haven, where the family would winter with relatives. Rija had plans of her own once she reached the city. Now here she was: bloodied, battling wolves, alone in the snow-covered forest, all her coin and possessions stolen, including the mandolin that provided her livelihood.

"Come on!" she yelled at the wolves, raising her tree limb. "Come on, you cowards!" She made a hobbling two-step charge and the wolves shied away.

Rija took another gasping breath. The smell of wood smoke filled her nose. For a moment she thought she might be saved. Her momentary elation turned to dismay as she realized the smoke probably belonged to the bandit camp.

Rija swallowed. The wolves had fanned out, howling their position. In the distance, voices answered. Tiranis grew silent in his sling, as if he could sense the danger about them.

There was no other choice. She and the child could die here in the snow, pulled down by the wolf pack, or she could take her chances with the bandits. Rija was under no illusions about what type of treatment a young woman like herself would receive at the hands of brigands, but at least she would be alive, and she might yet manage to escape before they killed her.

She adjusted the child's sling, causing a small squeal of protest, but nothing more. Rija backed away from the wolves, moving toward what she hoped was the source of the smoke. The smell grew stronger and the wolves stopped following her. Their companion's calls were still a good distance off, so far away that Rija thought they might have found the bodies of the caravan lying in the road. At last the wolves turned and bound away, disappearing into the night.

Rija stood still. She could see the light of a fire, around which worked a handful of ill-kept men. Three pairs of ratty tents where being dismantled and more men were loading bags taken from a crudely-built hut and strapping them to a pair of sway-backed nags. The bandits would be moving camp soon, putting distance between themselves and their latest victims.

She crept closer, praying to her patron that Tiranis might stay silent a little longer. She wanted to give the wolves time to move away before she started back toward the road, and she wanted to know exactly which direction this ragged company planned to travel. A movement at the near edge of the camp caught her eye.

Tiranis' mother, Keana, stood tied to a tree, her mouth gagged.

Rija stepped a few paces away from the camp, biting her lip against the pain in her leg. Checking on Tiranis, she found the child asleep again. Carefully slipping out of the sling, Rija hide her precious package among the limbs of an evergreen tree. Satisfied with his temporary safety, Rija turned back toward the camp. She would not leave Keana to the bandits.

Moving silently in the deep snow, Rija crept up to Keana. Night had come in earnest and the bandits had built the fire for warmth and light while they broke camp. She slipped behind the tree Keana was tied to. She pulled out the thin-bladed knife and cut the woman's bindings. Keana looked over her shoulder.

"Shh," Rija whispered. "Make no noise."

Keana gave a tiny nod as Rija cut loose the woman's legs. The two slipped away in silence.

"What are you--" Keana started to ask.

"Hush," Rija hissed softly, leading Keana to where she had hidden Tiranis. Rija handed the child to his mother.

"Quickly," Rija said. "The bandits will discover you are gone any moment."

Rija led Keana, who now carried Tiranis, into the darkness. They had gone a scant hundred yards when they heard the first shouts and sounds of pursuit.

Rija gave Keana a little push. "Go! The road is ahead of you. Turn left and make your way to the inn."

"But--"

"Run Keana!"

The woman gave Rija a wide-eyed look. The combination of angry voices closing in on them and the sudden scream of her child forced Keana into action. She turned and ran.

Rija watched the woman vanish into the dark. She hoped they would make it to safety. As the snow started to fall, Rija turned and faced the bandits. There was no point in trying to run: her injured leg would never support her at a speed quicker than a slow walk. Blood had continued to trickle into her boot, and the loss of it was making her light-headed.

She watched a series of torches move erratically toward her in the darkness. In the distance she could hear Tiranis' screams. Rija dropped her cloak, allowing more freedom of movement and making herself an attractive target. She would do what she could to buy Keana and Tiranis' escape.

"Hey!" she called as the first torch-bearing bandit started to run past her toward the sound of Keana crashing through the trees and the screams of the baby.

The man stopped and turned toward her, a startled look on his face. Surprise changed quickly to a predatory, rotten-toothed smile.

"Well, look what I've found, all alone in the woods," he said, walking up to her. "You'll more than make up for the one we lost."

Rija smiled at him, showing more bravery than she felt. "Oh, please sir, don't hurt me," she said softly.

The man grinned wider and turned to call to his fellows.

Rija slammed the knife into his kidney and pulled it out. Hot blood sprayed over her hand. He cried out and turned toward her. Rija lashed out with the knife, slashing across his throat. He fell into the snow.

Rija quickly picked up his fallen torch, before the snow could extinguish it. She could hear several of his fellows moving toward her, drawn by his dying cries.

The first of them rushed her, a knife held low, blade gleaming in the torchlight.

Rija took a hobbling step to the side and struck a solid blow with the torch, setting the man's hair on fire. He screamed and ran, slapping wildly at his burning head.

The others were on her before she could recover. She managed to slash one on the arm as he grabbed her. She heard a crash and scream, then felt a solid blow to the back her head.

Rija fell to her knees, trying desperately to hold onto her wits. She heard another cry, and then the clang of metal on metal and the high, angry sound of crossbows firing. Around her, horses snorted and stamped their hooves. She rolled out of the way as a large charger loomed out at her in the darkness. Someone stepped on her injured calf.

She screamed and blacked out.

#

Rija awoke in a warm bed, covered in thick fur blankets.

Surely I have died and gone to my reward, she thought.

The notion was ruined by the insistent urging of her bladder. Rija sat up in the bed, moving slowly and stiffly. Someone had bathed her and dressed her in a clean shift. They had even gone so far as to braid her long brown hair. The earthy smell of herbs filled her nose. She peered under the heavy fur blankets. The wound on her leg was dressed and wrapped in a clean bandage over what she suspected was some kind of poultice.

"You’re awake! Do you need anything?"

Rija blinked her eyes clear and found Joyna sitting in a chair near her. The girl seemed fit and healthy.

"The pot, and perhaps some water, please," Rija said around her thick, dry tongue.

Once Joyna had helped her fulfill her bodily needs, Rija stumbled back to bed. The short trip to the chamber pot had left her dizzy and sweating. The girl tucked Rija back under the blankets.

"Thank you," Rija said.

"I'm going to get mother. She wanted to talk to you."

Rija gave the blonde girl a wan smile as the child bound out the door. A few minutes later Keana slipped inside the room.

"How are you?" Keana asked. Her face was tired and blotchy -- no doubt, Rija thought, from mourning her husband.

Rija tried to smile and failed. "I'm not sure I've ever been worse. How did I get here?"

"We have Joyna to thank for that. When the bandits attacked, she fled. She rode all the way here. She found a detachment of Road-Guard planning to overnight at the inn. They were trying to follow the trail you were leaving behind, but it was dark. They were about to turn back when they heard Tiranis' cries. They found us and I sent them to your aid. They brought you here. My daughter and I cleaned you and the inn-wife tended your wound."

"Lady, I thank you," Rija said. She was starting to tear-up and shake at the memory of her near-fatal experience.

"No, Rija. Thank you. My son would have died in the cold without you. I would have... well, best not to dwell on that, I think." Keana's face brightened. "The Road-Guard swept down on the bandits and wiped them out. I'm happy to report they found all your gear. Keana pointed to the floor by the head of the bed.

Rija leaned over. Her packs and mandolin were neatly stacked on the floor.

"My brother is coming to fetch us and our goods," Keana continued. "He will escort us the rest of the way to Haven."

"Lady Keana--"

"Just Keana, please."

Rija managed a real smile. "Keana, could I continue to travel with you? Just to Haven?"

"Travel with us? Rija, I insist you winter with my family. It's the least I can do."

"Lady--"

"Keana. And I will not accept anything except yes for an answer."

Rija nodded. "Thank you, that would be lovely."

Keana stood. "It's settled then. I'll send Joyna back in to tend your needs. I need to..." her voice faltered. "I need to make certain arrangements."

Keana slipped out the door and Rija burrowed deeper under the covers. She heard Joyna enter the room and settle into the chair.

Rija exhaled. Her leg throbbed, her head hurt, and she was exhausted, but she had a warm bed for now, and a place to stay over winter. Content with the situation and feeling safe, Rija closed her eyes and slept.

"Duel in the Moonlit Snow" is Michael Merriam's second publication with Gryphonwood. Visit his website.

Review of Naomi Novik's "The Black Powder War" by Patrick St-Denis

With Temeraire/His Majesty's Dragon, newcomer Naomi Novik came out of left field with what certainly appeared to be a winner. The quality of its sequel, Throne of Jade, demonstrated that the first volume was no fluke. Building on existing storylines, it showed that Novik's series possessed a lot more depth than its predecessor hinted at. And with Black Powder War, the author sets the bar even higher.

Some readers pointed out that this series didn't fill one with awe like works by authors such as George R. R. Martin, R. Scott Bakker and Steven Erikson. Be that as it may, in terms of entertainment this trilogy is definitely a breath of fresh air that enables it to stand out in the fantasy genre.

More and more, it's evident that Novik has an historian's eye for details. The backdrop of the tale remains the Napoleonic Wars. Bonaparte himself makes an appearance. The author's erudite knowledge of that historical period imbues her books with realism. And yet, as I mentioned in my review of His Majesty's Dragon, this is not your typical alternate history novel.

Although Laurence and Temeraire hold center stage once again, Black Powder War permits us to get better acquainted with other characters, both old and new. Granby, especially, comes to mind. Tharkay is also an interesting character, mostly because it's impossible to size him up. We get to see more of Lien, the albino dragon. Iskierka, a dragonet we meet near the end of the novel, shows a lot of potential.

Once more, it was a joyride to follow Temeraire's misadventures as Laurence and his crew must fly overland from China to Istanbul. Orders of capital import reach Laurence in Macao. Time being of the essence, a sea voyage cannot be considered. With the French doing their utmost to secure an alliance with China and with Napoléon terrorizing Continental Europe, Laurence is acutely aware that they have no time to lose. With the enigmatic Tharkay as their guide, they embark on a long sojourn. Along the way, feral dragons will land them in a heap of troubles, and they will soon discover that treachery is afoot within the Ottoman Empire. Somehow, they must find a way to return to England.

My only disappointment is that Black Powder War is by no means the end of the trilogy, not even an end. The book ends with a cliffhanger of a sort. Which means that I must now wait for the fourth volume to see what happens next. Quite vexing, actually!;-)

Kudos to Naomi Novik for breathing new life in the much-overused dragon concept, which in itself if laudable. Moreover, she did it with the skills of a veteran writer and unmistakable panache to boot!

Kudos also to Del Rey Books for releasing the three volumes of this trilogy in so short a span of time. For once, readers can have their cake and eat it too!

For the sole reason that it's a welcome change from the multitude of dark and gritty fantasy epics, I encourage everyone to give Naomi Novik a shot. You won't be disappointed. I haven't had this much fun reading fantasy books in quite some time!

The final verdict: 8/10

An Exceedingly Pious Man by Mark Johnson

A clean-shaven man burst into a small room and slammed the door behind him. Panting and gasping for air, he held up his hand to stop the man he had interrupted, showing an off-white, loose-fitting shirt underneath an animal skin jacket. He placed his other hand on a sword hilt, implying a threat.

"You will not need that." The somber tones of the priest calmed the stranger enough for him to sit heavily on the floor, back to the door. The priest was dressed in heavy, white woolen robes and boots made of white deerskin. "No one may harm you here."

"What is this place?"

"You are in the temple of the Mother of All Life. I am Grulph, her humble servant." He smoothed his flowing brown beard and waited for this olive-colored man to catch his breath. "And who might you be? Why do you visit this hallowed place in such disarray?"

He stood, showing himself to be too thin for his average height. He swatted a lock of straight black hair away from his eyes. "I am Xan T'Way, a stranger in these parts. Some of your countrymen have hunted me for weeks, led by a wild man." The man dropped to his knees and grabbed Grulph's robes, crying. "I had no intent to slay his son. It was an accident, I swear. We did struggle, and a blow to his head was all that saved my own life. By all that's holy, don’t let them take me."

"Who pursues you?"

"A mob of people, and the wild man. They are outside this place even now."

Grulph smiled. "You are safe within these walls. Now, I would speak with your pursuers."

Xan cringed in the corner as Grulph left the room, walked through a larger outer room, and opened the great oaken door to the temple. Standing before him were ten or fifteen villagers, great spears and massive axes resting on fur-covered shoulders. One man stepped forward, his barrel chest nearly bursting the bearskin he wore, and his graying blonde mane and beard waving in the breeze.

"Grulph," he demanded. "Where is our murderer?"

"Valhall, my friend. Is that how you now address the high priest of the Mother of All Life?"

The burly man dropped to one knee. "Forgive me," he said, as he bowed his head.

The priest placed a hand on the man's head. "Now, enter, and we shall speak of this."

They sat on a wooden bench inside the main room, a twenty-by-twenty square space lit by torches along the walls, only two of which were currently burning. A number of wooden planks lay across stump portions, forming benches.

"Now, what evil has befallen our village?"

"This is the one who slew my son. We have pursued him for two weeks, and his trail led back here, to the village. He must have become lost and circled back."

"I am told that the slaying was accidental, a result of an ill-fated struggle."

"Grulph, he slew my boy to steal his boots. I swore to kill the man, and you know that I take no oath lightly."

"He sought sanctuary in this holy place, and you know that the Mother of All Life will brook no violence within these walls."

"Grulph, he robbed and killed my boy. I must complete the task to which I am sworn."

"The Mother of All Life believes in mercy."

"Does she not also believe in justice?"

The priest stepped back and rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Xan watched from the doorway, trying to stay in the shadows unseen. Suddenly, the priest's face brightened.

"Valhall, you know that the high holy days approach rapidly. I request from you a bone fire oath, that no harm shall come to this man. Only then may I release him from this sanctuary."

Valhall saw Xan in the doorway and tightened his muscles, his face reddening, knuckles white on the handle of his great axe.

Another man in the temple's doorway told Valhall, "Do it. The high holy days are nigh upon us. You can keep a bone fire oath."

Stepping outside, Valhall slammed his axe into the ground and shouted, "All right!" He turned to the others in the street. "I make this oath on the bone fire, that no harm will come to this man." He turned to the priest. "And may the Mother of All Life punish me if I break this bone fire oath. Good enough, priest?" His teeth were clenched.

Grulph turned to Xan. "You are free to leave, my son. Go safely."

Terrified, Xan said, "My life will be forfeit. You cannot make me go."

"There is no reason to fear. You heard the bone fire oath with your own ears. If Valhall harms you in violation of his sacred bone fire oath, these who heard the oath are bound to slay him, or face the wrath of the Mother of All Life themselves. You may go in peace."

"The others will kill me. I fear a trap."

"His oath was that no harm shall come to you. If any man causes this oath to be broken, then that man shall surely be put to death. The bone fire oath is sacred, and must be strictly observed, according to custom and teachings."

Xan stared, then slowly, wide-eyed and stiff, stepped into the street. The men assembled began to disperse, returning to their homes. Valhall was the last to leave, but he turned his back on Xan and walked away, shoulders hunched like a beaten dog.

Xan began to dance in the street. "I don’t believe it. Thanks to your foolish religion, freedom is mine again. Many thanks, priest." He danced away.

Grulph muttered, "The Mother of All Life does indeed believe in justice, and I believe in Valhall's capacity to mete it out in her name." He returned to the temple.

Xan strutted about the village, seeing all the villagers stare at him. Several shook fists at him, but he only laughed. Then as evening fell, he spied Valhall entering a small building. A small, round structure of logs and clay, with skins hung over the small door, the sight of smoke oozing from a roof opening suggested a warm fire and a hot meal to Xan. He grinned broadly, and then crawled into Valhall's home.

A plump, broad-shouldered blonde woman screamed. Naked, she pulled a bear skin over her pale body. Valhall snatched his axe and stood, fire blazing from his eyes and blood vessels standing out on his forehead as though they would burst.

"Uh, uh, uh," Xan chided. "Remember your oath? You can’t hurt me."

Valhall shook with fury, frozen in place.

"I need food and a warm place to sleep, or I'll 'suffer harm.' So I saw your house as a good place."

"Damn you," Valhall shouted.

His woman grabbed the northman's arm. "We have only a short time until the high holy days. You can keep your vow, husband."

"Yes, you can keep your vow." Xan was unsure of whether or not he had overplayed his hand, until Valhall sat.

"Eat."

Xan grinned and took a bowl of the soup that was cooking on the fire. "Many thanks. I knew that I could count on your hospitality."

Valhall left, but Xan followed. He saw the northman chopping logs beside the house with a fury that was frightening. That axe made short work of oak; Xan could only imagine what it would do to a person. He crawled back into the house, where Valhall's wife was still huddled beneath the skins.

"Don’t worry that I will violate you. I pushed your man far enough for one day. I just want to get some sleep."

With that, Xan pulled up a skin and fell asleep. Tossing and turning in his sleep, he dreamed of things most unsettling.

Morning saw Xan awakening to an empty hut. He crawled out, then stretched in the morning sun. He strolled about the village, almost surprised at the lack of activity, until he came to a clearing where all the village men were digging.

"What is all of this?"

Several villagers glared at him and said nothing.

He tapped the nearest on the shoulder. "I said, 'What is all of this?'"

The gray-bearded man recoiled from the touch and spat. "This is a holy event. Take your accursed evil away."

Xan peered over the men milling about the field like a swarm of bees. "Say, I don’t see my friend Valhall. Is he out there?"

Gray beard stood and laughed. "Hey," he called to the others. "This one looks for Valhall."

Most of the men laughed.

The now red-faced man asked, "What causes such amusement?"

Gray beard answered. "Valhall will find you, you have no need to find him."

Unsettled, Xan continued walking. He kept looking over his shoulder, although the men had returned to their work, and no one bothered to follow him.

He soon spotted Valhall, doing something to a tree with needle-like leaves. Xan approached, and could see that Valhall was digging around the base of the tree.

"What is this? Does everybody in this village root around in the dust for a living?"

The brawny northman stood and stretched.

"The high holy days are coming."

"So?"

"Do you not know of our holy days?"

"If I did, would I ask?"

Valhall stared, trying to comprehend someone unfamiliar with their faith. "Go ask the priest what the others were doing."

"Gladly, but what are you doing?"

"Making a chair for the high holy days."

"A chair? For whom? And why are you digging up a tree to make a chair?"

"You ask many questions." Valhall returned to his digging.

Puzzled, Xan departed to find the priest.

Grulph met Xan at the door to the temple.

"Do you seek me, bare-faced one?"

"Yes, I seek you. I wish to know more of these holy days."

"As you wish." Grulph ushered the other man into the poorly lit main room, and sat on a bench. Xan sat in front of him.

"What are these holy days? Why do all your men dig? What is happening?"

"Enough."

Xan hushed.

"I will explain, if only you may allow my voice to be heard." When he saw that the other would be quiet, the priest continued. "The winter solstice approaches, which marks the beginning of our year. The high holy days celebrate the Mother of All Life's creation of the world, which began our calendar."

"So why do all your men dig?"

"The high holy days center around the bone fire, a ceremonial fire in which the remains of our deceased of the previous year are consumed by the flames, thus releasing their spirits from their earthly bonds."

"By all the gods. You mean they were digging up those who perished this year?"

"Precisely. It is an obligation owed to one's loved ones. The bodies must be prepared to release their spirits. They must be anointed with oils and otherwise conditioned to weaken the bond between flesh and spirit. It is a holy duty."

"Perhaps, but Valhall wasn’t digging up bones. He was digging up a most peculiar tree."

Grulph looked puzzled for a moment. "How odd. Valhall is the most pious man I have ever met, and would normally assist others, as he had already prepared his own son before sunrise. How odd."

"He said that he was making a chair."

"Odd."

Xan left, seeing that the priest was deep in thought, and likely to provide no more information.

Grulph soon found his friend and neighbor, and saw that Valhall had uprooted a pine tree. He was in the process of cutting off the root area when the priest arrived.

"Valhall, your problem informed me of your peculiar behavior. Am I to understand that you are making a chair?"

Valhall mopped his brow and rested on the fallen tree.

"Yes, I make a chair for my guest at the bone fire."

"For the one who caused your grief? But why would you uproot the tree for wood?"

"I make his chair from the roots."

"Pine roots for a chair? But they are only good for....” Grulph grinned. "I have said many times that you are a pious man, who obeys a higher calling. It appears that the Mother of All Life has given you the strength to honor your bone fire vow, and the wisdom to serve the cause of justice, as well. Good faith to you, my friend."

"And to you."

Later, Xan saw Valhall's woman in their home.

"Know you that your appearance is comely, even though you are as pale as all others this far to the north."

She cringed. Fortunately, Valhall entered at just that moment. He grabbed Xan by the neck with one great paw, lifting him off his feet.

"Know this, murderer. Vow or no vow, if you touch my woman, I will kill you."

Xan swallowed hard. He believed the brawny man.

"I understand. I only want something to eat."

"Feed him, woman." Valhall released Xan.

She obediently cut a chunk from the piece of meat that was slowly roasting over their cook fire. Giving it to the strange one, she hurried to the other side of the room, so that the fire was between them. She fed her husband, who ate in silence. Xan noticed that Valhall was heavily sprinkled with wood chips.

"Say, barbarian, why do you make a chair? Has it something to do with your holy days?"

Valhall was slow to answer. "You will stay for the holy days. I make a chair for you."

"For me? Why?"

"Husband, why would you?"

"Hush, woman." Valhall turned to Xan. "You are not welcome here, but you are still my guest. That is reason enough."

"Husband..."

"Hush, woman. Do not question my decision."

All three ate in silence after that.

Valhall worked on the chair until darkness forced him to stop. He and his household slept soundly, speaking little to one another.

The next morning, Xan awoke to find an empty structure, and more of the previous night's meat on a spit over a dying fire. He ate, then strolled back to the temple.

"Priest," he called.

Grulph appeared at the doorway.

"Priest, tell me more of these holy days."

Rubbing his eyes, Grulph took Xan inside.

"Very well. Tomorrow begins the high holy days. The men of the village will hold a great hunt, and the women will prepare the foods. Tomorrow night, the men will engage in drinking and storytelling, boasting of their accomplishments during the year. Then the bone fire will be lit at sunrise, the time when the Mother of All Life created the world. I believe that I explained the bone fire to you yesterday."

Xan shuddered. "Yes. Dig up the corpses and burn them."

"Afterwards, the entire village will feast and celebrate the renewal of life."

Xan sniffed the air, suddenly realizing that he smelled an odd mixture of sweet and bitter and putrid. "Is that the bodies I smell?"

"Yes. They have been anointed with sweet oils, and carefully wrapped in furs, in preparation for the bone fire."

"Ugh. I suppose that is the knowledge I sought."

"You are staying for the celebration?"

"Your friend says that I am."

"Good."

Xan left, somewhat confused by his treatment.

After walking through the village, Xan found Valhall working on his tree stump.

“You still work on my chair?”

Valhall had cut a slice from the stump, roughly three inches thick. He seemed to be cutting posts for the legs. “Yes.” He continued to work.

“You’re not a talkative man, are you?”

“No.”

Xan wandered the village until he got hungry, then returned to Valhall’s home, where he was fed. Valhall only returned when it became too dark to work. He ate and fell asleep, completely exhausted. Xan chewed his fingers as he lay in the dark, thinking.

Xan awoke the next morning to find Valhall gone, but his woman was still there. She was outside, preparing a bed of wood for a fire. Women did the same in front of the other twenty or twenty-five homes along this path.

“You are preparing to cook tonight?”

She jumped. “I did not know you were awake.”

“Yes, I am awake. So, you are preparing to cook?”

“Yes, I expect my husband to bring a fine deer.”

“I look forward to all of the food.” Xan saw no men. “Is your man hunting with the others?”

There was no reply.

“Does no one in this village engage in conversation, or does no one converse with me?”

Still hearing no answer, he wandered off, quickly reaching a twenty-foot diameter pit. The priest was setting out a layer of wrist-thick branches atop a layer of kindling.

“That will be a large fire.”

“I must prepare the bone fire.”

“How many people could have died in a village so small?”

“A fair question, strange one. Our village suffered a plague during the winter, and a third of our souls will be released from their flesh at daybreak.”

“A third. So where are the homes of the dead ones? The village looks too small to have lost a third of its residents.”

Grulph stopped his work and looked Xan in the eyes. “How many children have you seen since your arrival?”

Xan pondered before answering. “I . . . remember . . . none.”

“The plague claimed most of our children and elders.”

“I am sorry.”

“Did you know that you slew Valhall’s only child to survive the winter?”

Xan’s silence confirmed his ignorance. Grulph continued his work, and Xan left.

When Xan returned, he saw that Valhall’s woman was skinning a deer, while her husband was tying legs and a back to his chair’s seat with an intricate array of ropes. He also managed to insert a number of smaller pieces of wood into the matrix.

“It looks like no chair I have ever seen,” he told Valhall. “But then, many of your barbaric ways are strange to me.”

The northman grunted.

“It looks none too comfortable, either.”

“When I finish, it will be plenty comfortable enough for the celebration.”

Xan sat, deep in thought, silently watching Valhall finish his construction. When the woodwork was complete, Xan walked around the chair to look.

“It still looks uncomfortable.” He ran a finger along the flat part of the chair and pulled away a wad of resin. “Sticky, too.”

I have not finished it.”

“Oh.”

Xan watched as Valhall stretched the deerskin from the day’s kill across the chair. He pulled the legs away from the seat and tucked the skin in between, then tightened the ropes to hold the cover. Although the chair looked heavy, Valhall lifted it with apparent ease, then carried it to the edge of the bone fire site. His guest followed.

“You are providing me an excellent spot from which to watch.”

“Yes.”

“What about the drinking and storytelling that your priest described?”

Valhall silently pointed to a bonfire at the other end of the village. Xan sauntered to the fire, where he stopped short of the ring of men. One barrel-chested man was telling a highly animated story about wrestling a bear. Xan listened to stories and drank for several hours, trying to stay out of the way. When he finally stumbled back to Valhall’s home, his hosts were asleep. Xan sat and began to cry.

A groggy northman asked, “What is that noise?”

Between whimpers, the southerner said, “I didn’t know that he was your son. I suffer great sorrow for having slain him. Please forgive me.”

“The Mother of All Life forgives those who to her come. Go to sleep.”

Xan wept more before falling asleep.

A ghostly giant roused the southlander. Still affected by the alcohol, Xan slowly realized that Valhall was waking him.

“It is time.”

Stepping outside the hut, Xan could see a fire burning brighter than the dawn, surrounded by figures dressed all in furs like Valhall. In his groggy state, he thought they looked like a herd of yaks, great hairy beasts standing around, grazing.

Xan followed Valhall to the bone fire, which was blazing brightly. He could see the bodies, wrapped in skins, changing to ash before his eyes.

“Hot fire.”

“Yes. Sit.”

Xan sat in the chair prepared for him, and Grulph walked over to him.

“Good morning, strange one.”

“So this is your big fire.”

“The bone fire, yes.”

Xan watched, fascinated, as men and women tossed bundles into the fire.

“What is that?”

“Those are bones from yesterday’s kills, wrapped in the skins from the same animals. Any who have made a bone fire oath must throw such a package into the flames.”

“Why?”

Numerous arms suddenly grabbed Xan, holding him fast in his seat. Valhall tied his hands, waist and feet to the chair, pulling the ropes tight. He then pulled the hide boots from Xan’s feet.

“I believe these are mine.” He tossed them aside.

Grulph continued his explanation. “Because it is the nature of the bone fire oath. The bone fire oath is only valid until the next bone fire. Then does the oath-taker toss the bones of the hunt, wrapped in its skin, into the bone fire so that the Mother of All Life may sacrificially burn away the oath.”

Xan began to hyperventilate. “Valhall has such a sacrifice . . .?”

“I have a sacrifice.” Valhall’s voice boomed above the crackling of the fire.

Grulph patted Xan on his hand. “As I have said, Valhall is an exceedingly pious man. Not only does he have a sacrifice, . . .” Valhall hoisted Xan, chair and all, onto his shoulders. “ . . . but he is actually going to sacrifice the object of his oath.”

The southlander’s screams as Valhall lofted him into the bone fire were swiftly consumed by the flames of justice.

Mark Johnson lives in Madison, Mississippi with his wife and two sons. His work has appeared in a variety of publications, and he has edited several publications, including Dragonlaugh, which ran for a few years on the web around the turn of the century.

Lunar Wind: by Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

There was this princess

held captive in a palace --


At night she wept.

lonely for the sound of her mother’s voice –

lonely for the wind

singing through the trees of their summer home.



One day, the moon

flew in through her bedroom window

With tender hands, she picked him up,

and sang to him a love song.



“I cannot fly,”

the moon whispered.

“My wings are broken.”



She bound him up as best she could,

And fed him a celestial pablum

of stardust –

and the tears of a heartbroken unicorn.



“Why do you weep?” The moon asked



“Someday,” she whispered, “you will leave

and I will have no allies left.”



He kissed away her tears

and comforted her with tales of distant galaxies.



When the rain season passed

her captor arrived



“Bring me my bride,”

he cried.



The castle trembled at his footsteps,

at the slam-bang of his fist throwing wide her chamber door.



Nothing there

not moonlight, not stardust


Then through the open window

he saw her

riding on a boat of clouds

Borne away on the breath of a lunar wind.




END

Review: In the Eye of Heaven

I first heard of David Keck's debut from a publicist at H. B. Fenn (Tor Books' Canadian distributor) last fall. She was asking me if I'd consider reviewing In the Eye of Heaven. And since I always make it a point to support Canadian talent, I agreed. And when Steven Erikson mentioned it in both our interviews this winter, my curiosity was piqued.

Having just finished reading it, I find it hard to explain how the book made me feel. It's different from what's out there. There is no question about that fact. Perhaps too different, to tell the truth.

The worlbuilding is a cut above what is currently the norm on the market nowadays. And although this novel only lets us catch a few glimpses, it doesn't take an astute reader to realize that the world of Errest shines by its authenticity.

David Keck's rendering of the minutiae of medieval life is nothing short of brilliant. Indeed, I feel that only Katherine Kurtz might surpass him in that aspect. Yet, no matter how knowledgeable the author is, I fear that this is a facet of the tale which the "casual" reader won't even appreciate.

Quality prose and good dialogues abound throughout the book. Which is always a good thing.

The book's main problem lies in its pace. Very slow at the best of times, this might put off some readers. Especially the middle portion of In the Eye of Heaven, when the rhythm becomes sluggish for a good 200 pages. Which is too bad, for the novel had an interesting beginning and I was eager to learn more. But the slow pace prevented me from ever getting truly drawn into the story.

The characterizations are also a factor. We meet the main character, Durand, on page 1. Yet at the end of the book, after more than 400 pages, I still don't know much more about him than at the end of the first chapter. And the same thing goes for the rest of the cast. Understandably, In the Eye of Heaven is the introduction to a larger tale (an honest to God trilogy, according to Keck!). Still, I don't think I've ever read a fantasy book in which we learn so little about the characters.

Some of the storylines forming the backdrop of this novel appeared quite interesting. Unfortunately, most remain in the background and will probably play a larger role in the sequels. There is no doubt in my mind that Keck controls his tale with aplomb and assurance. But for some reason, something's missing to catch hold of the reader's imagination. We don't really know what's going on and where the author is taking us with these storylines. The ending, while providing resolution to one plotline, does little else.

In the Eye of Heaven is a solid effort. I'm curious to see what other readers/reviewers will think about it.

The final verdict: 7/10



Courtesy of Pat's Fantasy Hotlist

Like a Thief in the Night: by Armand Rosamilia

Royo slowly flexed his calves as he squatted on a roof overlooking the alleyway. The night was warm, even for this time of summer in Deaxa. With the clouds overhead it was a perfect night for working. He silently checked his weapons with his hands, keeping his eyes focused on the mouth of the alley.

He had been perched here for an hour, waiting for the merchant to appear. From information gleaned from street contacts he knew the merchant, Phys Darnevish, had been holed up with a harlot.

Royo wondered how the fat man had fared. Perhaps his heart had given out and even now he was dead, sprawled out in the brothel while the ladies picked over his rings and baubles.

He watched a city guard sneak out of the brothel, scanning the alleyway for prying eyes. Royo smiled. This was a "safe" business of Deaxa, one of the many establishments that paid handsomely to the nobility in the city. According to this system, all were afforded certain comforts while patronizing the establishment, such as fear of assassination, thievery and arrest.

Royo cared little for that, but understood that to rob Darnevish while inside would create more trouble than he would already be in. This was an "unsanctioned" job he was about to do. Normally he would heed the Code and wait for an assignment from his Captain, Charli Numen. Phys, though, had something purported to be priceless. Royo had overheard Charli tell another soldier about the dagger that Phys had on his person, a weapon so sharp that it had a metallic sheath.

At sixteen winters Royo was too old to be a street urchin anymore yet too young to attain any real footing in the Brethren. He was a common street soldier, waiting to gain in power and prominence. The unfortunate aspect of this was the fact that Charli Numen was his Captain.

The gain outweighed the risk for Royo. He knew he would never be a Master in the Brethren, only a foot soldier, taking on small, meaningless jobs while others told tales of gems the size of fists and stealing priceless artifacts right from under the noses of their owners.

There were four Captains to the city, each running a designated area and all ultimately reporting to Red Dog. Each Captain had three to five Lieutenants. Beneath them were street soldiers, and each Lieutenant had a command of dozens. Darz Ibith had been the Lieutenant over Royo, but he disappeared last winter. Rumor had it that he had crossed Charli in some way and was now "gone", never to be spoken of again.

With this dagger Royo could step into some power. And why not? He had been on the street since he was six, picking pockets and working for Red Dog in one capacity or another.

Roy shook his head, clearing his mind. Time to go to work.

Phys, corpulent and sweating, staggered into the alleyway. He was covered in rich fabrics over much of his bulk. His face gleamed with perspiration and his eyes darted up and down the alley.

What struck Royo as odd was that there were no bodyguards present. Phys continued to move down the alley, away from the main street. Royo hadn't noticed anyone else waiting for him in the alley and assumed his bodyguards were inside with him. Royo wanted that blade and was bold enough to accost even a group of bodyguards to secure it.

Movement in the alleyway brought him back to the present as a figure slid silently down from the roof across from him, intercepting Phys.

“Damn”, Royo muttered, jumping down before he could think straight and see who this was. He had his dagger out and was behind the figure.

Phys dropped to his knees, not an easy feat, and began crying.

Another step brought Royo closer to the back of this other thief. Who would dare make a move on my commission? Royo laughed to himself. This was no commission; this was an act outside of the Brethren.

Royo hesitated. What if Phys Darnevish was actually under contract to hit?

The figure spun around, leveling a short sword at Royo and startling him, for before Royo stood a bewitching female dressed head to toe in black, matching her long hair. Her eyes were striking and they caught Royo and made him look away as they penetrated him.

"What do we have here?" the female asked, stepping closer to Royo but to the left, keeping Phys in her line of sight.

"This is my commission," Royo lied, trying to improvise. He knew she was no common thief. Perhaps she was an assassin of the Fold? He shuddered.

"Then we have a dilemma. I have a contract in this alleyway tonight," she said.

Phys began to whimper. She cast him a glare and he quieted.

Mind racing, Royo didn't know whether to try to talk his way into getting the dagger or simply turning and running away.

As if reading his thoughts, she grinned. "I am Chemi. I think you know that since I am on business, I can leave no witness. It seems that we are in quite a conundrum, little thief."

"All I seek is an item from the merchant. Perhaps we could help one another." Royo tried to remain calm. He kept his dagger in his hand but held it away from him. If it came to a fight he would get one throw before Chemi attacked with her sword. "I have heard of you, Chemi, and your reputation. You are just below the Titled."

Twenty-One Titled assassins worked in Deaxa and the cities and towns nearby. Like the Brethren, they were lead by a Master. Bossman ran the streets with an iron, albeit invisible, fist. Once you gained a Title you were henceforth known by that Title. Presently The Spoiler and The Hand were the top assassins in the city.

Chemi shuffled her feet, lowering her short sword but keeping it in her hand. "I have decided to let you live. Run away now and never look back."

"I cannot do that," Royo said, waiting for her attack. He didn't want to leave without the dagger. He had gone this far; to walk away without the weapon would not make sense. He knew that Charli didn't like him and would likely look him over for the promotion he deserved.

"Do you think you can defeat me?" Chemi asked. She tilted her blade at Royo, her eyes sparkling. "I can have no witness this night."

"I imagine I will have to try," Royo said. He brought his dagger up to throw.

Chemi lowered her short sword. She smiled as she watched Royo. "Before I kill you, I need to know: what does this fat merchant have that you would risk all for?"

Royo's mind was running again. Should he tell her the truth and hope she would let him go with the dagger? Highly unlikely, he knew. It was said on the street that Chemi was as deadly and cunning as she was beautiful. Royo knew he was outmatched on several levels.

"There is a dagger on his person that my Master bade me retrieve. It is rightfully his property," Royo said. He still held his dagger before him. He figured that he could attempt to bluff his way through this with nothing to lose except his life.

Chemi smiled. "Why should I care about a dagger? I have several that I'm sure are more dangerous than anything this fat man could wield." She pulled a dagger from thin air, tossing it in the air as she smiled with her free hand. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

"Not my dagger," Phys muttered. He bowed his head when Chemi and Royo looked at him.

Chemi chuckled. She stared intently at Royo but held her hand out toward Phys. "Let me see this dagger that is worth so much."

Royo still held his dagger. If he could get the throw off in time…

"Either throw that cheap blade or put it away. Your arm must be tired from holding that position," Chemi said. She glanced at Phys, waving her hand. "The dagger?"

The merchant reached into the folds of his robe and drew a jewel-encrusted scabbard. He held the sheathed weapon out to Chemi gingerly.

"Beware the blade, for the edges are quite wicked," Phys said.

The assassin took the scabbard and carefully slid the blade silently from its protection.

"Gorgeous," Royo whispered. The blade itself was slightly curved, with small runes carved down the center of the blade, the pommel simple and elegant: gold and silver streaks expertly woven in spiral patterns and lined with a host of other metals. A small black stud jutted from the cross-guard.

Chemi studied the blade with a smile. She tapped her finger on the stud, holding the blade to the thin moonlight and watching as a thin drip of black ichors appeared on the point of the blade.

Royo knew he was a dead man in that instant. Here was a weapon fit for an assassin, not a common thief. He knew that Chemi would not part with the dagger.

"You realize I cannot give you this blade?" she asked simply, twirling the blade in her hand to throw it. "Your Master is out of luck."

Royo closed his eyes and prayed to Deauxama that the assassin would spare him, knowing it was futile.

Instead of the piercing dagger, he heard a thump. Opening his eyes, he saw Chemi prone on the ground, her eyes open and staring lifelessly.

The dagger was on the ground next to her.

Without another thought, Royo ran to the weapon.

But Phys was quicker, despite his bulk. He retrieved the weapon two full steps ahead of Royo and smiled.

Royo raised his dagger but Phys flicked his wrist and the blade caught Royo in the chest, knocking him back.

Royo gasped for air.

"Stupid thief. Did you actually believe you had eavesdropped on Charli? He set you up, you fool. I'm not some fat merchant." He quickly peeled off his robe, revealing layers of padding.

"Who are you?" Royo asked through clenched teeth.

"Just an assassin, trying to get a Title." He glanced at the body of Chemi. "A shame about her, but it couldn't be helped. She was getting too cocky and needed to be eliminated."

Royo coughed up blood.

The assassin knelt down and pulled out the dagger. "Not only is there contact poison on the tip of the blade, but on the tip of the depression stud." He smiled. "When she pushed it she was poisoned."

Royo closed his eyes, feeling the poison moving inside him. By Deauxama, don’t let me suffer.

A Time Upon: A Twisted Fairy Tale Menagerie By Luke Evans

Once upon a time there lived a little boy. He had sandy blonde hair and big eyes, and dwelt in a cottage in the middle of a forest. They had their own little nook in the forest, a meadow where they farmed crops and raised chickens and milked a cow. It was just he, his parents, and the baby in his mama’s belly, and very rare was it to have visitors, for no roads came through the forest. The paths were tricky and often treacherous and many believed the forest was enchanted.

Late one night, the little boy arose from bed thirsty. Now, his family did not have running water or electricity. All things which needed to be chilled were kept in the cellar, and water was retrieved from a spring on the edge of the forest, from which welled a cheerful little stream.

He put his hand to the door handle, but before he opened it, he stopped and listened. A furious huffing and puffing wafted through the massive oak logs which formed the cottage. It was rapid and unrelenting, but decidedly weak and ill-fated. The little boy swung open the door, and glanced around the corner. A short stout wolf stood by the house, illuminated by the light of the moon, filling and emptying great gusts of air against the
logs. The logs never wavered.

“Pardon me, Mister Wolf, but may I help you?” the little boy asked.

The wolf stopped huffing and puffing and looked up. “Oh, don’t mind me. I am just practicing my skills.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Errrr…. That is, what I meant, this cottage is in my way, so I will blow it down so I may pass.” He grinned sheepishly.

“You could walk around. It is not so big.” He pointed a few feet beyond the wolf.

“Rightio. Silly of me, of course.”

He lifted his leg high, in an exaggerated manner of walking. The little boy turned and walked the other way, toward the spring. The wolf looked over his shoulder, halted with one foot in mid-air, then started after the little boy.

“I say,” he said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

The boy glanced back at the wolf frolicking after him. “Mama told me it’s rude to ask someone else’s name before giving your own.”

“Of course, very wise woman. All apologies. I am Griven.”

The little boy looked up into the wolf’s dark eyes. “My name is Dirk.”

Dirk continued into the woods, and stopped before the stream of water gurgling out of the ground.

“Ummm… may I ask you a question, Dirk?”

“You mean, another one?”

“Yes, yes. Another one. I am looking for three pigs. Have you seen them?”

“Mother always says to never trust a wolf with a pig. And I don’t trust you.”

Griven reached into his fur, fumbled around for a moment, and produced a little red hood. He strapped it around his head and batted his eyelids. “Do you trust me now? I am so cute,” he said in a high-pitched voice.

“Where did you get that?” Dirk asked.

Griven looked taken aback. “I… uh… well, I was having lunch with this fabulous little girl and her grammy. We had a most delightful time, when…”

“No, no. Just now. It looked like a pocket in your fur.”

Griven fidgeted something awful, stuttering inchoherent words.

Dirk hopped into his lap, clasping himself to the larger creature by his legs, and shimmied up Griven’s abdomen. His hand felt along the back and traced a zipper to the neck, where he felt a most obvious seam. He grasped the wolf’s head with both hands and plucked it off, catching Griven mid-sentence. A sheep appeared below the mask, eyes wide and disconcerted.

He bleated loudly and cried. “Now they’ll never let me in their pack!” he sobbed.

“Well, Mama always says to never be a sheep. So I guess it’s okay for you to want to be something else.” Dirk patted Griven on the head. “Run along, now. It’s late and I have to sleep.”

Dirk started up the hill to the cottage nestled in the meadow amongst the black trees like a pupil in an eye. Griven, still dressed as a wolf, with his wolf head hanging behind him like a hoodie, called out after him.

“Hey, about those pigs…”

Dirk turned around and stared at him. “Since you aren’t a wolf, I might be able to tell you. But why do you need to know?”

“Um… well, I want to be friends. You know, both of us are farm animals, and all.”

Dirk thought for a moment, and then nodded, flopping his sandy hair like a mop. “Okay, Mama would say that was alright.”

“Oh, yay!” Griven jumped up and down. “Take me to the one with the straw house first. He seems, uh, nice.”

The woods were a scary place at night. There was always a scrape or a crinkle somewhere in the inky darkness around
you, always the crack of a twig or the hoot of an owl. The moon would poke through the tree branches, and show just enough to let your imagination run rampant before vanishing behind the canopy of leaves.

Dirk plodded ahead without fear, and Griven followed nervously, wringing his wolf paws and glancing helter-skelter. On a tree up ahead a great wide semi-circle appeared, high in the limbs. It glowed white like a shimmering grin and vanished into the night air. A chuckle resounded across the still air at its disappeance. Griven hung closer to Dirk.

The trees opened before them in a little clearing. Moonlight glimmered down upon a quaint cottage made entirely of candies and cakes and chocolates. Dirk stopped and scratched his head, while Griven shot ahead, shouting with glee.

“This isn’t right,” Dirk said to himself. “The pigs’ houses should be here.”

Griven looked up from the cottage. Chocolate drizzled down his chin, staining his wolf suit. Tiny bites showed in the corner of the sweet cottage. “Thish iss even betteh!” he said, spitting chunks of licorice and taffy across bright green grass.

“Don’t eat…,” Dirk started to say, when the door opened and out stepped a young lady, modest and gorgeous. She called out to Griven shyly. “Come, little one, inside. These sweets are old, but that inside I have just made. Do come in.”

Griven blundered toward her, mouth drooling, eyes bulging, short wolf arms extended.

Dirk, however, saw something of the lady that made his skin prickle. A giant wart on her nape, partially concealed by her garments. And a gleam in her eyes that belied her timid appearance. He cried out to Griven, but the enchantment held. Both he and the lady vanished behind the door.

Dirk broke into a run, halting before the door. He thought to try the knob, and decided against it. He darted around the little cottage. In the back, against the bare stone of the cottage (it was only candies and confection in the front), was a cage with a little boy inside. The captive boy cried with delight when he saw
Dirk, and then in concern. He tried to warn Dirk, but all he could do was blubber.

“I’m Dirk. What’s your name?” Dirk asked.

“Hansel,” the boy responded. Tears glistened in his eyes. “My sister’s inside. I think something awful’s gonna happen.”

“I’ll rescue her. Is there another way in?”

“Yeah.” The boy pointed to an odd-shaped stone in the wall. “That’s the way she usually comes out.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right back.” He placed his hand on the rock and shoved. The wall creased and a door opened. Dirk stepped inside. A storm raged within. Wind howled, whipping his hair about his head, blowing random objects about the room.

For it was a room. Despite the dark trees, wind, drops of rain, and black clouds drumming from an impossible sky, there were still beds and dressers and wardrobes to mark this as someone’s bedchamber. The room stretched out in this alternate world absurdly, farther than the cottage was wide. And yet could be seen a wall, and a door in that wall, to separate the bedchamber from the rest of the house. The door flung open and clattered on its hinges.

Dirk poked his head back outside, into the still night air. Hansel gestured with his arms, and put a finger to his lips. Dirk nodded and turned back to the rushing storm. He strode against the wind, clasping his cloak to himself and shielding his face from the fury. He reached the opposite door and peeked through. A little girl stood with glazed eyes, mechanically stirring a ladel in a giant pot in the center of a gigantic room. The
storm still blazed within. In the far corner, hazy to his eyes through the murkiness, he caught glimpses of the fair witch and the enchanted Griven, led like the mindless sheep he was. A brick oven stood against the far wall, and orange flames flickered within. Dirk started toward them.

Voices arose all around, singing, shouting, chanting nonsensical phrases. “Hickory-Dickory-Dock, the mouse ran up the clock,” sang a shrill voice, and a deep one bellowed, “Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman,” and a grave one chanted, “Flounder, flounder, in the sea,” and a mad one shouted,
“Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!”

Dirk battled through the wind and sea of voices and stormed past the little zombie girl, only to be struck to the ground by a flurry of wings and the lash of a thick leathery tail. He hit the ground like a box of rocks, slamming his head against the hard brick floor. He looked up into the boiling clouds where a long slithering figure dodged in and out of shadows. Dirk gathered himself, rubbing the lump on the back of his head and the gash on his cheek and nose. He stumbled on. The witch was
close now. Her smooth words came to him over the wind, her gentle caresses of the wool on Griven’s head faintly visible through the haze. The flames rose higher in the oven, the heat billowed forth. Sweat poured from Dirk’s brow.

She had him now, had poor Griven by the throat, and he allowed it, enchanted by her poisonous sweets and melodic voice. His short wolf arms drooped to his side and neither they nor the menacing wolf head dangling at his back did aught to help him.

Her fair form faded and she grew shorter, stouter, her hair became twisted and ratty, her face and arms wrinkled and gnarled like an old tree.

Just before Dirk reached them, the storm crashed down around them, and a deadly twister descended on them like a vacuum. It sucked them up in a whirling, twirling, nightmare kaleidoscope. The witch, the girl, the pot, Griven all rushed past him and back around in a maddening cycle, sometimes sideways, sometimes upside-down, but always with the same expressions, the same impish grins or unseeing eyes or cackling laugh. And there were other things as well, things indelibly branded in his mind -- a devilish dwarf, with rotting teeth and gleaming eyes, carrying a baby and a golden thread; a crystal ball, in which could be seen a young girl, stumbling through a
forest, a witch at her heels; a prince which changed
to a frog which changed back to a prince; an unopened door with a symbol like an ankh etched in its burnt center.

Dirk reached out and grabbed Griven on one of his many loops and Dirk was redirected, whisked away with Griven. He fought for the door, looking for a way, any way out. Behind him came the cackling laughter. The witch was coming, swimming through the insane cyclone like through a river. They reached the door and swung it open. Calmness like the sea emanated from the open door and smote the calamity around them, and was swallowed up.

The witch grabbed Dirk’s ankle and tugged, tugged with all her might. She cackled again, and her putrid breath stung Dirk like death. He yanked his legs, but she held on, eyes bulging with unholy glee, mouth wide in demonic ecstasy. They were halfway through the door now, Dirk clinging to the moronic Griven with one arm, staving off obstacles with the other. Peace welled over them from one side even as the turbulence from the other side fought to suck them back in, refused to allow their departure.

With his free hand, Dirk snatched a staff out of the air and brought it down on the back of the witch’s head with a resounding crack. She cried out and her grasp weakened. Dirk yanked his leg free, and suddenly they were falling, sailing to the ground below. Something fell around them but Dirk could not see it, he could only hear the witch’s screams of anger and feel the rush of air as they plummeted to the ground. They landed on a cloud of
pillows, safe and unharmed. Behind them came a loud boom. A plume of dust rose like a mushroom into the sky.

Dirk hopped to the ground and dusted himself off. His hair and clothes bore every mark of having just been through a wild, out-of-control ride, so disheveled and erratic were they.

Griven coughed and shuffled behind him, finally awakened from his idiot trance.

“I had the strangest dream…” he began, and hopped to the ground. He looked back over his shoulder at the mass of soft shrubs which had broken their fall, and then straight ahead. His mouth dropped. Before him was a cottage made of candy and other sweets, and beneath the cottage protruded two weathered legs,with feet on the end. A shiver electrified his spine.

Dirk began poking around the base of the cottage, tapping at the feet with his shoe. They were lifeless. He tried the door to the cottage, but it was jammed. He could hardly help but wonder what had become of poor Hansel and his sister. But at least the witch wouldn’t have them. He kicked the legs again just to be sure.

Somewhere, off in the distance and over the horizon, tiny voices sang joyful melodies. “The wicked witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead,” came their happy cries. He could neither see nor distinguish from whence came the voices, but lit up at hearing it. To his side, Griven echoed the lyrics beneath his breath.

To the right of the candy cottage sat two more houses, of straw and sticks. A big grin crossed his face and spread to Griven’s. Here was their intended destination. He looked around for the brick
house and then noticed a couple scattered bricks
nearby. “Oh, my!” he exclaimed, as he suddenly realized that the brick house had been flattened by the witch’s cottage.

Despite the commotion caused by their unorthodox arrival, not a soul stirred in either of the other houses.

A pig at sleep must stay to keep
His comely frame from growing tame.

They approached the door to the straw house first. Dirk knocked on the door (it felt like it would tumble at the force of his tiny fist) and waited. Beside him, Griven coughed and cleared his throat in a disturbing, drawing hack. A couple stems of straw fluttered from the flimsy structure. Dirk knocked again, and this time a shuffling sounded from within. Griven coughed again, louder this time, blowing apart more straw and much dust. The little dwelling shuddered. Dirk looked at Griven accusingly, but before he could reprimand, the door swung open to a fat, sleepy pig.

“Hi, there, kind sir, my friend here….” And just then the dust stirred from the straw tickled Griven’s nose, and a spontaneous sneeze burst from his mouth. The straw house blew away as in a gale,collapsing all about them in a flurry of dust and carried away on the breeze.

Three additional figures, previously hidden within the straw house, now coughed, sputtered, and issued forth loud claims of “Hokey-smokes!” One looked like another pig, but the others were so covered in straw and dust that one could not tell their ethnicity.

“I say,” said the one on the right, the other pig. “Mighty poor show. Our host must hear of this. I will not tolerate such treatment.”

The one in the middle, who could now be identified as a young man, hastily grabbed an oil lamp and a small mat and took to the air, riding the mat like a flat, wingless bird. Griven and Dirk watched him disappear over the trees, wonder in their eyes.

The one on the left, who appeared to be a young girl, collapsed to the ground in a heap.

The host pig was in hysterics, dashing around aimlessly, throwing his hands in the air, shouting orders and exclamations to no one but himself. Griven, meanwhile, fell to the ground in a fit of laughter and rolled around, clutching his stout wolf legs to his chest.

“Hey!” Dirk shouted. “That wasn’t nice.”

Griven wiped the tear from his eyes. “Oh, but it was an accident! You see, that is what is so funny! I…”

“My mama always says to never laugh at someone else’s misfortune.”

“But… but… look at them!” He pointed a black furry finger at the three hapless figures bumbling through the ruins of the cottage. “I must laugh! I must, or I will surely burst!”

The guest pig took that moment to accost the host pig, shoving him to the ground. “I say, chap, what is this joke you pull?”

“I... I’m terribly sorry.”

“Hey!” yelled a squeaky voice. A tiny round body shivered the dust from its body and stood on its four rear legs. The spider jumped on the ledge and bit the guest pig in the ear. The figure which had fainted roused and jumped up, shrieking. She gathered her curds and her whey, and tried to run away. But the dust blinded her, and she ran smack into the host pig, knocking him flat again. A tussle broke out, and fur and fat and whey and spider eggs and straw stems flew around in a magnificent cloud of lunacy. It all became very confusing to Dirk, and
even more amusing to Griven.

Dirk ran. He ran for the forest, ran for home, ran for sanity. The girl’s screams and pig’s squeals and spider’s shrieks followed him for miles, relentlessly pursuing him, echoing through his brain. And Griven’s laughter, and his cries to “Wait, Dirk, I’m coming with you! Wait up! Wait up!” seemed louder than the rest, as if he was somewhere close, even after all these miles. And maybe he was. Who could say?

Dirk finally collapsed to the ground, clutching his hands to his ears, rocking back and forth, willing the voices from his head, willing himself to wake from this horrid dream, so everything could be normal again, and there would be mama with the fresh eggs and milk, and papa with his strong grin and axe, and Cassie out in the pen, happily chewing her cud, thankful to be free of her milk, and the forest rising around them cheery and inviting, and the spring gurgling forth its living flow, and the
feel of the cool water on the tongue, and the sand sifting through the fingers, and… and….

And he awoke to the sun beating down on his brow, and the cool air caressing his cheeks. He was in a meadow. Before
him lay the forest, as he remembered it from life, and not as it had appeared in… was it a dream?

He turned around, but his house was nowhere to be seen. Rather, the bright blue sky hanging over the world like an ocean, and grass extending forever and ever, and a little building sitting in the middle of the grass, not a hundred paces hence.

Dirk made his way toward the little building. It was open, with a slanted roof covering a modest bench running the full ten-foot length. Before the building were two metallic rails connected with many boards. It ran forever in both directions, so that their ends were lost in the distance, if ends they had.

Dirk sat on the bench and waited for he knew not what.

Then it came. Long and quaint, chugging along at a leisurely pace, with a smile on its metallic grate and a snort rising from its vertical snout. A horn blew, and Dirk knew that he was welcome aboard this marvel of the outside world.

The train halted just before him, and a door folded in on itself.

“All aboard for Perinin!” a man in a big bright yellow cap shouted.

Perinin. Dirk had been to Perinin. His papa had taken him, back when they got the chickens, after a fox killed all the old ones. That had been sad, but going to town had been fun and exciting. Merchants in the streets, oxen pulling carts, and grubby kids his own age making swirls in the dust. He couldn’t wait to go back.

Dirk stepped inside. It was a clean car, spic and span and with a healthy sheen; very cheerful. The back of a few heads and many empty seats faced him. The choice would be his; he looked for one with a window view.

Now, most of the heads were typical -- black fedora or slicked back for a man, tight bun or loosely drawn back for a woman, and a girl with pig tails. But one looked like a decapitated wolf.

As he walked up the aisle, the wolf turned around, and it had a sheep face! Dirk’s heart leapt in the air and did a somersault.


“Dirk!” Griven shouted, and many faces turned disapprovingly.

“Oh, hi, Griven. It’s you. Good to see you again.” He stifled a groan, but, in an odd sort of way, it was good to see him again.

Just outside his window, a hare was blazing up the tracks. Sweat glistened around its long ears and its large teeth protruded from its mouth like broken slats on a fence. It ran as fast as anything Dirk had ever seen, but still the train chugged past it.

“Mind if I sit next to you? These new-fangled things are wonderful! I can’t get enough!” Griven plopped down beside him.

“Yes, they are. Is it a long way to Perinin?”

Dirk looked to Griven, and then past him, to a tortoise nestled in the opposite seat. It was small, swallowed up by the seat, but had a very smug look on its face. It grinned at Dirk with excessively white teeth. Dirk looked away.

“Only as long as we want it to be!” Griven looked out the window.

“Well, now, if that ain’t something! Look at the size of that beanstalk!”

Dirk peered outside. The stalk burst through the clouds into the heavens. He could have sworn it had not been there mere moments before.

“I wanna go to it! I wanna go to it!”

“No. Uh-uh. I’m going home. And you’d be wise to as well, Griven.”

“Fine. But you’re no fun.”

Dirk laughed. “Sure I am. Just not as much as you. Come home with me.”

Griven lit up like a firefly. “You mean that? We’re best buds, aren’t we, Dirk?”

“Of course,” he laughed, and kissed his woolen head. His nose wrinkled up as the faux wolf fur tickled his nose hairs. “First thing, we should get you out of that suit.”

“Rightio. Mighty hot in here. Good idea. You and I, we’ll get along swell.”

End


Bio:
A fantasy traveler stuck in the ho-hum everyday life of Maryland, Luke Evans is trying to carve his own little niche in the world of writing. Previous works can be found in Opium, The Writer's Post Journal, and The Beat.

The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch: Book Review by Patrick St-Denis

No fantasy debut received this much hype on this side of the Atlantic Ocean since the release of Terry Goodkind's Wizard's First Rule. Indeed, we've been hearing about Scott Lynch's The Lies of Locke Lamora for months now. Rave reviews abound, generating the sort of buzz authors and editors can only fantasize about.

Unfortunately, too much hype can also raise expectations to a level where readers' disappointment becomes inevitable. Aware of that particular fact, I wished to remain purely objective when I began to read this novel. It's been hailed as the best debut ever, after all.

And to ascertain that readers will not rush to buy this one based on the wrong idea, here is what The Lies of Locke Lamora is not: A grand fantasy epic vast in scope, the likes of which Robert Jordan, George R. R. Martin and Steven Erikson produce. There are no philosophical and spiritual dimensions such as can be found in the works of R. Scott Bakker. There is no subtle human touch such as can be glimpsed in books by Robin Hobb and L. E. Modesitt, jr.

What The Lies of Locke Lamora is, however, is one ripping good yarn! In an interview, Lynch claimed that he wanted the novel to be "kick-you-in-the-ass fun." Well, it certainly is just that! If you're looking for something that will move you and stir your soul, look elsewhere. This one is an imaginative and convoluted caper. And as such, this fun-filled ensemble of adventures and misadventures is sure to breathe new life into the genre.

The book is no worldbuilding galore. Far from it, actually. The action mostly takes place in a single city, Camorr. Yet one must give Scott Lynch credit for creating a living and breathing Venice-like locale. With flair and an unmistakable eye for details, the author's narrative evokes arresting imagery. Hence, although we haven't seen much in terms of worldbuilding, several things hint at more depth to this universe than what is perceptible at face value. Which bodes well for the upcoming volumes of the seven-book cycle that will be The Gentlemen Bastards.

The characterizations are above and beyond what is currently the norm in today's market. With Locke Lamora, Lynch has created an immediate superstar. As you keep turning those pages, it's pretty hard not to find him endearing. A roguish thief and con artist, Locke is the heart and soul of this tale. Having said that, the rest of the cast are interesting in their own right, especially the other members of the Gentlemen Bastards. Scott Lynch truly has the knack for characterizations. Thus, The Lies of Locke Lamora is definitely a character-driven novel.

I was a bit put off by the dialogues, I must admit. Written in contemporary fashion, there are obscenities and profanities at every turn. The "f" word finds a way to surface on nearly every page, or so it seems. Yet one must keep in mind the characters' background as members of Camorr's underworld. Still, I believe that it was a bit overdone. If one can look past that, however, Scott Lynch's prose is impressive. Honestly, it's far better than one can expect from most fantasy books, let alone a debut.

The pace is just perfect. A fan of the genre, Lynch knows how to keep readers turning those pages to see what happens next!

Mark this novel for the boys' club, though. Something tells me that female readers will not get into it as much as the men. Just a hunch, nothing I can put my finger on. . .

In my opinion, the biggest quality about The Lies of Locke Lamora is its accessibility. Since basically anyone can get a kick out of a well-executed caper, this book promises to find many disparate fans. Moreover, this is the sort of tale which can be enjoyed by people of all ages. As such, it will undoubtedly make a lot of noise in the weeks/months to come. The sequel, Red Seas under Red Skies will be released in January 2007, which should maintain a high level of interest among readers.

My advice to potential readers: Forget the hype. Don't buy this book thinking that it will awe you and blow your mind. Scott Lynch said he wanted to write something that would have people saying "oh cool!" as often as possible. And it's mission accomplished. This novel is a very entertaining read, to be sure.

The Lies of Locke Lamora is a complete joyride strewn with a remarkable number of corpses (he did mention George R. R. Martin as an inspiration, after all!). And if he keeps up the good work, Lynch will rapidly establish himself as one of the major players in the fantasy genre. I'm eager to sink my teeth into the sequel. . .

The final verdict: 8/10

Interview With Chris Baty of National Novel Writing Month by David Wood

1- For the benefit of the layperson, what is NaNoWriMo?

National Novel Writing Month is a thirty-day kick in the pants forwould-be writers. Participants agree to pound out a 50,000-word (175 page) novel between November 1 and November 30. There are neither judges nor prizes. There are, however, many parties and copious amounts of encouragement.


2- How is NaNo beneficial to the beginning writer?

I think the greatest thing that the event provides is a deadline. Novels are such sprawling, terrifying things that you really need the structure and pacing that a deadline provides to help make the thing manageable.

It seems counterintuitive, but I believe that writing a first draft in a month will actually net you a better story than you'd get if you gave yourself five years to do it. When you cram the whole thing into thirty days, it becomes an adventure, and you end up approaching it with a sort of reckless, can-do spirit that makes the writing process much more fun. Which makes you much more likely to stick with it. You're focused, productive, and ready to roll up your sleeves and make the tough who/what/where decisions that are essential to birthing a book.

When someone gives themselves too much time to make those decisions, I think they're likely to just stop writing altogether. When there's no urgency or structure, the demands of real life tend to trump creative life.

The other thing that NaNoWriMo provides beginning writers is permission to just dive in and write. I think creative writing instruction sometimes offers a bewildering amount of rules for writing. As a result, beginning writers feel they have to study and practice for a long time before they're up to the challenge of writing a novel. I think that's a load of crap. The novel *is* the practice, and there's no right way to do it. You just start typing, and let your imagination take it from there.


3- Have you heard many NaNo success stories?

A bunch. And more come in every week. This year, the Philippines' National Book Award equivalent went to a NaNoWriMo manuscript. We've also had about eight NaNoWriMo participants land major publishing deals. The biggest success, though, tends to happen tens of thousands of times every November. It's the moment when a participant realizes that they've spent their whole lives underestimating their talent and creativity. I think everyone who hits 50,000 words is forced to confront that at some point. It's a powerful moment.


4- How has NaNo impacted your life?

It's become what I do five months out of the year, which I never, ever would have expected. It's really a full-fledged organization now, with a part-time staff of eight and two hundred absolutely wonderful volunteer Municipal Liaisons.
The whole thing has been a very enthralling, surreal ride. If someone had told me in spring of 1999 that I was going to write a novel in a month, I would have laughed. If someone had told me that, seven years later, 60,000 people would set out to tackle the same challenge, I think I would've had a small heart attack. I mean, it's unbelievable, really. I'm just glad to be able to be a part of it all.


5- How can someone get involved in the next NaNo?

Just head to the NaNoWriMo site: www.NaNoWriMo.org. Sign-ups are happening right now, and will be available through November 25th.


6- How can we support NaNo?

We don't charge an entry fee, but we do have a heap of expenses, and ask participants to make a small donation (or purchase a shirt or mug) if they're able. We donate half of our net proceeds every year to build children's libraries in Southeast Asia, so every dollar helps!


7- Any words of encouragement for the writers out there?

Come write with us! The world has waited long enough for your literary masterwork!


Visit the NaNoWriMo website for more information.

The Sky Dwellers by Mary J Daley

We are pleased to publish our first new submission in our new format. Mary J Daley won last summer's themed story contest with "Marriage of Faith". She is looking forward to the publication of "Small Places", a collection of her short works.

Seanna stood at the edge of her village where the well-trodden ground began to re-acquaint itself with bits of green foliage. An easterly wind blew bringing her the scent of the sea while pushing back the musty scent of the goats that were still huddled beneath the thatched roof of their narrow paddock. Where she stood, she could glimpse only the thick matted coats of their backs as they bleated anxiously and jostled each other in their crowded quarters. Wondering again what was taking the shepherds so long to release them, she glanced back at the quiet huts and the empty pathways that ran between.

I’m sure they’ll be by any minute, Seanna reasoned as she licked her bottom lip and hesitantly reached out with one slim foot to place it between two hardy patches of wild grass. But before she could take another step, a slightly irritated voice rang out from behind her.

“Where are you going?”

Seanna exhaled, letting the air escape between pursed lips before reluctantly turning to face her mother. She raised her thin arm and placed it across her brow to shield her eyes from the brilliance of the evening sun that was now sitting almost level with the village, spilling its rays over the straw rooftops. Her mother stood in the pathway, near the cooking pit, her arms crossed and her feet apart. Her thick, strong calves showing below the hem of her white wrap-around that was tied in place over one shoulder.

“Momma, please let me go! I have questions for the edge sitter.” Seanna begged, her full lips drawn downward in an expression that she hoped her mother would see as desperate.

“I told you to stay in the village until the shepherds released the goats. The bell sounded twice today.” Her mother scolded.

“The last of which rang hours ago. I know it’s safe now, Momma, and I have a question. I won’t sleep tonight without an answer.” She pleaded.

“A shepherd tells us when it is safe. No one is to go into the field until then.” Her mother replied, taking several graceful steps towards her daughter, her wide hips swaying. Two yellow hens trotted out from behind their hut and followed her, anticipating bits of corn. When she reached Seanna, she raised hesitant fingers to lightly trace the charcoal-blue band that circled her daughter’s upper arm. The flesh was still red and swollen from the making of it.

“Does it still hurt?” her mother asked.

“No, it’s fine now.” Seanna answered a little blunt

“It is a lovely colour you have made from the dyes, it fits you well. Like the under belly of clouds before a storm rolls over us.” Her mother whispered. “Tomin’s mother said he has made a strong brown. These colours will work well together when entwined.”

Seanna nodded and looked at her mother’s own marriage band. Her father’s gold still wrapped her mother’s copper as if it was applied only yesterday although they had been married for over nineteen springs.

“Let me go speak to the edge sitter. I need to know about Tomin and me.” Seanna asked again, quietly this time, not looking at her mother.

“All brides have questions the evening before their marriage.” Her mother interjected, placing her hand beneath Seanna’s young chin and gently pushing upward until Seanna had no choice but to look her mother in the eyes. “Whether you think it or not, Tomin is a good choice for you. He is soft spoken and gentle and will tolerate your restless spirit where another might not.”

“Momma, Tomin is my only choice. The next boy in the village is only nine springs old.”

“Enough about this now. It will be done. You should learn contentment and stop this running off every other day with questions for the edge sitter. I grow so tired of this, Seanna.” Her mother frowned and looked to the skies. “You would risk your life the day before the wedding just to ask that fool another question?”

“He is not a fool, Turk is a historian. He taught me all the stories. Even the ones that pre date our entrapment.”

“We all know the stories, Seanna. But discontentment only follows those who lean too heavy on them. This day is the only one we face and we should be joyous for the goats, the hens, the grass and Stone Lake’s waters. However long you may wish it, this mountain will never grow sloping sides again so that we can descend. This is who we are. This is where we live. There is nothing beyond our world except a great fall to the sea.”

“That is not true Momma. I know in my heart there is more. Much, much more. You see the white sails from time to time. You can’t dismiss them. Do you never wonder who they are? Where they go? It irritates me that Tomin and father and you and everyone here can be so bloody content. Please let me go, I just have one question for him and if the answer is no, then I will marry Tomin tomorrow and try my best at being a good mate.”

“The bells, Seanna.” Her mother said with resignation now entering her voice.

“But I’m not a goat. I know how to be careful. I’ll not go directly through the field but around the lake and against the overhangs. If the bell rings again I will simply hide beneath the jutting rocks.” Seanna said squeezing her mother’s hands.

Her mother studied her daughter’s tormented face for a long moment before finally giving in. “Go, if it is that important to you but if you are not home by dark I will send your father to fetch you and I will tell him to bring a switch with him,” her mother retorted. She stepped back from her daughter, her green eyes full of worry.

Seanna simply laughed. “Momma, Papa won’t even switch the goats. I promise only one question and I’ll be home before any stars break through.” She reached up quickly kissed her mom’s soft cheek, turned and fled away from the village, her dark hair streaming out behind her as she ran.

What question is there that you have not yet asked, Seanna? Her mother thought to herself as she watched her daughter disappear into the longer grass.

Seanna kept to her word and ran around the north side of the lake, away from the open field and along the rocky overhang. She followed a narrow well-worn path that led her up into the hillier section of the land. As she climbed over exposed smooth rocks and littered peddles a wind blew at her that held tiny wisps of ocean within it, minuscule lost fragments of the great waves that struck the shards of rock at the base far below. She glanced to the wide field expecting to see it empty and was startled to see a young, brown and white goat grazing silently on the sweet smelling grass. She stopped and studied the goat, trying to dismiss the twinge of duty that tugged at her. She knew she should take it back to the village but she couldn’t see the harm leaving it where it grazed. The shepherds would be returning the rest of the flock shortly. Slightly perplexed she looked to the sky. It was blue and empty. No harm will come to it, she decided and she continued up over the next hill and to the edge of her world.

“Seanna,” Turk greeted.

“Hi Turk," Seanna smiled as she squeezed herself through a crevice between two smooth outcrops and stepped carefully to the edge. This was where the land simply disappeared leaving layers of open sky above a distant, fitful ocean. As far as she could see was a vastness that made her feel vulnerable.

“You look pensive, Seanna. You already regret what you did not undertake." Turk stated looking over at her. He was sitting on a large flat rock, his legs dangling over its side, his hands folded in his lap. The rock was balanced perilously over the edge with more than half of it’s bulk jutting out into the blue sky and although Turk had reassured her time after time that it was secure, Seanna could not convince herself of this. So once again as he patted the spot next to him, she refused the seat he offered. Instead, she took a seat on a much smaller rock three feet from the drop. The wind was strong here and it pushed at her wrap and blew her unbound hair about until it ended up in her face, covering her eyes and getting trapped in the corners of her mouth. Growing slightly annoyed, she swiped the long strands back with one hand while pulling at the bottom of her brown wrap with the other, trying her best to keep her lower legs covered.

“I decided I can’t marry Tomin.” She blurted.

“No?” Turk questioned as he looked out into the empty sky.

“Because he is not what I want. What I want is out beyond this.” She declared in a high voice pointing to the far off horizon.

“But how does one get there?” Turk asked.

“You’re the edge sitter. How does one get there, Turk?” Seanna sighed, finally giving up at keeping her long hair and wrap in place. Instead she cupped her chin in her hands and placed her elbows on her knees.

“One doesn’t.” Turk stated. “If you haven’t yet noticed, our mountain has no sides and the slim pillar beneath us is unreachable.”

“Did anyone ever get to the pillar?” Seanna asked.

“A few attempts were made in the beginning but the underside of this plateau and the pillar itself are as smooth as the rock you sit on. Not a crevice, crack or hand hold anywhere. The ones who tried that route ended up falling through the sky and into the sea.” Turk explained as he pointed behind him at the opening of a small cave. “You studied the list of the dead etched in the rocks – the earlier names are those who tried to reach the pillar. But you know our history as well as I do.”

Seanna nodded. She was well versed in the stories that lined the cave walls. Although at times, it was unfathomable for her to believe that their tiny land was once a lush and bountiful place with gradual sloping sides all the way to the sea. She had memorized the names of all the villages that once dotted the island and could almost envision the many lakes with their cascading water and although she had never seen a tree she could almost picture the towering forests. Turk had explained it all to her in the most vivid of details. She loved hearing the stories about the villagers, especially the ones who had lived closest to the shore. The ones who spent their mornings casting huge nets into the water and their evenings hauling them back in, emptying the teaming sea life onto wide sandy beaches.

Those who had lived in the villages further up the slopes grew olives and grapes and melons in the rich soil and those who dwelled near the top, near the clouds, raised goats – herding them though tall fields of mountain grass until their milk was as sweet as baby breath and their meat as tender as mountain air.

The latter were their ancestors; the ones who survived the seaquake. A quake so powerful it shook away the fertile and soil thick sides of their mountain until it all simply slid into the sea. Everything disappeared: the villagers and their nets, the wildlife, the olive groves and the forests. Only those near the summit survived. What remained was a small plateau high in the sky, kept in place by a pillar, a slim middle shaft of solid rock of staggering height.

Two holy women also survived that day as they happened to be on a spiritual journey to Stone Lake at the time and it’s believed that they became the first edge sitters, the first to etch the history of their entrapment into the cave’s walls.

Seanna was quiet for a moment as she tried to formulate her next question to Turk in a way that it would sound reasonable. Turk looked at her and then back out to the sea. “I know what you want to ask, Seanna.” he finally said.

“You can’t possiably know what I’m about to ask, Turk?” She laughed.

If you wish to be an edge sitter I would not advise it for you. It is a lonely life watching the sea. I think you would be happier with Tomin in the village.”

“I don’t want to be an edge sitter.” Seanna frowned deeply.

“What is it then?”

Seanna stood, removing the small cloth bag that she had tied around her waist.

“I need to know more about the wind riders; the larger ones that you sometimes call eagles. Where do they come from and where do they return to when they are lucky enough to take a goat from us?” she blurted.

Turk pointed to the horizon. “They come from that slit where the ocean and sky appear to meet. “

“And Turk is that not also where you sometimes spot the white sails?” she asked as she walked over to stand next to his smooth slab of stone.

“ I believe they both come from the same distant land. Maybe an island home like the way this one use to be. Maybe from a land much greater – possibly one as wide as the ocean we see beneath us. There is much beyond what we can see, Seanna.”

“This is my question, Turk, and I believe I know the answer but I will ask it anyway.”

Turk laughed. It was deep and caring. “I have long come to expect you to know the answers, Seanna, but now you have me curious. What is your question?”

“If one of those great wind riders can carry a way a healthy goat in its talons can it carry me.” Seanna whispered.

He stared at her in wonder. This thin, beautiful young woman had been sneaking away from her duties in the village ever since she knew how to walk just to visit with him, to stand at the edge and ask him a constant stream of questions. Over the years he had watched her restless spirit emerge and grow along with her and although he had long ago learned to expect the unexpected from her, this was unexpected indeed.

The wind blew at his tunic, puffing up the sleeves and back making him look like a sail himself. “Easily,” he finally answered “but they can as easily snap your neck when they reach down to grab you, or drop you into the sea, or feed you to their young as soon as they reach their destination. I’m afraid I don’t know much more than you about these great birds.”

“We know that when they take the goats they don’t harm them. My father witnessed it once. He said the wind rider was almost gentle with it, carrying it away, whole and alive.” Seanna interjected.

“Yes, but remember that these birds take most of their subsistence from the cold waters so they travel a great distance for a chance to take a goat from us. Our warm-blooded goats are probably a rich and rare delicacy for them and their offspring. I believe they merely keep them alive in order to keep the meat fresh and the blood warm on their long journey back to their nests.

“Regardless, they’re the only way off.” She affirmed.

“Seanna, how old are you?” Turk smiled at her.

“Fifteen.” She answered with a tad of defiance in her voice.

“You are so young. Wait a few years and if you are still this unhappy then we can discuss this wild idea of yours.” Turk offered.

Seanna shook her head, “I’ll be married with children by then.” She reached down into her cloth bag and pulled out a dagger of stone. The point on it was sharp and thin. “I am ready to go. All I have to do is let one take me. I’ll make it drop me on some distant shoreline and then I’ll try to find away back here to help others down from the sky.”

“But there is no need for that. With each new generation that is born on this plateau, the more content they are to remain. Few wish to find a way down anymore, Seanna. If you do this you risk your life for no one but yourself,” Turk said.

“I’ll do it for me then because I need more than goats and clouds, Turk. I want to see trees like those our ancestors knew. I want to see other creatures as grand as the wind riders. I want to be able to reach down and touch the sea. And I want a chance to find some one who is willing to etch his colour in my forearm not because I am the only one in the village his age but because I am the only one he wishes to spend his life with. I will never be content here.” Seanna explained in a great rush of words.

Turk sighed and looked into his open palms. “I know.” he said.

Turk remained sitting at the edge searching the horizon, his hairless head smooth and now tinged reddish by the setting sun’s extended fingers.

“I think it is a foolish gamble though. Your chances of ever reaching your destination is highly unlikely but if I can’t convince you to stay, I can only tell you to plan it soon and plan it well. The eagles have been plenty in recent weeks but their passes will ebb away again. As it is their returns are less and less frequent. But please think hard on this Seanna. There is much love for you here and warmth and safety and the only strife you deal with is what you have created within yourself. You have no idea what is out beyond this.”

“It is not always about being safe.” She answered.

It was at that moment that Turk stood up rather suddenly and announced, stumbling forth his words. “O.K. I accept your decision then but you have to promise me you will wait until you are more prepared.”

Seanna tried to follow where Turk was looking. “Why?” she questioned.

“Just promise me Seanna. I can help you with this. Plan it so that you’ll have a chance at success. I can forge you a better weapon, make sure you have a warmer wrap and protection for your feet and nourishment for your journey” Turk hastened.

“I can’t promise anything Turk. What is wrong? Why are you so agitated?” Seanna asked as she, for the first time, stepped up onto to the large flat stone to stand beside him. She noticed it then. And it caused a shiver to pass through her until her marriage band tingled with an itch so irritating that she wished to rake her fingers through it.

“ Come into the cave with me until it passes over us.” Turk reached for her hand but she pulled away from him.

She walked dangerously close to the edge and stood transfixed, watching it ride the last warming glow of daylight, above the white caps of the stretched and silent sea. She could see it clearly now, an eagle of immense wingspan and it’s wings arched and straightened, arched and straightened with the fluidity of waves.

In her heart it registered full-blown that this was her moment. That destiny was coming to claim her. A twinge of guilt and sorrow escaped her with the promise to her mother that she was about to break. I have not said my good byes; have not yet spoken to Tomin of my choice, she thought as she watched the bird grow with greater and greater definition. She looked back at Turk, her eyes searching for something. His blessing perhaps.

He reluctantly gave it. “Go with courage, Seanna.”

“I will find away to send word back, Turk.” She almost said the word promise again but stopped herself knowing her promises now meant little. Without further hesitation she jumped down from Turk’s rock and squeezed herself back though the outcrops, trotting quickly up the path.

By the time she reached the field she was running full out just as the bells started ringing. A shepherd had spotted the approaching eagle. Clenching her cloth bag in her hands, her heart pounding, she ran straight to the middle of the field where the little brown and white goat still grazed.

“GET, Get!” she yelled at it. The goat bleated loudly at the flushed faced, wide eyed girl and then turned and loped off towards the village. Seanna stopped abruptly and closed her eyes. She did not have the heart to turn and face the bird but instead kept to her spot, brushing the soft tops of the wild grass with one hand while listening intently as the great wings pushed repeatedly at the darkening sky, each time creating a whooshing sound like a fire starting up. When the eagle’s gold eyes spotted the girl alone in the field it let out a long, piercing shriek that held the cry of the sea within it.

Seanna shuddered only once when cold hard talons fastened around her waist and lifted her high into the air. At first she couldn’t take in a breath but soon realized it was only her panic that held her so tightly and not the great bird’s grip. She willed herself to slowly breathe in and breathe out and was finally able to open her eyes and look back at her small sky bound world. Soon it was gone and only a black ocean rolled endlessly in all directions beneath her. She prayed for strength on each new star that broke through the dark.

The End

Surgard and the Plague of Poets by Robert Collins

It's an oft-repeated phrase: "Magic can be dangerous." Of all the men who have ever lived, aside from actual wizards, Surgard the Traveler knew this phrase to be true. On the island of Kolcharn, in the domain of King Lambor, Surgard discovered that mixing magic and the bard's art could also be trouble.

Surgard's quest for legends took him to the south part of Kolcharn. There he was welcomed into King Lambor's hall and given the kingdom's tales by their famed bard Nacien. After a few days enjoying Lambor's hospitality, Surgard noted that it was time for him to continue his journey. The night before he was supposed to leave, the king held a feast in honor of his visit. Surgard's only regret was that he had to move on without meeting some of the more well-known warriors in Lambor's service.

Halfway through the feast, the proceedings were interrupted by the magical appearance of a dark-haired man in a dark cloak. Surgard had heard about this man, the foul wizard Annoure, and his attempts to undermine Lambor's rule. Surgard wondered why the wizard had come, and hoped that the appearance would not drag him into yet another dangerous adventure.

"How dare you appear like that here, during a feast!" King Lambor said to Annoure. "Do you lack manners as well as morals?"

"Of course I do," Annoure replied, smiling. "The visit of a stranger means nothing to me. All I care about is your misfortune."

"Indeed? And what foolish mischief are you up to this time?"

"This time, King Lambor, I have concocted a plan so cunning, so devious, and yet so foul, that you shall have no choice but to bow before me."

"Haven't we heard that from you before, Annoure?"

"Yes, but this time I really mean it."

"Fine. What's your cunning plan?"

"I have sown gryphon's teeth around your kingdom. Magical bards are arising from those teeth."

"Magical bards? Aren't you getting a bit desperate?"

"Oh, not this time. I've sown lots of teeth. Those teeth will sprout lots of bards. Bards that will be difficult to kill. Bards that will sing songs of misery, despair, and hate. Songs that will turn neighbor against neighbor and town against town. Soon you'll have them here in your own hall, King Lambor. And then we'll see who's desperate!" With a flourish and a puff of smoke Annoure disappeared.

Lambor, Surgard, and the rest feasting in the hall were left to ponder the wizard's strange plan. The king asked Surgard to stay at least one more day, to find out if Annoure's threat was real, and to offer any ideas as to how to deal with it.

Reluctantly Surgard agreed to help.

Early the following morning three of King's Lambor famous warriors arrived in the king's hall, each with a breathless report of trouble. Sir Caulus, the king's brother, Sir Servause the Good, and Sir Elis the Pure, all stated that bards had appeared in the last few days throughout the kingdom. Their songs were indeed unpleasant, and seemed to be provoking trouble among the people. King Lambor asked Nacien for his view of the matter.

"Sire, perhaps Annoure has come upon a cunning plan," the bard replied. "I'm not certain what we can do to stop them. If their songs are magical, the bards themselves are also magical. Strength of arms along cannot best magic."

Lambor nodded. "Too true, too true."

"Sire, you should send one of your warriors to find Garlon."

Surgard knew at once Nacien wanted Lambor to seek out the mysterious wizard who had on occasion aided the king in besting Annoure's schemes. But from what he had heard, Garlon was not an easy fellow to deal with, much less to locate.

Lambor nodded at Nacien's suggestion, but he still frowned. "Wise advice, good bard, but I cannot. Our warriors will have to go throughout the kingdom to maintain order, and to help the people resist these foul creatures."

Surgard let out a long breath. "I'll go and find your wizard, King Lambor."

"Would you? Oh, that's splendid, friend Surgard. Succeed and you shall be rewarded for heroism."

"If it doesn't kill me first."

"Well, yes, but still, very good of you."

At that the king told his bard to relate to Surgard the ways that Garlon might be contacted. Surgard and Nacien spent some time going over the stories that involved the wizard. When the morning was almost over Surgard left Lambor's hall in search of the elusive spellcaster.

Just past the halfway point of the afternoon Surgard ran into a trio of magical bards. They all looked alike: average height and weight, dark brown hair, pale skin, and dressed in dirty black cloaks. They sounded alike too, with voices that were sharp and high. As soon as he came across them, the began to sing a song about an unwary stranger in a foreign land threatened by the locals.

Luckily Surgard was well away from people, and he was somewhat immune to their singing due to his previous experiences with magic. But rather than ignore them or allow them to pass by, Surgard decided to take action.

He drew his sword and charged at the nearest of the three. The magical bard did nothing to avoid his attack or to defend himself. Surgard thrust his blade into its body. The bard kept on singing with his fellows.

Surgard swung at one of its arms. The arm popped off, the creature began to grow another, and a fourth started to assemble itself from the limb. At no time did the bard so much as pause during its song.

Surgard decided on one last blow. He reared his arm back, and swung for the creature's neck. He lopped off its head in one stroke. As soon as its head was off the creature turned to a small and harmless pile of dirt. Satisfied at his deed, and fully tired of their shrieking tune, Surgard chopped off the heads of the two other full-grown creatures and the one sprouting from the arm. All of them were rendered into dust as quickly as had the first.

Surgard considered ending his quest to find Garlon right then and turning back towards Lambor's castle. But a moment later the wizard appeared in front of him. He recognized the wizard because of the other man's long white beard, gray cloak, and tall pointed hat. He turned to Garlon and said, "I am Surgard, and I've been looking for you."

"Yes, I know," the old man replied. "I also know why you have been sent to find me."

"Well, then you should also know how I've dispatched these creatures."

"Yes, you're a good warrior, young Surgard. But you don't realize how difficult a task beheading all those magical bards would be."

"Oh?"

"There's now dozens of those things running around. It would take an army to go after them. They're scattered everywhere, in ones and twos. Mostly."

Surgard nodded, as he began to understand the problem. "Lots of work, I suppose. And I guess it would take time to gather an army, or to tell King Lambor's warriors how to dispatch these monsters without creating more."

"A monstrous task, one might say."

"I wouldn't. So, what should be done to get rid of these foul bards?"

"Well, Surgard, I haven't had time to think about that. That's why I've come to you, instead of letting you find me. You're a clever fellow. What do you think should be done?"

Surgard paused for a moment to think. He slowly voiced his musing. Well, cutting off the head suggests something. Perhaps their heads are vulnerable?"

"No, too much like your first thought."

"Is this how you deal with King Lambor?"

"Yes, but it usually takes a long time. Why do you think my beard's as long as it is?"

"Oh. Well, certainly once their heads were cut off, they stopped singing. Is that the solution? Silencing them?"

"I believe so, Surgard."

"How do we silence them?"

"I could cast a spell making everyone in the kingdom quiet for a few moments. I believe that once these magical bards stop singing, they'll turn to dust."

"You believe? You're not certain?"

"Well, it's either that, or tiring everyone's arms cutting off the heads of those things. I suppose it is up to you which you'd like to try first."

"Very well, Garlon. Cast your spell."

"Well, I'll need something first."

"What?"

"Dragon's blood."

"You're joking."

"No. To cast the spell across the kingdom, I need power to boost its effect. Dragon's blood is the only ingredient that could give the spell that power."

"Fine. Where do I find a dragon?"

"Travel west for a day to the Great Stone Square of Elmhedge, then north to the first cave in the second hill you cross. In that cave you will find the Dragon of Dire."

"And then what?"

"And then you get a cup of its blood and bring it back here."

"Right. I'll just keep going through the night, so this doesn't take too long."

Garlon reached into his cloak and handed Surgard a strip of dried meat. "Eat from this. It'll give you the strength to keep going without rest."

"Thanks." He tore the strip in two and put half in his traveling pack. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I'll be here." Garlon smiled and waved to Surgard.

Surgard smiled back, faintly, nodded once, then turned and began the next part of his journey. It didn't take quite as long as it could have, thanks to the wizard's special meat. But he did arrive at the cave after sunset, and not wanting to face a dragon in the dark, Surgard rested for the night. The one positive of the journey was it gave him time to think about what he'd say when he faced the beast.

The next morning he entered the cave. It wasn't much of a cave at first, more like a rocky hole in the ground. But as he went deeper the cave widened, the rocks became larger, and oddly enough, there was a bit more light. Surgard assumed the light was natural, but when he got near to the end and could smell smoke, he changed his mind.

The end of the cave was a small lake with bits of fire rolling across the surface. At the end of the cave and lake opposite to where he had entered, Surgard saw a collection of coins, jewels, and other valuables. He couldn't see any other caves leading away from the lake. Clearly, the dragon had to be underneath the water.

Surgard bent over and yelled to the water. "Hello! I'm looking for the Dragon of Dire! Hello!"

There was motion beneath the surface near the far end of the lake. The motion pressed towards his side of the lake. A reptilian head broke the surface first, followed by the dragon's neck, body, and legs. When it stopped in front of Surgard it had fully emerged from the water.

Large eyes stared down at Surgard. "Who are you, foolish human, to call my name?" it asked. Its voice was deep and
menacing.

Surgard took in a breath, then smiled. "I'm Surgard, a stranger to these lands. I've come to ask something from you."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. It seems that the evil wizard of these parts, Annoure, has sown gryphon's teeth around the kingdom."

"So, magical bards have sprouted," the dragon said. "Have you come to ask me how to kill them?"

"No, I have an idea on how to kill them."

"Why bother me?"

"Well, there's too many for one man to kill. Or several men, for that matter."

"How many are there?"

"Dozens, so I gather."

"Well, what of it? You wish me to dispatch these creatures? For if you do, there's going to be a high price."

"No. There might be too many for even you to deal with. Garlon the wizard thinks that a silence spell cast over the whole kingdom would dispatch them without much effort."

"So it would."

"But, and here's where the request comes in, Garlon told me he needs a bit of dragon blood to give his spell the power to cover the kingdom."

"Ah! So that's it. Well, killing me won't be an easy task, silly human!" The dragon reared back its head.

"Is that the only way to get blood from you?"

The dragon stopped moving. It appeared confused. "What do you mean?"

Surgard shrugged. "Well, Garlon said he only needed one cup of dragon's blood. It seems to me that it would be foolish for me to kill you just to get one cup. Why else would I ask, and not attack you on sight?"

After a moment the dragon nodded its head. "I suppose that makes sense. But you haven't told me why I ought to help you. Many humans have tried to kill me. That doesn't make me inclined to help."

"No, probably not. But if you know Annoure, then you must know why he's created these magical bards."

"To oust King Lambor, like always."

"Well, suppose this plan works. How long do you think it will be before Annoure comes here, either to get your loot, to dispatch you to make him famous, or to take you apart for more spells?"

"Not that long, now that you mention it."

"On the other hand, suppose you do help to defeat him. Won't that put King Lambor in your debt? Won't that make it likely that he won't allow warriors to come here to kill you? Wouldn't you rather have him as an ally instead of an enemy?"

"Perhaps so, assuming he knows that I helped, and promises to keep that in mind in the future."

"Well, if Garlon doesn't tell him, I will." Surgard glanced around the cave. "Besides, you can't have all much to eat around here. Making friends with Lambor might be good for your belly."

"There are other ways out of this cave, human. But you're right, it's better for me if the king stops seeing me as a threat. Very well, human, I shall grant your request. You have a cup?"

Surgard pulled one from his pack. "Is there a safe spot to prick you?"

"Upper part of one of my legs, in back."

Surgard approached the nearest of the dragon's legs. He looked for a place that he could reach that seemed soft enough. Once he found a spot he drew his sword, poked slowly, pulled it out, then held the cup under the place. A tiny trickle of blood dripped from the wound. It took several moments to fill the cup. When it was full Surgard carefully took it back to his traveling pack. He took out a cloth and a piece of string. He folded the cloth once, put it over the top of the cup, then tied the string tightly around both cloth and cup.

He turned to the dragon. "Will you be all right?"

"Oh, yes. Half a day in the water, and it will be healed."

"Good. Well, thank you for your help."

"Pleased to meet such a considerate human."

Surgard left the cave and started back to where Garlon was waiting for him. This time he continued through the day and into the night. He found the wizard fast asleep at the spot where the two had part. Not wanting to risk waking a sleeping wizard, he sat down and waited for the other man to rise.

That happened just before dawn. Surgard told the wizard that he had brought the blood. When Garlon asked him how he had gotten it, Surgard told him the truth. He had to repeat the story a few times for Garlon to comprehend it. Once he did he cast the spell. The sounds of nature did disappear for moment after it was cast, and when Surgard tried to speak nothing came out of his mouth. When the moment passed sounds returned.

Garlon used his magic to instantly transport himself and Surgard to King Lambor. The king was pleased to see them, telling them that ahalf-dozen magical bards who had invaded his hall had just crumbled to dust. When he ordered a feast in honor of the two, Surgard told him of his meeting with the dragon. He persuaded the king to meet with the dragon and arrange a truce. The king agreed, but Surgard had to go along. Once that work was done, Surgard was finally allowed to be on his way.

Just as he was about to exit the kingdom, Annoure appeared on the road in front of Surgard. He pointed a pale finger at him and said, "You have bested me, Surgard the Stranger, but be ware. You have made me an enemy, and should you return to this land, I shall continue to be your foe."

"That assumes I'll return," Surgard replied, "and I don't plan to."

"Drat. Well, you just watch yourself, young man. There's more cunning plans in my head just waiting for an opportunity."

"Uh-huh. Well, wizard, I'd wish you good luck with that, but since we're foes, I'll wish you bad luck instead."

"Fine. As for me, I shall do what I do best."

"Which is?"

"Try to take over the kingdom."

"'Try' being the key word."

"Oh, just leave already."

"Get out of my way, and I will."

At that Annoure disappeared. And from that day to the end of his life, Surgard made certain never to mix magic with the art of the bard. He did return to the domain of King Lambor, though, but that's another story.


End

Robert Collins' writing has appeared in periodicals such as Wild West; Model Railroader; Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine; Hadrosaur Tales; Pyramid; Chronicle of the Old West; and the Wichita Eagle. His biography of a Kansas Civil War general is due out soon from Pelican Publishing. His sixth railroad book, "Kansas Railroad Attractions," was published last year by South Platte Press; He's had five other books published by South Platte Press. He has edited the e-mail newsletter for a local SF-F talk radio show called "The Warp Zone"; published a series of local travel booklets in the early 1990s; and published a short story magazine in the mid-1990s.

Harold's Harvest by Nadia Williams

George would, for the rest of his life, be plagued by occasional nightmares in which he didn’t drop the pumpkin. As it was, he did.

The pumpkin was from Harold’s farm. The farm was nestled in the forested hills near Gream, surrounded by castles
where knights rested between dragon slayings and the vanquishing of evil wizards.

Father left the farm to Harold when he died. The old man, blaming George for Mother’s death in childbirth, always favoured Harold.

He showed his love through indulgence. Harold grew from a beautiful boy into a desirable man. Father smiled when he neglected his duties for the attentions of one or another lady.

“Irresistible, he is,” he’d say, and get George to do Harold’s chores. George didn’t mind. He loved the farm. The Garden, they called it. It was a beautiful piece of land with a whitewashed thatched cottage and big wooden barn in front of lush fruit trees, fields overflowing with vegetables in turn hiding behind these.

He loved being there, loved working there, felt sorry for Harold that he didn’t know the pleasure of picking ripe fruit, of pulling willing carrots from rich soil. When he got older, and started noticing the difference between him and his brother, the Garden became his refuge. He felt ashamed of having pitied Harold.

When Harold fancied a shirt in the tailor’s shop, George’s tattered garb was overlooked.

“Harold has a talent. He’s charmed,” Father explained when they rested among the vegetables, “he needs the tools to ply his trade.”

George would bite his lip and nod. He realized he was tolerated, not welcomed, feared that if he argued, he’d be chased away from his beloved Garden. He’d go off with his hoe among the cucumbers and the beans. It eased the hurt of the village girls’ whispers, the scornful looks from the other boys when he took vegetables to market in Harold’s castoffs. The gardens cared little what he wore. When the anger became too much, he’d chop wood. The cottage’s hearth never grew cold.

In time, Harold grew to believe he owed the world nothing for his continued welfare. Father’s conviction that he was charmed, grew. He never got caught when comforting the knights’ women. George came to believe it, too. He knew he would always have to work hard for his supper. He knew Harold was exempt from this rule of life.

All the district knew the farm was special. It was never touched by plague or disease. Through the one drought in living memory, the spring near the house had kept bubbling. The village witch’s potions were sought after for miles around, as she got her roots and herbs from among the trees on the edges of the Garden.

Harold offered George a small wage to stay on after Father’s death. George wanted nothing more than to throw it back in his face. He would have stayed regardless. He could no more leave the farm than he could rip out his own heart. He nodded his acceptance without looking up from his work.

In the glow of his grief, Harold helped his brother tend the Garden. Alas, grief faded: the call of his loins became stronger than that of the spade.

One morning, a messenger arrived at the gate. Harold went to him. When the messenger left, he washed, dressed, and bade George tend the farm until he returned. He took what money there was, in spite of his brother’s protest that they first had to put aside what was needed for the Garden’s care.

It was a month since Father’s last breath. The planting had been done with two pairs of tending hands in mind. George worked from dawn till dark. It was not enough.

Four days after Harold left to comfort the lady, workmen came. Fences were erected to hide the fields, the cottage was renovated. Looking from the road, one would hardly know it was a farm.

Harold returned two weeks later. “I need you to move from the cottage,” he said to George, “you can have the loft in the barn.”

Having few possessions, George was resettled before supper.

From then, guests frequently came to the cottage in darkness. They always left before sunrise. Harold would stagger from bed at lunchtime. Ladies gave him small tokens to thank him for his company. He got a new horse, piles of new clothes.

George took to working beyond sunset, hanging a lamp in a tree.

Pure exhaustion caused him to drop the enormous pumpkin. He swore, bent down to pick up the pieces, then froze.

Among the bits lay a small, perfectly formed woman. His shock was as much from seeing her there as seeing her naked. It was a first for George on both counts.

Part of the pumpkin’s shell was still molded to her body. In the silence he heard her gasp, saw her stir. He pulled his shirt over his head, hands shaking, and covered the little woman as best he could.

George carried her into the barn, chores forgotten. He had no candle there, but lay her in a pool of moonlight that streamed through the window. Even in the mess of pumpkin bits, she was beautiful. He watched her till the first rooster crowed.

“George?”

He started from his slumber. The little woman was sitting up, clutching the blanket to her that he’d covered her with during the night.

“You know my name?”

“Of course I do. You’ve tended me all this time.”

George looked, and saw her leaf green eyes, her tree-bark brown hair.

He knew the gardens were special from more than tales and whispers. He felt it in the plants, in the soil. He knew it in the hour between night and day, when he leaned on his hoe and simply was among the spinach and the apple trees; when he could close his eyes and drift in the knowledge of the oneness of George, the beetroot and the potatoes. He nodded, then went to the cottage to find some old clothes for her to wear.

She worked hard and fast, the greenish tinge to her giving way to a healthy apricot colour. From initially no taller than George’s hip, she grew within a week to reach almost to his shoulder.

Over and above the enjoyment of seeing the work done, her company lifted his spirits. They shared their meals, shared the loft. Soon, George would have gladly shared his heart with her if she’d let him.



“Hello, George. Who’s your friend?”

George paled. He hadn’t heard his brother return. Harold’s lady must have had word of her husband’s return. He put another apple into his basket, turned to look at Harold.

“This is… Nerina,” George decided quickly. She looked pleased, gave him a shy smile. “She’s helping me with the work.”

“Indeed?”

George didn’t like the look on Harold’s face. It was the one that usually appeared a few days before a new waistcoat. He clenched fists the size of cabbages, but Harold’s eyes were on Nerina.

“My brother is such a cad, making a lady like you soil her hands,” Harold’s voice was sticky sweet. “Why don’t you come and lunch with me? I’m sure we can find something decent to eat.”

“Bring the food out here,” she said, “it’s lovely under the apple trees.”

Harold came with cheese and milk from his cow, bread the baker gave them in return for some grapes that morning, and they sat on a blanket bought with money earned with the sale of vegetables. The food was tasteless in George’s mouth as he watched Harold flirt with Nerina. She seemed uncomfortable with his innuendos and suggestive laughs, kept trying to convince him to come and help them in the Garden.

She was eager to return to work, as George was. Harold lifted a hand to help for the first time in weeks. She smiled, happy, and George boiled.

Two more days Harold spoiled his brother’s lunch with his presence. To George’s exasperation, Nerina encouraged Harold to join them, always trying to draw him into the Garden. He couldn’t understand why she would invite Harold to lunch only to fight off his advances, endure his scornful laughter as she tried to get him excited about the richness of the soil.

Then a lady had need of Harold, and he left on his horse. Nerina was clearly relieved. She nodded as if she was listening, and George wondered about the glances she cast his way the rest of the afternoon. She looked excited. Or was it scared?

A week passed. George and Nerina talked of rain and wind and special manure to feed the soil. One day, they washed for lunch from the same bucket, and their words dried up when their hands touched. George folded his fingers around hers and lifted her hands from the water. He felt her stroke his wrists with her thumbs. Though her palms were callused, her skin was soft and smooth. George pulled her closer, his eyes still on their wet hands.

They heard the clatter of horse hooves, their eyes met, and George’s heart swelled with joy.

“Ho! Nerina!” Even the sound of Harold’s voice couldn’t kill his joy. “Just the girl I wanted to see.”

Harold looked at their clasped hands and George looked back with a smile. Nothing could spoil his joy. “I’ve bought you a present,” Harold said, his light tone seeming forced, “and I have a surprise for you.”

George heard the challenge woven in the words. He had no fear. Nerina’s heart was his. He’d seen that in her eyes, felt it still in her tightened grip on his hands.

“You’re very kind, Harold,” she said, “but I’ve worked hard and I’m hungry. Why don’t you bring lunch again, we’ll all eat together.”

“You’ll forget about lunch when you hear the treat I have in store for you. There’s a dance at the castle of the widowed Lady Delphia tonight, to celebrate the end of her mourning period, and you’re going with me.”

“I’d rather not,” she said.

“Oh, come now, it’s a once in a lifetime experience. I bought you a dress. Your parents would be angry if they heard you wanted to pass up on such an opportunity. Where do you live, I’ll ask them myself.”

George opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of something to say before Nerina spoke in her innocence.

“I live here. The Garden is my parent.”

“The Garden?”

“Yes. I am fruit from the Garden.”

Harold laughed, saw she was serious, saw George’s face. His laughter dried up.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” His gape turned into a smile as his mind turned the revelation over. He slid from the horse, casting a triumphant glance at his brother. George stepped forward, putting an arm in front of Nerina.

“If you are fruit from the garden,” Harold’s smile widened as the possibilities unfolded, “then you belong to me.”

“What?” Nerina started laughing, shook her head.

“The Garden belongs to me. Tell her, George.”

George said nothing.

“Harold, how can you say such a thing? The Garden doesn’t belong to anyone but itself,” Nerina said.

He laughed, stepped closer and grabbed her arm. George yanked Harold’s hand away.

“Ah-ah,” Harold said, “you take such liberties for a paid labourer. Did you hear of poor David who worked for Farmer Gideon? He was caught stealing. The magistrate needed nothing but Gideon’s word. David will recover in a few weeks, but he’ll bear the scars of the whip to remind him not to steal.”

George let go of his brother’s hand.

“Heat water for the big tub,” Harold commanded, putting his hand on Nerina’s neck, “while I explain to my little fruit about title deeds.”

When she was washed, dressed and ready to go, Nerina was so beautiful George’s heart ached. He couldn’t bear to look in her eyes, couldn’t bear not to. And there he saw the green of spring leaves, ripe apricot coloured her skin. He met her gaze and knew she was waiting. Waiting for something he couldn’t understand.

Harold had hired a litter to take them to the castle, and George felt his heart was ripped from him as he watched them go.

The comfort he’d always found among the stalks and the leaves, was gone. He grabbed the axe from the barn, attacked a log with the power of his fury until it was nothing but a pile of sticks. He dripped with sweat, his palms ached. He slowed down then, numbed his mind with the rhythm of splitting logs for the hearth.

“Why do you grieve, George?”

He didn’t turn at the sound of the man’s voice. The night air was somehow thick and the darkness behind him hid the cursed fence. Still, in his heart he knew who was speaking.

“I grieve because my brother has everything. He has the fruits of my labors, and as we speak he is taking from me everything I hold dear besides.”

“He will reap what he…”

“Don’t say that. Harold has never reaped anything he’s sowed. Other lads have been flogged near to death for taking liberties behind the knights’ backs. Not Harold. Others starve when they don’t work for their food. Not Harold. Harold is charmed. And I hate him for it.”

“Why don’t you just leave him then? A hard-working young man like you could find better paying work elsewhere.”

“You of all should understand that.”

“Put it into words.”

He sighed, swung the axe and embedded it in the log before him. “I am bound to these gardens. They…” He searched for the words. “They live and breathe. Leaving them would be like leaving my own child in the care of someone else. Besides, there’s Nerina.”

He turned then, to find a man there, dressed in dark green clothes of a fashion George hadn’t seen before, his features obscured by the moon shadows. The man looked at George for a long time, and George looked back, for the first time in his life not flinching from a fierce gaze.

“Harold will reap what he sows,” the stranger said.

“Oh, really. How is that supposed to happen?”

“Forgive him. The anger inside you is blocking the power needed to let things take their course.”

“Forgive him?” George rested a hand on the axe handle. He shook his head. “So he can keep using me and the Garden with my blessing?”

“No. So that you can be blameless, and things can take their course.”

“I can’t.”

“Trust me. Just say it.”

George shrugged. He had nothing to lose. “I forgive Harold.”

Peace descended on him, a certainty and security he’d never had before. He let it flow over and through him. Then he saw everything. “Forgive me,” he whispered, and closed his eyes.



There was no haste in his actions when he heard the scream. He opened his eyes. Hours must have passed. The man was gone, and morning’s brush had streaked the sky with grey. George smiled and walked towards to cottage door. He stopped at the corner, leaned against the wall and watched the scene unfold in front of him.

Harold was staggering to the door, dragging the struggling Nerina after him. He fumbled with the catch. George knew the door wouldn’t open. He waited, awash in what he was, what he had always been. Then his eyes fell on Nerina and he straightened.

Uttering a curse, Harold bent down to see what was wrong. The wooden catch had swollen, grown over the hook it rested in. He let go of Nerina in his surprise, and she ducked away from his fumbling grasp, ran for the barn.

“I’m over here, Nerina,” George called, and she turned and ran into his arms.

“Are you all right?” he whispered, and though she trembled, she nodded, looked in his eyes and smiled.

“You idiot,” Harold slurred, swaying on his feet, “now you’ve done it. I don’t need you. This little brisket can work as well as tend my other needs. I’ll see you flogged till you can’t walk.”

The pillars holding up the veranda roof sprouted as he spoke. George smiled. Harold stepped back at the touch of the branches, too late to stop them twining around his ankles. He struggled, but couldn’t break free.

“What have you sowed, Harold?” George asked. The fence behind him trembled and fell, pushed over by a flood of plants.

“What have you done? What’s going on?” Harold’s voice was tinged with fear.

“It’s harvest time for the Garden,” George answered.

The stalks and leaves grew closer to Harold, parting around George like a stream around a rock.

“George,” Harold screamed, “if you don’t stop this now, I’ll make sure you never see this cursed Garden or that wench again.”

“What did Mother eat and drink while she carried you?”

“I’m warning you…”

“What did you eat as you grew? What was sold to pay for the clothes you wore, the presents you bought for your ladies?”

The mass of growth surrounded Harold now, twining about him until he was cocooned in green.

“George, I’m warning you! Stop this or…”

“What gave you your health, your shiny eyes and smooth face?”

Harold screamed. He coughed, spat, and a tooth bounced over the moving plants. His hair greyed, he twisted till a hand showed, watched horrified as it turned withered and blue-veined. George saw him sag, too weak to hold himself up, kept to attention by the Garden’s firm hold.

“What does the Garden owe you, Harold?”

“You son of a… Aargh!”

“They will tighten their grip until you tell the truth. You know it in your heart. What does the Garden owe you?”

“It’s a bunch of plants for the love of heaven!”

“What does the Garden owe you?”

Harold was barely visible in the writhing plants.

“George, brother, help me.”

“I am helping you. Face the truth. What does the Garden owe you?”

“Nothing,” Harold whispered. George breathed deeply, and the hold on Harold relaxed enough for him to breathe.

“What do you owe the Garden?” George asked his brother.

“Everything.”

George hesitated. Harold was an old man, and hadn’t aged well. He felt Nerina’s hand in his. He nodded, and Harold’s greyed, wrinkled flesh filled out, his strength returned. The plants withdrew from around him, all but some branches and twigs that twisted and melded until they formed a kind of basket hugging Harold’s back, two living straps growing over his shoulders and across his chest.

He ran the moment he felt the stranglehold around him yield, but hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he cried out in pain, tearing at the straps around his chest, faltered and fell.

“Shall we go get some gem squash to put in that?” George asked Nerina.

“I think that’s a good idea. They’re particularly lovely this year.”



George smiled at the magistrate from the driver’s seat of the old wagon. Nerina was seated next to him, Harold was on his horse behind. A piece of rope trailed from the horse’s bit. Harold hadn’t believed his brother that the basket-prison was still at his command, even though the farm was far behind them. He’d learned the hard way, and the effort seemed to take the last of his strength. He climbed meekly from his steed. George jumped from his perch, looked the magistrate in the eye and shook his hand firmly.

“That’s quite a work of art you carry, Harold,” the magistrate said, glancing at George. “How did you manage to make it? The whole thing seems to be… to be grown in one piece.” He tugged at the shoulder straps, then let go quickly. Was it his imagination, or had they tightened? “How do you take it off?”

“That’s a secret, sir,” George winked. “My brother and I have some business to conduct.” Harold said nothing, his face pale.

The transfer of the property was quickly done.

“Ah, now,” the magistrate said, “you’ll have to work on that design, George. The straps broke.”

“That I’ll have to, sir. I’ll just pick these gem squash up, and you can have it if you want.”

“Thank you, son. A gift from the Garden is a gift indeed. Goodbye, Harold… Goodness, he’s in a hurry.” He scratched his head, watching Harold disappear down the lane.

“He likes to race that horse of his,” George smiled easily.

The magistrate frowned. He looked from the basket to George to the dust Harold had left in his wake. His hand fell on the strange basket, and he leaned closer to look. George watched him inspect it, saw him slow and look back at him with something like awe.

“So the Garden has had enough of Harold, has it?” he said.

“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” George replied, “my brother just decided that farming was not for him.”

The older man, no stranger to whispers and legends, nodded. “I’ll walk you out then, George.”

“If I could trouble you a few more moments, sir,” George said. He smiled his new slow smile as Nerina came in from outside. “There’s one more service you can perform for me. For the two of us, actually.” George’s new confidence faltered, and for a mere moment he was the awkward lad again.

“You want to get married?” the Magistrate helped him.

“Indeed,” Nerina beamed.

“Well, then, that’s quite a simple procedure.”

Outside, a man in dark green clothes turned away. He walked towards a copse of trees and faded into the shadows.

End


Nadia Williams is a happily married mother of three, whose full-time job is homeschooling their children. Born and raised in South Africa, she now lives in Dundalk, Ireland, with her family and three cats."Harold's Harvest" is her first published story.

Dancing With the Snow Queen by Joseph Walter

Upon a far glacier
Just south of the Pole
Lies a palace of ice
And a courtyard of souls;

And upon her white throne
Sitting in the clear dawn
Is a Snow Queen of sorts
With a knight and a pawn;

And if one gains passage
To her livid light lair,
One must dance their heart away
In fear of death and despair;

So “Rap-A-Tap-Tap!”
Rhyme the heels of his shoes,
And he smiles and grins –
What has he to lose?

Not his wit nor his charm,
For of that he has none,
He’s just a plain old tailor
With no clothes to be done;

But ne’er has there been
A dance of such might,
As he looked up towards the sky
And swallowed his fright;

He glanced up at the Snow Queen,
His face boyish again,
And said to her politely,
“I believe I can win.”

So she stepped down from her throne,
And took him by the hand,
And they danced their heart away
Until they reached far away lands.

End

Beauty Bright by Jennifer Loring

Geoffrey dismounted and, with the reins firmly in hand, coaxed his horse along the rocky path. He walked carefully, mindful of the twists and the slippery stones that could send them tumbling into the water, but the horse reared up and finally refused to go any further.

“Come,” said Geoffrey, his teeth chattering. “We can’t stay out here.” He stroked the horse’s powerful neck. The animal trembled, but Geoffrey knew that it was not from the cold. “That’s a good boy,” he soothed, tugging gently on the reins. The faltering horse at last began to move forward, and before long they stood in the gloom of the formidable gatehouse of the castle, beneath turrets ravaged by time and the fearsome coastal weather.

Wind roared through the dark, hollow eyes of the windows, and moss crawled up dripping stone walls, up the winding staircases that vanished into shadow. Geoffrey secured his horse to a banister and chafed his arms, chilled more by the sinister atmosphere of the aged castle than by the dampness seeping into his bones. The stench of bird droppings almost covered the odor of decay, of small dead things scattered amongst the grassy ruins of the cobbled floors. Seabirds, having given up on finding fish, gathered within the walls to wait out the storm and pecked at insects invisible to him. He crouched in a corner far from the windows and closed his eyes, hoping to rest a bit.

“Your lady awaits you,” said a voice from the shadows by the stair. Roused from half-sleep, Geoffrey leapt to his feet, a hand on the hilt of the sword at his side.

“Who is speaking? Show yourself.”

A figure in a white hooded robe descended the staircase. Geoffrey recalled descriptions of the Premonstratension monks, famous for their white robes, rumored to haunt a village to the south. Isolated and unprotected, the monks were slaughtered centuries ago by the border reivers, savage outlaws even the boldest knight would fear to meet.

Geoffrey did not believe in ghosts, for the realities of battle presented enough horrors. His horse, however, immediately shied away, and it was not difficult to understand why, once the figure revealed a horribly scarred, almost skeletal face peering at the knight from beneath its hood.

“Your lady awaits,” it said again, and this time pointed to the stairs.

“My lady is at home in Alnwick.”

“That lady?” The figure let out a hideous laugh. “Betrothed to you in childhood for political reasons, a woman you’ve met only once since then, that is your lady?”

“She is loyal, and kind, and will be a dutiful wife,” said Geoffrey, before thinking to ask how the ostensible monk knew such things.

“All well and good, but you are young. Don’t you long for a chance at true love?”

“What use is it in wishing for things one cannot have? I will carry out my duty to our families, and we shall be married in half a year’s time.”

“I can give you what you think you cannot have. Upstairs, brave knight, is what you seek. A beauty bright, who will love you until the end of your days. Will you follow, or do you fear the ghosts of this old castle?”

“I fear nothing,” said Geoffrey, and followed the wraith up a narrow, twisting stair. They stepped from shadow into a room lit by some otherworldly force, for Geoffrey could see no source of light, no torches or candles that could burn so brightly. A hundred knights and their horses lay sleeping, in full battle armor, around the perimeter of the chamber, but it was in the center to which the knight’s attention was drawn.

There, in a crystal casket gleaming like the most precious jewels, lay a girl of such extraordinary beauty that she rendered Geoffrey speechless. Her hair flowed like liquid gold over the pillows, framing a face the likes of which he had seen only in secret dreams.

He thought of his betrothed, refined but plain, a woman who loved him as little as he loved her, and of the life he might live with this exquisite maiden instead. What pleasure he would take in waking up to such a face each morning.

Two dragons guarded the coffin, one on either side. Tendrils of smoke curled from their nostrils as they stretched their leathery black wings, and coiled their tails protectively around the block of crystal. One of the dragons held a magnificent sword between its clawed front feet; the other, a brass trumpet.

“You may wake her,” said the figure, “but you must choose either the sword or the horn. And choose wisely, for only one will bring her out of her sleep.”

Geoffrey pondered his choices for a moment. He sensed trickery, but the prize was too valuable to resist. While the horn would be sure wake the small army of knights, it seemed the only logical option. Certainly the sword, as well-made as it appeared, could not breach the crystal tomb. Besides, taking it up might be perceived as a challenge to the knights whom he suspected were not as deeply asleep as they appeared.

The dragon that cradled the trumpet snorted as Geoffrey approached, and a small plume of flame escaped its reptilian mouth. He plucked from it, with a substantial lack of confidence, the brass horn, then blew with all his breath into the mouthpiece. At once the knights sprang into motion, drawing their swords and marching toward him with such vehemence that he lost his bearings and collapsed to the floor in a faint, the trumpet crushed beneath their boots. The lady did not stir. All the colors of the chamber and everything in it began to swirl together, but he clearly saw the phantom approaching him, saw the face split by thick, raised scars and the thin-lipped mouth twisted into a sneer.

“You are a knight. Your sword guides your very life. But you have proven yourself a coward by choosing the horn, and you shall never again see this beauty bright, who awaits the love of a true knight. Shame on you, coward.”

The room quickly slipped away as darkness closed in on Geoffrey, until only the voice remained, a ghostly echo trapped inside his skull:

Coward.

The knight awoke sprawled out beneath the crumbling gatehouse, where he had first taken shelter. His horse pawed fitfully at the stones and the grasses that obscured most of them. Geoffrey rose to his feet and walked to the staircase.

“Is anyone here?” he called. Only the wind responded, with an angry howl that ripped through the gatehouse. I must find her. Geoffrey climbed the stairs. He knew exactly where the room was, and would not fail her again. Yet each doorway opened onto darkness, and ruin, and though Geoffrey was certain of the location, he could find no sign of the maiden anywhere. Perhaps the poor light had played tricks on his eyes; he resolved to search every corner and crevice of the massive castle until he claimed the beauty for his own.

Days passed and Geoffrey found no sign of her, but his determination did not weaken. He refused to entertain the idea that it had been a dream, the overactive imagination of an exhausted knight trapped by a storm in an ancient castle. Hardened by the realities of war and the everyday struggle for survival, the thoughts of knights were nothing if not quotidian. They did not take up flights of fancy. He had seen the girl.

His horse, having eaten all the weeds it could reach, broke free of its tether and disappeared into the countryside. Geoffrey gathered what edible plants he could find, and hunted small animals, and collected the ever-present rainwater. He would not leave without her.

Days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months. Then, finally, years. The hands that opened rotting wooden doors and searched through moss-crusted rubble grew withered and spotted with age, and at last Geoffrey, heartbroken and defeated, knew that he was to die alone. He lay down in the darkness of the gatehouse, where he sought refuge those many decades ago, and waited.

After a time he heard the clank of armor as the knights marched in procession down the staircase. Two of them stepped forward and lifted him by his arms, carrying him back up the stairs he had become too old to climb. Yet as they ascended he felt himself growing stronger, and saw the mottled skin turn smooth and clear once more. They took him into the room of light, which was exactly where he had remembered it despite his years of fruitless searching, and dressed him in armor, and presented him with a new horse to replace his long-dead runaway.

He saw the maiden there, asleep and beautiful, and he understood then. Like her he would be forever young, but trapped in this room with all the others who had come before him, who waited to be set free by the courage of a true knight. Forever to guard her, but never to claim her as his own.

The End

Jennifer Loring has published nearly twenty short stories and poems in various webzines and in print. She received an honorable mention in the seventeenth annual Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and will make her first anthology appearance in theupcoming Cold Flesh zombie anthology published by HellBound Books. She is a member of the Mid-Atlantic Horror Professionals, and lives in Pittsburgh, PA where she is, among other things, a DJ. Visit her website.

Rija's Tale by Michael Merriam

Rija stood ankle deep in cold sewage. The white undergarment she wore clung to her, holding the dampness close. She tried not to breathe too deeply as she waded through the dark muck, her only light coming from the occasional grate above her. Her long brown hair clung to her neck and shoulders, limp and damp. Her soft, ankle-high boots made sucking noises with every step she took.

Her ten-day-old marriage had ended two hours ago.

Rija cursed her father. Teris Caernor had given his sixteen year old daughter in marriage to Baron Aldiss Lourde, an aging noble, in the hopes of climbing higher among the Court of Sofia's Lord-Mayor. He also used her marriage to gain financial backing for his latest merchant venture. She should be happy, she thought bitterly. She had been worth enough to allow her father to furnish a full wagon train. She had been worth far more than her older sister Agia.

She tried running away, but her father's guards and servants watched her too closely.

She supposed the wedding night, and each night after, could have been worse, but two nights past the baron, returning late from court in a foul mood, had simply beat her without reason or explanation before taking her to his bed. After he slept, she slipped from the room to cry in private.

He had returned from court today, angry again, and pulled her from the chair where she sat practicing her lap harp. Without a word he slapped her, sending her sprawling near the unlit fireplace. As he reached down to pull her up from the floor, she had, all unthinking, stabbed him with the fireplace poker she suddenly had in her hand. He had looked angry, and then surprised, before collapsing on her. She pushed his limp body away and frantically tore off her blood soaked clothing, her mind still not registering what she had done. Then she heard the gasp behind her.

When Baron Lourde's manservant, Gilias, had entered the room and rushed past her to check on his fallen master, fear took over and she did the only thing she could think to do. She picked up the ash-shovel and hit Gilias over the head with it. He collapsed, and lay by his master, moaning.

Rija dropped the shovel and fled the manor. She wasn't even sure how she found the entrance to the sewers at the back of
the property, but here she stood, cold, wet, lost, and a murderess.

Rija walked farther along the dank sewer, trying to decide what to do. She couldn't go back, not after killing her husband. She could not go to her family for help. Rija knew her father would hand her over to the city guard in an instant, as would her oldest brother Raundi. Protecting the family's trade license would be their only concern. Her younger brother Kilam might be sympathetic to her, but he was off on another of his hunts for fame and glory with the band of rowdies he called friends.

She could, she thought grimly, throw herself on the mercy of the Lord-Mayor. She laughed aloud at the idea as she turned a corner and walked deepr into the sewer. There was no avenue of recourse there; at best she would end up in the city's
dungeons. More likely her head would end up in the executioner's basket.

Rija shivered. One thing she knew for sure: she could not continue to walk around in the sewers dressed in her
undergarments. She made her way toward one of the periodic grates that lined the street above. Night was beginning to fall, and what little illumination the grates offered would soon vanish. She considered the grate above her; it was too high for her to reach.

She pressed on, keeping one eye on the grates as she searched for a way out of the sewer. The farther she walked, the less murky the water became. She thought perhaps she was nearing where the sewers met either the ocean or the Eiran River. When she discovered a service walk, her excitement grew. The walk was smooth stone, desinged to allow city workers and guardsmen easy access into the sewer tunnels to do maintaince or fish out dead bodies. She followed the walk, moving slowly in the deepening darkness, until she reached a broken iron gate leading to an alley.

Rija squeezed between the bent bars of the gate and looked around carefully as she stepped into the alley. She was
unfamiliar with this part of Sofia, but she thought she must be near the wharves, from the smell of fish.

"Let me go!"

Rija looked toward the source of the yell. She could just make out a large man near the back of one of the buildings, cast in shadow. He held a small struggling form up against the wall of the inn with one hand, while brandishing a curved knife with the other.

"I didn't take anything from you," the struggling form protested further.

The large figure spoke slowly. "Ye was tol' to stay 'way from dis end o' Tam's territory. I be thinkin' maybe I should takes me a finger or two to remind ye o' your place."

Before she thought too hard about it, Rija picked up a brick from near the sewer's entrance and started slowly moving behind the large man. She did not know why the large man was shaking what appeared to be a child, but she didn't like it.

"I'm just running a message, that's all, just a message." The small figure protested. Rija could now see to be a redheaded boy of about eleven turnings.

"Ye gots a chit ta show?" The large man shook the boy.

"I must have lost it when you threw me out the door," the boy suddenly looked over the man's shoulder at her.

"Don't think ye be foolin' Jim wit' tha' old trick."

Rija swung with all her might, smashing the brick on the back of the large man's head. He dropped the boy and turned to looked at her. Rija took two quick steps backward, ready to dash back to the sewers.

The man blinked once before he toppled over in a heap. He barely hit the ground before the boy started searching his
unconscious body. A small bag chinked with the sound of coins. It quickly disappeared into one of the boy's pockets. The knife the man had held on him vanished into a boot. The boy finally looked up at her.

"Thanks miss," he said. He looked her over, taking in her state of dress, and the telltale stains and smells of the sewer water. "Come on then, help me get his jacket."

"I--" Rija began.

"No time to be squeamish," the youth smiled up at her, laughter in his bright blue eyes. "You look to be in a spot of trouble yourself, and I owe you. Might have lost more than a finger or two before it was over if you hadn't come along."

Rija decided adding thievery to her new list of crimes seemed trivial, considering she had started with murder and had recently added assault. The fact that she was cold gave her extra incentive. Rija knelt and helped roll the large man over. After much tugging and soft swearing they finally managed to remove the jacket as the man started to moan and roll his head.

"Follow me," the boy said as he began to run down the dark alley.

Rija threw the man's jacket over her shoulders and, after a moment's indecision, ran after the boy.

#

Rija sat among the clutter in the small room on the second floor of the abandoned warehouse the boy had led her to. He produced a small amount of moldy bread and cheese, and offered it to her. She look at it dubiously. Concern about the safety of eating anything with so much green on it outweight the hunger she felt. She smiled and shook her, refusing the offered food. Her host shrugged, then hunkered in a corner and started digging through some piles of old clothing and rags.

"Um," Rija spoke for the first time since arriving at the warehouse, "not that I'm ungrateful for your help, but why did you bring me here?"

The boy turned to look at her, "Once you'd helped me out I couldn't very well leave you standing around in an alley dressed in your night clothes, now could I?"

"Well, thank you. I'm Rija, by the way."

"I'm Daven," he said, turning back to the pile of old fabric.

"Why was that man trying to hurt you?"

"Big Nose Jim?" the boy said. "He caught me listening in on a talk I shouldn't hear. Lucky for me you came along and clunked him on the nog. I'm banished from Tam's territory and old Big Nose would've cut my fingers off for sure for being there." The boy turned toward her, holding a pile of what appeared to be clothing and grinned at her expression. "But I suppose you've no idea what I'm going on about, do ya?"

Rija shook her head. "Not a clue."

"Well, you'll learn soon enough if you're going to live down here."

"Who said anything about me staying here?" Rija asked.

The youth laughed, showing a gap toothed smile. "Lady, you're running from something, that's obvious." He handed her the armload of clothing. "Change into these. You can clean up in the room next door. There's some water in an old bowl. The piss pot's down by the back door. Be careful of the steps, and watch out for the rats. If you see anyone, tell 'em you're my cousin and they'll leave you be."

Rija tucked the clothing under her arm and, picking up a candle, moved into the next room to change. She managed to wipe the worst of the grime off of her legs and hung her sopping wet boots from a peg she found sticking out of a wall. She gave the undergarments the boy had given her a dubious look, but decided she could not afford to be picky and put them on. She changed into the clothes, a dark blue blouse and long brown skirt, which turned out to he a little big on her. She found a small brown belt in the pile, to help keep the skirt in place. A pair of worn ankle boots to replace the ones she had ruined in the sewer rounded out the outfit. Rija smiled to herself. She felt almost normal again. It amazed her how something as simple as clean clothing made things seem better.

After engaging in a nerve wracking quest in the dark for the chamber pot, Rija returned to the small room. Daven sat counting out the money he had lifted from the fallen Big Nose Jim.

He looked up at her and grinned again. "There's enough here to keep me fed for a month!" Daven placed some copper coins in the bag and threw the entire thing toward Rija. "Here, you'll need something to start with. If you're smart it'll hold you for a week or so."

"Thanks." Rija said.

Daven shrugged, "Don't mention it. You're the one who hit him with a brick, after all."

Rija laughed. "I seem to be doing that a lot lately." She gestured toward her new outfit, "Where in the world did these come from?"

"I use to squat here with a woman. All that stuff," he waved toward the corner, "belonged to her."

"She's not going to come looking for it?" Rija asked.

"Naw, she's dead, I think."

"Dead?"

"Yeah, she drank a lot, see. Sold everything she owned after awhile, then started selling herself to get her whiskey. She went out one night about a month ago, and didn't come back. I've been hanging on to her old clothes in case I could find someone to sell it to. 'Always watch for an opportunity,' says I."

Rija looked at the corner full of clothing and fabric, wondering what else useful she could possibly pick out of the pile.

Daven nodded toward the corner, "Take what you want. I don't reckon I'll ever find someone to buy her old junk."

Rija started picking through the pile of rags, clothing, and other objects. "So who is this Tam, and why are you banned from his territory?" she asked, while sorting everything into piles.

"Tam runs everything south of the Green Pig tavern, all the way down to the wharves. I work for Carros Thurgnir. His territory butts up against Tam's."

Rija looked up. "I'm sorry, but I still have no idea what you're talking about. What kind of territory do you mean?"

Daven looked at her with wide eyes, "Wow, you really don't know do you? Okay, ever since the thieves' guild fell apart, a lot of different factions are trying to take over. Everything down here's broken up into territories, with each territory head running his own personal guild."

"You're involved in organized crime?" Rija asked.

"Well, yeah. Everyone down here is, even if they just pay to be left alone."

"What about the city guard?" Rija asked, surprised at the level of lawlessness in the lower city etched on her face.

Daven laughed. "They might come down here during the day to make sure the bodies are taken off the streets and protect the merchant ships as they unload, but at night they stick to guarding the warehouses and avoid the slums. They only poke their noses down here if there's a riot or something, and then only in groups of a dozen or more."

Rija started to reply when her hand found something hard under the pile of rags. She pulled out an old leather bag. Opening it, she found an ancient, scarred, but usable mandolin. She gave the strings an experimental strum and winced.

"Now there's something I could sell!" Daven exclaimed.

Rija played with the tuning pegs and gave the strings another strum. "How much?"

"At least a silver, maybe two."

Rija turned the pegs some more and strummed. This time the sound was right. She played a few chords.

Daven smiled at her. "Can you sing?"

Rija nodded an affirmative.

Daven jumped up from where he was sitting, practically vibrating with excitement. "Now, here's the thing," Daven said, "do you know any tunes besides fancy stuff for the lords?"

Rija smiled. Her father had insisted she learn formal music, under the theory it would make her a more desirable candidate for marriage to a gentleman. She, however, never missed an opportunity to pick up odd songs from her brother Kilam and his friends, as well as from the drovers and guards on those rare occasions her father let her travel with him on trading missions.

"I might know a few."

"Perfect!" he snapped his fingers. "I know where you can find work, and I can make a finder's fee." Daven smiled as he started pulling her out the door.

Before she could protest, Daven took Rija by the hand and started leading her through the smelly, torch lit streets to a large, crowded tavern. He moved past the prostitutes, thugs, and sneak thieves that made up the primary clientele of the establishment. Many of them gave the boy a friendly wave as he passed.

"Do you know everyone?" Rija whispered.

"Pretty much. Everyone around here knows I'm one of Carros' runners. I don't have to worry too much as long as I stay in his territory. Now stand here and look pretty while I make us some coin." Daven started waving at someone. "Jenton!"

A short, enormously fat man wearing a stained and greasy apron slowly moved toward them. People moved out his way as he approached, giving the effect of a large ship parting the waves as he moved. The proprietor of the Red Trident tavern came
up to them and smiled down at the boy. "We heard you'd had gotten skinned and spitted."

"Well ya heard wrong, Jenton. There's not a man in Tam's bunch quick enough to skin this rabbit." Daven gave him a gap-toothed smile. "But I'm here 'cause I found you something special." He gestured toward Rija.

Jenton gave her a shrewd look, and Rija felt like a side of beef swinging from a hook at the market. "I'm full up of girls right now, but she is a pretty one, so maybe I--"

"No, no, no, no," Daven interrupted, "she isn't a whore, she's a minstrel, and also my cousin," Daven gave the fat man a stern look.

"Well, why didn't you say so? I still haven't replaced the last one that ran off." Jenton turned his attention back to her, "What's your name, girl?"

"Rija."

"Well, Rija, step up on stage and play a set. If they like you, you're hired. If they don't, you're not."

Rija looked at Daven, who favored her with his gap-toothed smile and pointed toward the tiny stage area near the fireplace. She stepped up on stage and, swallowing down the rising panic in her stomach, decided on some folk tunes she had
learned from her brother's friends.

She had played two songs before the tavern's patrons realized Rija stood on stage playing music. She kept with the folk tunes, playing lively jigs and reels. People started clapping and some of the clientele even tried to dance in the crowded tavern. Occasionally a coin would be tossed her way. When she saw Jenton wave at her, she finished the tune she was playing, collected the money, and stepped off the stage. Some in the crowd started yelling for more music.

The proprieter wiped his hands on the greasy apron as Rija approached, "Not bad girl, not bad. I'll take you on. You can play here for tips, I'll only want a twenty percent--"

"Five percent." Daven quickly cut in.

Jenton looked down at the boy. "So you're her manager now, are you?"

"Yes," he answered, "and you'll take no more than five percent."

"Fifteen," the burly man replied.

Daven smiled. "Ten, and you help find her a spot on the street."

"Well," Jenton began, when a couple of drunks started yelling out songs they wanted to hear, "Okay, ten percent."

"Plus my fee," the boy added.

Jenton laughed and reached into his pocket. "That's our Daven--"

"--'always looking for an opportunity'," the boy finished as Jenton handed him some coins.

"Right then," Jenton turned to Rija, "Get up there and make them want more beer."

When Jenton ambled off, Rija looked down at Daven. "So you're my manager?" she laughed.

"Yes, but I'll only ask for two percent, and you can squat at my place until you find something of your own." Daven pushed her toward the stage. "I don't know what god sent you, but I've made more coin tonight than in the last four months, and I know a good thing when I see it. You, lady, are my new best friend."

Laughing at the absurdity of the situation, Rija returned to the stage.

#

Two days later, Rija found herself standing on a corner, mandolin in hand, playing for whatever tips she could manage.

Daven told her the spot wasn't perfect, but it would work as a starting point. He also told her that every evening, when the city's great bell struck the dinner hour, a guard with a swarthy complexion and a missing pinky finger would come by to collect a small percentage of her tips. This bribe insured she would never be hassled about a busking permit.

She had just given the guardsman his cut, when she spotted Daven walking toward her with a tall, skinny man dressed in an outfit with too many colors for its own good.

"Hey there, lady," Daven smiled at her, "I'd like to introduce my friend, Paolic."

Rija smiled at the man politely. "Pleased."

Paolic returned her smile, "Master Daven tells me you know many of the ballads and musical epics of the courts."

"I know a few," Rija admitted.

"I would ask you to teach me as many as you can," his smile widened until it seemed his head would surely split in two. "In return I can teach you several of the tunes more popular among the common folk."

Rija considered for a moment. "I do need to learn some ballads, and any folk songs or jigs I don't already know would be appreciated."

"Excellent. When could we meet?"

"Any morning this week would work." She turned to Daven. "Do you think the neighbors would mind if we used the warehouse to practice?"

Daven thought for a moment. "As long as it's not too early, no. Most would be happy with a bit of free entertainment."

"Then it's settled!" Paolic clapped his hands together.

"Except for one little thing," Daven said as he held out his hand.

Paolic produced a pouch from inside his jacket. "Ah yes, your fee. Of course, here you go," he said, dropping three coins in Daven's outstretched hand.

Rija and Daven told the thin minstrel where to find the warehouse and watched as he walk away before returning to their room for a make-shift lunch. Rija had bought food earlier, and Daven "found" a bottle of weak wine at some point during the day.

"So your friend," Rija asked around a mouthful of apple, "why is he so serious about learning all those songs?"

Daven paused in the act of chewing his cheese. "He's ambitious. He wants to stop playing taverns and fairs. I don't have the heart to tell him he's not good enough. He'll never make it as a house bard." Daven took another bite of cheese.

"But?" Rija prompted.

"But I saw an opportunity to make a fee, and for you to learn some new songs."

"Never pass up an opportunity," Rija intoned.

"The first rule of wealth accumulation." Daven nodded at her solemnly.

They held each other's eyes for a moment, then both dissolved into laughter.

#

Rija sat near the fireplace with some wine and a bit of bread Jenton had pressed on her, giving herself a rest after her
second set. She was in her third successful week of playing at the Red Trident. The tavern was packed - on a mid-week night no less - and Jenton had beamed as he handed her the cup and chunk of fresh bread before moving off to take care of his customers.

"There's our little song-bird."

Rija stopped in mid-bite and looked up. Three men stepped up and arranged themselves in front of her. She had seen this group in the tavern the last three nights. They looked to be hire-swords, the type of men her father sometimes employed for trips off the usual trade routes.

"And such a pretty little bird," the one in the middle said, stepping closer to her.

Rija stood, trying to move away from the three men, but the speaker closed the space between them with one swift step.

He reached out with a grime-covered hand and grabbed her by the shoulder, pushing her against the wall next to the fireplace. "I've been wondering what songs the little bird might sing without an audience."

Rija looked around wildly for Jenton, but whatever else the man meant to do was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of the city guard.

The man holding Rija let go of her shoulder and turned to the front of the inn. Whatever crimes he and his friends had committed must have weighed heavily on them. They drew their weapons, than started to move toward the kitchens, seeking escape into the alley behind the inn.

If they had known what Rija knew, they would have tightened their grip on her. These were not the guardsmen who patrolled the streets. Rija recognized the distinctive red plumes rising from the helms; these guards protected the Lord-Mayor and officials of the city court. Rija knew there could be only one reason they came to this inn.

Without a second thought she scooped up her mandolin and fled upstairs.

Rija made for the top floor, ignoring the shouted orders to halt coming from the guardsmen below her. She swung out of a window onto a small ledge, and pulled herself to the roof. From her vantage point she could see the three hire-swords
surrounded by a dozen guardsmen. Mentally thanking Daven for teaching her the basics of roof running, she set off into the night.

It took her thirty minutes to make her way to the warehouse by rooftop. She stopped long enough to make sure no guards lurked near the building before dropping inside the warehouse from a hole in the roof. Moving in the darkness, alert for any unusual sounds, she went to the room she shared with Daven. Checking carefully for hidden dangers, she entered and started putting a few things in an old saddle pack Daven had "discovered lying around." She hoped her would forgive her for taking it.

"I'm disappointed. I never thought you'd steal from a mate," Daven's voice came from the doorway.

Rija looked up. "I'm sorry Daven, but it's an emergency. There's--"

"The Lord-Mayor's guard is looking for you," Daven spoke quietly. "I know all about it."

"Then you know I need to flee Sofia," Rija said as she started toward the doorway.

Rija stopped as Daven pulled the knife he had taken from Big Nose Jim all those weeks ago. He held in front of him, low, blade tilted up. "I'm sorry Rija, I can't let you leave."

Rija looked into the eyes of the boy she had once rescued. "Never pass up an opportunity."

Daven nodded to her, "I saw a chance to make a very large finder's fee. I'm sorry Rija, it's nothing personal."

Rija could hear the sound of boots rushing up the stairs. A red plume started to rise into view.

She looked at Daven and smiled, "I understand."

She swung the bag.

The forced of the impact sent Daven head over heels down the stairs and into the guardsmen. The red plumes disappeared from view, and there was a series of loud crashes and shouted oaths. She didn't wait to find out what happened, but turned instead to the one grimy window in the room. She smashed it open with the saddlebag, and then leaped for the street below.

Gathering herself after the rough landing, Rija caught her breath then dashed for the cover of the shadows along the ill-lit street. She didn't know how she would escape the city. Every guardsman must surely have a description of her by now, and the city gates would be closed for the night. Deciding to stay off the street, Rija climbed back to the rooftops. While she suspected the guard trained some of its members to move up here, she still felt safer than on the street below.

Rija dashed across the rooftops, working her way to the inn where Paolic played. He seemed trustworthy, in fact, his
treatment of her while they traded music was almost overly correct. If anyone could help her hide or escape, Paolic was her best, and in fact only, hope.

She swung down from the roof of the inn to the street below. After carefully checking the insides of the inn for any sign of the guards, she made her way through the thin crowd toward the small stage where Paolic sat on a stool, playing with the tuning pegs of his lute. When he looked up and saw her, he calmly stepped off the stage, beckoned to her, and turned toward the back of the inn. Rija, after another careful look around, followed him.

"I don't know what kind of trouble you're in," Paolic said as they entered the kitchen, "but you cannot be found here."

"Paolic, I need to leave the city." Rija tried to keep her voice low. "I don't dare stay another night."

Paolic ran a hand through his thin hair. "There's a man sitting near the bar, he owns a boat. For a silver he'll row you out beyond the walls to a fishing dock. From there, take the old trade road toward Corpith. After two days travel there will be an inn on the roadside. The innkeeper's name is Roul. Tell him I sent you, and he'll let you sleep by the fireplace and play for tips for a few nights."

Rija thanked Paolic for his aid and, not wanting to risk bringing trouble to him, made her arrangements with the boatman. She slipped out of the inn and made her way to the docks. Twice she hid as squads of guardsmen swept down the streets. At last, she found the man with the boat. She boarded, and the old man quietly slipped the battered dingy out into the harbor.

As they bobbed on the waves, Rija watched the lights of Sofia grow smaller with each stroke of the oars. She blinked away the threatening tears. Her old life was over; she could only go forward with her new one.

"Will this do, miss?" the old boatman asked as they bumped against a dilapidated fishing dock.

Rija looked around. "This will do fine, thank you."

Rija climbed out of the boat, her meager possessions slung over her shoulder in her pack. She gave the city a long last look before walking down the old dock in search of the road beyond.

END


Michael Merriam is a science fiction and fantasy writer, role-playing game designer, and poet. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with his wife and cat. He is a semi-finalist in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of The Future Contest, and a member of both the Online Writers Workshop and the Twin CitiesSpeculative Fiction Meetup Group. Visit his website

Small Press Book Review: Time For Bedlam

Time for Bedlam is a collection of new, dark twists on familiar stories, as well as a few originals. This offering from Saltboy Bookmakers is surpisingly strong and cohesive for an anthology if this type.

Let's start with the cover, where many small press books fall short. This cover looks awesome. It is dark and creepy, and sets the tone perfectly for the content inside. Place it on the shelf in your local bookstore and it will look like it belongs. Nice job.

The inside layout is also well done, and the "Two Truths and a Lie" for each author is a fun way to wrap up the book. My lone complaint is the illustrations, which are not particularly bad, but do not, in my opinion, add anything to the stories.

As for the most important part, the stories, I was pleasantly surprised. The content is darker than I normally read, but the tales are generally well-crafted and all are original and entertaining. There are no clunkers here. I uncovered a few gems, though. "Sugar Shock" by A.C. Wise puts a modern-day spin on Hansel and Gretel. James S. Dorr gives us a whole new kind of fairy godmother in "Cindy", and "The Mongoose" by Justin Gil is a take on Rikki Tiki Tavi.

"The Tinker" by Derek Goodman, though a fine story in its own right, doesn't mesh with the rest of the content. It's gritter, and the language and content more coarse and adult than the others. If you enjoy reading Peter Straub, the story won't bother you a bit. I do have to give Mr. Goodman major props for the "My Parents Went to Fargo and All I Got Was This Bloody Woodchipper" shirt.

Two stories stand out. "Blood for Blood" by Jennifer Loring is a well-crafted, dark version of the Little Mermaid fairy tale that immediately draws the reader in. Jason Andrew's tale, "New Gods of the Lost Children" stands out as a truly original urban fairy tale, though it feels unfinished- I found myself wanting a deeper exploration of The Blue Lady and Mr. Bang. The concept would probably translate well into a novella.

Editor Ian Donnell Arbuckle has assembled a solid anthology. If you enjoy dark, entertaining stories, this anthology is worth your time. Get your copy at amazon.com

David Wood
Gryphonwood Editor

Interview With Robin Hobb- by Patrick St-Denis

Originally published December, 2005

Many thanks to Robin for graciously accepting to do this with me. I could not quite believe that she managed to email this Q&A to me just before her departure for Australia. What a great writer and a terrific woman! Robin Hobb continues to be, in my opinion at least, the most accessible fantasy author in the field. If you haven't already, please feel free to visit her website from which you'll be able to access her newsgroup and the wonderful community you'll find there.


1- What do you feel is your strength as a writer/storyteller?

Definitely characterization. I know and love my characters. For me, the story is really about how the events affect the characters rather than about the events themselves. As characterization is extremely important to me in the books I read, naturally it's a big element in the stories I write.

2- What would you say was the hardest part of the entire process involved in the writing of THE FARSEER, THE LIVESHIP TRADERS and THE TAWNY MAN? Where did you get the initial idea that drove you to create those series in the first place? What was the spark that generated the idea which drove you to write THE SOLDIER SON?

You're cheating, Patrick! That was 3 questions, not one!

The hardest part of any writing project is the first draft. Getting the story fixed on paper is really difficult for me. With every sentence, you narrow an infinite number of possibilities down to a single track. So every scene represents a decision in how the story is going to unfold. If one of those decisions is wrong, it carries the story off in a direction that may not work for me as a storyteller. And then I have to back up and take another run at it. I always feel a great deal of relief when the first draft is done. After that, the task is to go back and make it pretty.

3- After writing three bestselling series, is there added pressure when it comes to writing a new project?

The˜bestseller" tag doesn't figure into the writing equation on my end. After all, there are many different types of ˜bestseller lists". A book may be a bestseller on one list and not even show up on another one. So that isn't something I dwell on. From the very beginning, writing has been about constructing the best possible book, telling the story in the way that I find most pleasing. I think if I ever sat down and said to myself, "I have to write something that a whole lot of people will want to read so I can sell lots of books," I'd give myself the worst case of writer's block ever. Because I simply would have no idea what other people would want me to write. But when I think of all the stories I want to write, my reaction is to worry that I'll never live long enough to write them all.

4- You have been acknowledged as one of the best writers in the genre? Where do you think you stand in the fantasy field?

Up in the Northwest corner, just a bit south of Greg Bear. Seriously, I think it would be impossible for me to answer this. It's based on someone else's opinion of my work. Who said I was one of the best writers in the field, and when? What book were they talking about, and how much of the genre were they familiar with? If I started giving things like that weight, I'd just make myself crazy. My day to day thoughts as a writer have a lot more to do with what scene I want to get written today and if I should go back into an earlier chapter and foreshadow something or if it's better to completely surprise the reader. Discussion of the varying merits of different writers is the province of reviewers and people who compile best seller lists. Status in the field is completely out of a writer's control,
in my opinion. It's entirely dependent on reader reaction to the work.

5- Is a World Fantasy Award something you covet?

Not really. As I mentioned above, the focus is on the writing, not on sales or awards. Even if I seriously coveted a World Fantasy award, I don't think my books are likely to win one. I write trilogies and in many ways, they are not suitable candidates for this award because each book is only 1/3 of a story.

I'm not immune to the allure of a shiny trophy. I've won the Asimov's Reader award a couple of times, and "Bones for Dulath", my first short story published in a commercial venue, was in the anthology Amazons! and that did win a Best Anthology World Fantasy Award.

When I was a fairly new writer, I did long to win awards. I even went so far as to start thinking that I could write a story tailored for the purpose of winning nominations. Luckily, I came to my senses and realized that if I started doing that, it would no longer be my story. I think being mesmerized by award fantasies is a fairly common pitfall for beginning writers.

This is not to denigrate any of the awards. The lists of winners are a wonderful way to discover books and short stories that might have slipped past me.

6- What is your work ethic? Tell us a little more about your writing routine.

My basic routine starts early each morning. I start off with the daily paper and a cup of chai (I recently gave up coffee), do the necessary family organizing for the day (I'm a full time mom and grandmother) and then turn on the computer and get at it. I'm not in my desk chair all day; that is really bad for my back and hands, and when I do get on a marathon keyboarding session, I pay for it later. But I am writing all the time. Mundane chores are a great way to engage a different part of your mind while letting your writing brain work on dialogue or mull over that corner you've painted your character into. Of course I check my email daily and visit my newsgroup once or twice a day. The computer is turned off at about midnight.

7- The fact that you have your personal website and newsgroup is an indication that interaction with your readers is important to you as an author. How special is it to have the chance to interact directly with your fans on a daily basis?

Interacting with readers on a daily basis is like any other friendship. It covers the whole spectrum from amazing to awful, sometimes in half an hour! Seriously, I think interacting with people who have read my books works for me because the books are the starting point rather than the entire relationship. I know you've visited my newsgroup, and you've probably noticed that very little space is actually devoted to discussing my books. Instead it covers all sorts of topics with international input, sometimes serious and sometimes silly but always interesting. One thing I enjoy about the newsgroup is the high level of courtesy. There are misunderstandings, but I think that we are generally very tolerant. Some of our members have English as a second language, and I think that makes all of us aware that using language can be an inexact science. Often when it seems someone was being arrogant,
it turned out to be a language difficulty, and we were all glad that flames were not the first choice response.

8- You were recently in France to attend a convention. And to promote the release of SHAMAN'S CROSSING, you'll be going on a book tour that will take you to Europe and Australia. Although time-consuming, how important is it for you to travel abroad to meet your readers?

I enjoy it. The travel is interesting, and meeting the readers even more so. I think readers enjoy the chance to talk with authors.

That said, I don't think book tours are a necessary facet of being a writer. Very often when I come home from a trip, I feel a sort of panic when I think of all the days that have passed without my being engaged in a solid work schedule. I'm a person who has to stay ˜in the book" in order to write daily. If I leave it alone for a few days, getting the book going again is like trying to start a car that hasn't been run all winter. It takes some work. So I do my best to write every day when I'm traveling.

9- Writing 2 sets of trilogies from the POV of FitzChivalry was, in my opinion at least, a tour de force. How were you able to do it in such a realistic fashion, considering that you had to put yourself in the perspective of a male character?

This question and number 10 have pretty much the same answer.

10- Your characterizations always stand out, and character growth is omnipresent in each novel/series. One thing that strikes me is how all your characters stay true to themselves, enabling the readers to identify with what they are going through. Is this something you continuously strive to accomplish, or is this just a knack you have?

My technique with characters is to try to let each character be the main character in his own story. Even if someone is just a ˜walk on", it helps to remember that maybe that barmaid is near the end of her shift and is really tired, and to let her behave accordingly. When I first started writing, I found it was very easy for me to fall into that trap where I made all of the characters do what they must to make the plot advance smoothly. I wound up with minor characters who existed only to take a bullet for the protagonist or to be the romantic prize to be won. Cardboard.

When the characters are not true to themselves, the story loses its veracity. If you can put on the skin of even your minor characters and say, "What would I really want to do next? Wouldn't I duck when I saw the arrow coming?" the plot becomes more interesting and the characters are believable.

11- When ASSASSIN'S QUEST was released, you claimed that you had no future plans to write another Fitz series. At which point during the writing of THE LIVESHIP TRADERS did you realize that there was another tale in the making?

I was midway through the first book, Ship of Magic, when I realized that one of the characters was behaving in a suspicious manner. That was my first inkling that something was going on in the back of my mind that I hadn't consciously planned. And that is as much as I'll say about that to avoid spoilers.

12- You once told me that writing THE LIVESHIP TRADERS had been a welcome break from Fitz's intense, first-person focus. Did you have to prepare yourself differently for your 3 past trilogies? Did the writing of SHAMAN'S CROSSING involve more research and preparation than the previous series?

Each book requires its own unique research because each book covers different topics. When writing fantasy, I think it's always best to ask, "Historically and culturally, how did this work in our world?" and attempt to understand it. Then, of course, I mix in the fantasy element, but I try to do it with enough touch-points to our world that the reader has some sense of familiarity.

Interview With Steven Erikson by Patrick St-Denis

Originally published in March, 2006

Dear Mr. Erikson, Let me start by thanking you for being gracious enough to take some precious time off your indubitably busy schedule to answer these questions. But with the imminent release of THE BONEHUNTERS, know that your fans are extremely excited about this chance to hear from you in person.

- Is there a character that you particularly enjoy/enjoyed writing? Why is that? By the same token, is there a character that you absolutely don't like writing about? For what reason?

For me it's important that I enjoy the characters I write about, or rather, those whose points of view I am using. I need there to be something intrinsically interesting in them. Often it's nothing obvious, either. In real life, people don't tell you what their character is -- it's revealed, in increments, through what they say and what they do. In that sense, character is subtle, and I certainly try to make it so in my fiction. So, I'll have either a full history of the character I am using, or just its bones if that person is 'new' to the series. By bones I mean there's a sense of their history, but not all the details are fleshed out -- that comes as I write them at the first draft stage -- so I try to start with the same feel of mystery that exists with every new person each of us meets in real life. Anyway, I don't not like writing about any characters, even the despicable ones. As for favourites, again it's a subtle thing with me, as each character delivers something different. For Karsa Orlong, for example, it's his barrelling through things, both verbally and physically, and often in ways that undermine the cliches regards 'barbarians' or, even more pleasing (for me), undermines the genre's conventions. On a quieter side, I did enjoy writing both Apsalar and Scillara in The Bonehunters: that they are thematic opposites with romantic ties to one character in particular only makes it more fascinating.

I'll never pound anyone over the head with characterisation -- turns out there's some of my readers who'd rather I did just that. Oh well.

- What do you feel is your strength as a writer/storyteller?

Yikes. Setting things up then doing the unexpected, I suppose. With well-buried motivations among many of the major players in the series, I think I can continue to surprise readers. There's a few of those instances in The Bonehunters, including what I'll call an inverted double-bind stick-the-knife-in reversal thing (think the phrase will catch on?), that's clearly set up one way only to ... well, don't want to give too much away here.

Years ago, when I was learning the craft of fiction at university workshops in Victoria and Iowa, I observed a peculiar aversion to certain elements of narrative fiction; principally, plot and drama. Neither, it seemed, belonged in serious literature. This was the era of kitchen-sink stories and Carver wannabes. Plot was for genre; better the characters did nothing and talked a lot but talked about nothing while doing it, all of which was supposed to lead to some profound epiphany but mostly led to blank looks from others in the class. As for drama, well, drama was out. This was also the time of the ascendancy of the Cynical School of Fiction. Wherein we were taught that true drama doesn't exist, and any attempt at drama in fiction was in fact /melodrama/. In other words, because the world was the way it was, and fiction was its truest reflection, there was no such thing as 'earned emotion' -- nothing hard and heavy in fiction was in fact honest. Why? Because it was hard and heavy, of course. So there I was, quietly railing against such notions and writing 'serious' fiction that had people actually doing things and had things actually happen and they were often hard and heavy and the response was as you'd expect. The only loud kudos came when I wrote flat out comedy, probably because my comedy was of a cynical, sarcastic nature. Only what I was laughing at was not always what everyone else was laughing at.

One might say I fell into genre writing in order to use both plot and drama, and there might be some truth in that. It's hard to be analytical about such things. After all, I love reading Homer and Homer's full of drama. Nasty, brutal drama. It may also be a case of wrong place, wrong time. Which is probably the most likely, so I'll stop now.

- What author makes you shake your head in admiration?

Lots and lots. John Gardner, Gustav Hasford, Mark Helprin, Atwood (no, just kidding on the last one. I shake my head all right, just not in admiration), some Doris Lessing. In fantasy, I think Robin Hobb is a very clever, very subtle writer. Alas, I'm not reading much fantasy these days, although I enoyed Tim Lebbon's new one and I'm very interesting in how reviewers will take David Keck's first novel..

- Prior to its American release, Tor Books allowed you to take care of a number of inconsistencies found within GARDENS OF THE MOON. Are there any plans to do the same with the UK version?

None of which I am aware. There weren't many -- one big gender correction, though -- but the rest was pretty minor.

- Now that many purists and aficionados consider you one of the best fantasy authors in the world, is there added pressure when it comes down to writing a new addition to the series?

If there's pressure, it's to do with time management -- the edit of The Bonehunters especially involved a lot of back and forth, given its length -- which meant I had to drop everything else at that time. Some other manuscripts needed some editing as well, then TOR sent me on a signing/reading junket down the US West Coast which while fun took five days out of my writing schedule. That kinda pressure, sure.

The other kind, dealing with the expectations of readers, the answer is no, not at all. The thing's mapped out so I know what I'm doing (I hope that simply relieves your readers rather than coming across as boastful -- really, I do know what I'm doing!) and I can see the light at the tunnel's end. As mentioned earlier, I'm fairly certain I will surprise readers with future events, with enough twists and turns to keep them reading.

- What would you say was the hardest part of the entire process involved in the writing of the Tales of the Malazan Book of the Fallen? Each new addition reveals yet more depth to a series which has shown just how rich and complex it truly is. What was the spark that generated the idea which drove you to write the series in the first place?

The first question: the hardest part was twofold. One was finding a publisher. The second was convincing myself that writing the series really has been as easy as it has seemed and continues to seem -- I mean, it should be hard, right? The plot-lines and arcs are so folded and interwoven you could make a trampoline out of them strong enough to handle a plummeting bus. And yet it all arrives, timely and satisfying (to me) with nary a wayward step. It feels uncanny, Patrick. I wasn't drawn to halt once in the entire writing of Midnight Tides, for example. Not even a half-hour's pause. At times I felt like a spectator to the whole creation process. Pretty much the same for The Bonehunters and now Reaper's Gale. It just flows. Scary.

The second question: oh the sparks were all negative things, frustrations at the genre's confounding predictability. Wanting to write something in fantasy I myself would like to read (and not just me, but Cam as well -- the one reader who stays in my head as I write). Wanting to kick the tropes around, wanting to get rid of that endless quasi-medieval class-conscious blueblood crap. Wanting a fantasy world as multicultural as this one (the preponderance of white-skinned heroes and blonde princesses ... man, what century is this?). Wanting a fantasy world with a history beyond the Dark Lord of three hundred years ago who's found a rock that will help him rise again and do, oh, bad things; a world with geology and geography, etc.

Sure, there's some good stuff out there, but it wasn't enough. Maybe still isn't.

- If you could go back in time, what advice would you give the younger Steven Erikson concerning his writing career?

Find the secret potion that would de-complicate Gardens of the Moon. It must exist. Problem was/is, I don't see anything confusing in it. Wish I could, wish I did. The world was as full for me then as it is now -- and to write a history the way I wanted to, well, I still haven't got an answer. Poor young Steven Erikson -- sorry, mate, you're on your own.

- Is a World Fantasy Award something you covet?

Not really. It'd be nice, eventually, but I don't toss and turn at night chewing on it. Having been a judge ... well, never mind that -- the system does not really allow for books in a series (barring the > first one). It would be nice to see a special category for series, though.

- What's the progress report pertaining to REAPER'S GALE? Is it likely that the book will be released a year following THE BONEHUNTERS?

From my own standpoint, progress is just fine. The first half of a novel (for me) always takes longer than the second half. It's where everything is set up, after all. The second half is the pay-off -- which means more action (drama?), which is always quicker to write. I'm at that halfway point right now in Reaper's Gale, so the pace is just about right.

To a large extent, however, my pace and completion date do not relate much to release dates. The Bonehunters was done last spring, after all. Mysterious arcana is involved in the publishing house when it determines release dates. Outa my hands.

- What extensive research did the writing of the Tales of the Malazan Book of the Fallen entail?

Nothing specific to the series. Research is something I do for fun, and the subject matter is all over the place. Quantum and post-quantum physics, the life and times of Ghengis Khan, Seahenge, bronze-age Ithaca, Lakota religion, modern war, ancient war, primatology, paleoanthropology, paleontology, terraforming planets, biology, the Crusades, cargo cults, the Templars, politics, literary criticism -- those in the last six or so months, I guess. Odd details will stay with me and will on occasion manifest in what I'm writing, or give me a new way of seeing something. Filling out an entire world, and all its cultures, is one of the things I enjoy the most, but it's also the most challenging. I don't want any close cultural ties between the Malazan ethos and our own -- our own including the canon of fantasy writing past and present. At the same time, the unavoidable reality exists that archetypes will cross over -- as part of our nature there's no escaping them, especially when writing stuff with a tragic flavour.

One of my early worries in devising a long series was the recognition that, over the years spent writing it, my perspective would change. I thought that would be a problem, as the thematic elements in later books would 'outdate' those of the early ones. I've since stopped worrying -- in some respects it's inevitable, and it's what assures me I won't be continually rewriting the same story -- just as characters evolve, so too should the writer. Interests flower then die away and that's just the way it is. I see that evolution now as a positive force.

Back to the question. The 'research' was part of my schooling and subsequent field work. That field work was exclusively archaeological, not anthropological. But I found that anthropology is like sociology and psychology -- observable all around you, no matter where you are. And the archaeology took me places I would not have otherwise ventured into, which gave me more to observe in an 'anthropological' way (three months with a crew of seven people in the wilderness pretty much runs the gamut of the human condition, and that's no lie).

- The series has garnered what can best be described as a cult following. However, many doubt that it will ever become "mainstream." With that in mind, how rewarding is it to realize how successful the series has been and continues to be to this day?

It certainly seems the case that people either hate the series or love it; and even among the latter there's little concensus in what works for them and what doesn't. That part is somewhat baffling, I admit. The range of opinions among my readers often leaves my jaw hanging, and I'm finding I have to be careful of visiting the fan site too often -- some things I read can be a real downer. Writing is an isolated activity, and there are times when being isolated is precisely what the writer needs. With the internet providing both quick, potentially interactive feedback, and a forum for speculation, criticism and so on, it has the power to both enliven the writer and take the wind out of his or her sails. Now, that is entirely legitimate and I would never want the fans to curtail their opinions -- the discipline issue is with me, not them, and is one of the main reasons I have become a far less frequent visitor.

That said, reader feedback is important -- especially in catching errors of detail and continuity and the like. They don't miss a thing. Animals! I wouldn't have it any other way, though.

- I am aware that at least GARDENS OF THE MOON has been translated in French. How many foreign sales have you been able to secure so far?

For a time there all these books would arrive at my door -- Polish, Czech, Greek, Dutch, German, etc. Not one or two copies, but ten, twenty -- I had no idea what to do with them. Anyway, I'm not sure how many foreign rights have been sold, nor all the languages concerned. But man, some of the covers!

- What's the progress reports on the upcoming novellas? Anything new you wish to share with your fans? Something to wet their appetite. . .

Well, I'm due to deliver Pete Crowther (PS Publishing) another Bauchelain/Korbal Broach novella this year (2006); and he has also asked me for a short story with the same characters and I just might oblige him (it's very hard to say 'no' to Pete -- he's too nice, damn him). When I started writing, it was short stories exclusively. Certainly one of the hardest forms of narrative -- my hat's off to all those writers whittling away with short stories. And I find I am looking forward to tackling one after all these years.

- You have been acknowledged as one of the best writers in the genre? Where do you think you stand in the fantasy field?

Beside the poppies.I don't really know and don't think much about it, I'm afraid. Sorry!

- The fact that there is a website dedicated to your work is an indication that interaction with your readers is important to you as an author. I know that you haven't had the chance to do so in a while, but how special is it to have the chance to interact directly with your fans?

Ah, see my comments above.

- Without giving anything away, what can you tell us of THE BONEHUNTERS? Are you satisfied with the way the book turned out? Anything you wish to share pertaining to REAPER'S GALE?

The Bonehunters is big. Didn't feel it at the time, but then I toggled the word count. The rebellion in Seven Cities needed wrapping up and that is what the novel does, more or less. Some of its story lines tie Midnight Tides a little closer to the others; and Reaper's Gale will tighten that weave considerably.

There's plenty of imperial stuff in The Bonehunters -- politics and how legends can be reworked, reshaped, to suit the present. Don't want to give too much away, but there may be a few screams of outrage on occasion....

- It took many years for you to find an American publisher. In the past, you have claimed that the concensus was that the books were too complex for US audiences. Wouldn't it be more accurate to say that the series was probably too vast in scope for most publishers?

Not a claim. I was told that to my face. Same for my agents. I don't recall hearing any concerns about the length of the series. A lot of long series originated in the States, so I don't think that was ever an issue.

- Are you surprised by what little support you receive from the Canadian media? You and R. Scott Bakker rank among the best fantasy authors out there, yet both of you Canucks appear to get very little recognition in your own country.

Surprised? No. I had good reasons for packing up my manuscripts and moving to the UK. If I elaborate on this subject, Patrick, you're looking at another fifty thousand words, easy. Canada's an odd country. It seems to like having maybe ten 'big' writers around at any one time -- and some of those are only 'big' because people in some other country liked them enough for a few shortlistings on awards. And that is the 'literary' side. Regards all us genre hacks, not a chance. Mind you, it doesn't help when other Canadian writers of fantasy and sf diss the genres in interviews ('I write /speculative/ fiction'). Yeah, well, all fiction is speculative....

- Are you perplexed by the fact that Tor Books doesn't market you more aggressively? The immense success of such writers as Robert Jordan and George R. R. Martin demonstrates that there is a market for series vast in scope and quality. But it seems that Tor hasn't been making much noise about your books so far.

I'm easy on all that. Less time on the road for me means more time to write! Tor's doing fine by my regard.

- As an archaeologist and an anthropologist, do you think that you influence your novels in a manner that an "ordinary" writer can't quite match?

I don't know any ordinary writers, to be honest. We're all strangely twisted. In any case, those disciplines aren't secret code -- there are more books coming out on those subjects for the layperson than ever before (I should know, I buy most of them). I'd imagine it would be essential for any writer seeking to create a new world or culture to do some groundwork before plunging in. Keeping in mind that all the humanities have theoretical underpinnings that wobble loose on occasion, forcing new paradigms in the field -- and there's a ripple effect -- so that something in, say, paleobotony can change the archaeogical take on prehistoric cultures dwelling close to glaciers, for example; which in turn alters views on the first peopling of the New World, which can then flip a hundred years of entrenched dogma on its ass. And the telling of all that in turn reveals something about human psychology and the tribal characteristics of academia, including racism, sexism and intellectual fascism.

I just read a great example of this by the way. Some human footprints were found in Mexico, in a bed of solidified volcanic ash. Initially dated at thirteen or so thousand years old. Well, that seemed a bit early for some people (see above note on dogma), so a second team was sent there to take a look. They observed the prints, confirmed that indeed they were made when the ash was mud; then proceeded to use potassium-argon dating on the volcanic material. And came up with a fixed date of 1.3 million years. Their conclusion? 'Those aren't footprints.'

My old highschool debating teacher would howl at that one. Anyway, the disciplines are motile, which is a very good thing as Martha Stewart would say. So, for research purposes, take it all with a pound of salt.

And here are a few questions submitted by your numerous fans. Several of them have encouraged me to remind you to make more regular appearances at www. malazanempire.com!

- Any solid news concerning an RPG adaption of the Malazan Empire?

Yes. No. A florida-based OGL paper-based rpg company (PCI) has expressed interest and the matter's sitting with my agent right now. Has been for some time, actually. Same for the Dabel Brothers doing a graphic novel of Gardens of the Moon.

- Any chance of publishing a world map ahead of the Encyclopedia to satisfy the geography junkies out there?

We're all over the map on that one. I've since learned to make no bold promises. It does exist. A few people have seen it.

- Reading the books, one gets the impression that the Empire knew something big was coming and planned for it accordingly (i.e. Laseen taking over, Kel and Dancer ascending, inversion of the ranks, making sure that the Master of the Deck was Malazan -- even though it ended up being luck that it even happened -- forming alliances with powerful beings, etc...). Would you be willing to shed some light on just how much the Empire knew in advance? Not anything big, just some tidbits. . .

Ah now, that's a central plot-line in the series. But for clarification, the 'empire' knew nothing -- the emperor and his scary cohort might be another matter. As for Laseen, well, she's a little busy these days....

- Will the mysterious Assail continent be visited in any of the next four books?

Nope. Not from me, that is.

- Have we met Fisher Kel Tath already in the series and if not, will we ?

No, we haven't met him. I've thought about his making an appearance, but I would need to talk with Cam about that, since Fisher's tale is fairly integral with one of Cam's planned novels in the Malazan world.

- Will we get a firm timeline for the Malazan Empire, aside from the chronology for the world as a whole?

I suppose when we get around to finalising the Encyclopedia, we'll end up having to creep into that funhouse.

Well, thanks again for accepting to do this. I wish you continued success, and wish you the best for the release of THE BONEHUNTERS.

Thanks, Patrick.

Cheers,

Steve

Interview With Jonathan Fesmire- by David Wood

Originally published in December, 2005

Gryphonwood is pleased to visit with author and artist Jonathan Fesmire. Jonathan provides our cover art for this issue, and you may view more of his work at his website.



1- Let's start with your writing. Tell us a bit about each of your three novels.

I think that offering something new in each book is a good goal for any author, and that goes for novels as well as any other sort of book. I do think that each of my novels offers something new. "Children of Rhatlan" is my first "duals" novel. On Taibril, the world where "Children of Rhatlan" and "Tamshi's Imp" take place, sometimes twins are born magically joined, in such a way that only one can be present in the world at a time. There is a lot of prejudice against duals, especially male/female pairs. Garum and Vayin, dual-born brother and sister, decide to leave home and try to make it on their own in this prejudicial society, and find their duality putting them in much greater danger than they ever expected.

"Tamshi's Imp" is about a sorceress who escapes from a cult, and the book's major theme is blind faith versus thinking for oneself. It's also more of an epic, because the cult is putting the entire world in danger. Still, the individual personalities and problems of the main characters, and the mystery at the heart of the story, give it a more personal feel and up the suspense.

Finally, "Amber in the Over World" is quite different from each of those. I enjoy all sorts of young adult fantasy novels, and I've read many both just for my own enjoyment, and with my daughter. I felt like it was not only time to write one myself, but I wanted to write a book to dedicate to my daughter. "Amber in the Over World" is about a dragon princess in a dying world who comes to Earth. When she's here, she's in the form of a fifteen-year-old girl.

2-What is it about the fantasy genre that appeals to you?

I used to daydream when I was a kid. I guess I still do sometimes, but now my daydreams are tied in with creating art or fiction. Anyway, daydreaming is a sort of magical thought process in which you can ride out of class on a gryphon, or cast amazing spells, or whatever else you can imagine. I like that same sense of wonder in fiction.

3-Can you remember the first fantasy book/novel you ever read?

It was probably Madeleine L'Engle's "A Wrinkle in Time." Though that particular book mainly involves space travel, I've been fascinated with time travel and other dimensions every since. Other early favorites were Lloyd Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain, and Tolkien's "The Hobbit."

4-Which writers have had the greatest influence on your work?

My overall interest in fantasy was fueled by those early fantasy novels I read. Though our styles are pretty different, Stephen King has had a huge influence on my work. His fiction is layered with foreshadowing and complex characters, and I incorporate those techniques as well.

5-What are you reading right now?

The twelfth "Series of Unfortunate Events" book just came out, so I'm reading that. I also received an anthology called "New Wave," edited by Sean Wright and "Secrets of Dripping Fang: Book Two," both of which I'm going to review. I'm reading "Star Wars and
Philosophy" as time permits.


6-From your first book to your third, where do you see your greatest area of growth as a writer?

I feel that my characterization has gotten stronger. Don't misunderstand me though. I think it's strong in all my published work, but I do find that I understand my characters better now.

7-What writer(s) make(s) you shake your head in admiration?

Stephen King and Joss Whedon are definitely at the top of that list. Both are masters of characterization and organic plot lines.

8-Is there an epic, Tolkien-style series in your future?

I don't have anything like that planned at the moment. I have two sequels to "Chilren of Rhatlan" in mind, and one sequel to "Tamshi's Imp." The novel I'm currently writing could turn into a series. It ties in more closely with the universe of "Amber in the Over World." I see myself writing books that are connected in various ways, and perhaps a series or two, but not a "Lord of the Rings" style epic. Of course, in five years, I may change my mind.

9-What's in your CD player when you're writing?

I don't know. I don't usually listen to music while I'm writing anymore. I can think better when it's quiet. The exception to that is when I'm in a cafe. No matter how busy it is in a nice cafe setting, I can write, and usually write very well. I don't know why.

10-Moving on to your artwork, give us an overview of what you do and in what medium?

Currently, I'm all digital. I use various 3D programs which include Poser 6, Bryce 5.5, Daz|Studio, and Paint Shop Pro. A lot is involved, from creating characters from base models (and sometimes designing models from scratch), to texturing, to setting up scenes.

11-Do you have a favorite subject for your work? (People, creatures, landscapes, etc...)

I enjoy all those, but my favorite subject is definitely people, and from the people category, women. Still, everything needs to be integrated, so I put a lot of effort into making all parts of an image look good.

12-What do you think are your strengths as an artist?

One of the most elusive skills in 3D art is breathing life into characters. This involves posing them in ways that look natural, giving them believable expressions, and so on. That's one of my strengths. Another is that I'm always thinking of something new to do in my art. I can sit down with no idea at all, start working with a character, and ideas for situation, setting, and composition come to me in flashes of inspiration. When I write, I need to have a pretty good idea of what I'm going to say, but when I do art, I can sit down to a blank screen and go from there.

13- Orson Scott Card told a story of how his novel "Hart's Hope" grew out of doodling on a sheet of paper. Do you use your art to inspire your writing, or is it the other way around?

Often I'll do an image that could turn into a story, but I'm happy to let the image be the end of it and to come up with something new. Recently one image I did led to all sorts of ideas. It provided inspiration for the novel I'm currently writing, changes to my Web site, and the beginnings of a new art book.

14- Besides Gryphonwood, where has your artwork appeared?

Well, I have a gallery on Renderosity, and another on Renderotica. You can guess where my more erotic art ends up. I also artistically designed my own Web site, which should go without saying. I have two art books out, one PG-13 book called "Fantasy in 3-D," and an erotic art book called "3-Rotica." Both mainly contain anaglyph images. Those are 3D images that gain depth when you wear red/blue glasses. I also did the front and back cover illustrations for my books, "Tamshi's Imp," and "Amber in the Over World."

Besides my own covers, I've done several for horror author Andrea Dean Van Scoyoc, including the October 2005 and January 2006 covers for her magazine "Twisted Dreams," and the cover for her novel, "A Man of Two Worlds." I just finished the front and back covers for "The Legend of Juggin Joe" by Joseph Yakel, which is available on Lulu.

I also won second place in this year's cover artist contest from Venus Press, and have done ten covers for them so far, five of which are available with their respective books.

A couple of years ago I designed my own Tarot deck, the Taibril Tarot. People can check out the thumbnails on my Web site. If they have the Orphalese Tarot, which is shareware and the best computer Tarot program I've ever seen, they can download the Taibril Tarot through the deck exchange.

I just started doing art for others around July of this year, and I think it's going well!

15-If you had to give up one or the other, would you give up artwork or writing?

I was writing long before I started doing art, but now I've become equally attached to both. I almost did give up writing at one point, after getting terribly frustrated with the agents I had signed on with and the whole publishing game, but I came back to it because it's in my blood. Now, my art and writing are tied together, so I couldn't give up either.

16- Monet or Manet?

That's a tough choice, but I'd have to go with Monet.

17- Star Wars of Lord of the Rings?

Either way, I'm going to make someone unhappy! Still, I have to say I'm a bigger fan of "Star Wars" than of "Lord of the Rings," though I love both. Now that Episode III is out on DVD, I look forward to watching them all in order.

18- Hardcover or Paperback?

I like trade paperbacks. The size says, "This book is important and worth keeping," while the paperback format says, "carry me around and read me anywhere."

19-Why should everyone subscribe to Gryphonwood?

I'd definitely say for the cover art and interviews! Of course, I have some experience in those areas. Also subscribe to read the fiction of up and coming writers. You never know what you might discover.

21-What are your hopes/goals for your work?

I hope to keep reaching a larger and larger audience. I'd like to make a decent income doing writing and art, enough to really help support my family, and enough to attend two or three conventions a year. I think that when people read my books, they feel like they've discovered a great story teller, and they want to read more. When it comes down to it, I want to entertain and to get people thinking about new ideas, through my stories and art.

Interview With L.E. Modesitt by Patrick St-Denis

Originally published September, 2005

1- For the benefit of those who are unfamiliar with your work, without giving too much away, give us a taste of the RECLUCE Saga.

First off, the saga of Recluce is not a standard series. Although there are currently thirteen books, there are no more than two books about any one group of main characters. The novels are set in differing time periods across roughly 1900 years in history of the world. Each book is written as a stand-alone, although it is generally better to read the first book about a given character, and I do suggest reading the very first book , The Magic of Recluce , before the others.

The magic system is based on a ’rationalized and logical application of order and chaos, but, while black mages use order magery, and white wizards favor chaos magic, order and chaos do not automatically equate to good and evil. Some of the books are written from the ’black viewpoint and others from the ’white viewpoint.

There’s also a misconception, whose origin baffles me, that I always write about young men growing up. That’s simply not accurate. Certainly, this is true of some of the characters, particularly Lerris [The Magic of Recluce], Cerryl [The White Order], and Lorn [Magi’i of Cyador], but it is far from universally true. Nylan [Fall of Angels] is in his late 30s; Justen in his late 20s; and Kharl [Wellpsring of Chaos]is married with two children when the book opens.

I do have a common plot theme in all the books, in that my main characters do learn a few things as matters develop, but what’s the point of writing about protagonists who don’t?


2- Same as the first question, but in regards to the SPELLSONG CYCLE.

The Spellsong Cycle is a very different fantasy series, for a number of reasons. First, all five books are written from the female point of view. Second, the main character of the first three , Anna , is a woman in her late 40s or early 50s with grown children. She’s a divorced singer and music professor who has just lost a daughter and who wishes she were anywhere else. She finds herself in a world where magic is controlled by the application of accurate song and accompaniment. It’s also a world that is incredibly chauvinistic. She is potentially one of the most powerful sorceresses that world has known , if she can survive long enough to learn how.

The last two books are about Anna’s foster daughter , Secca , some thirty years later. Secca inherits Anna’s role , and responsibilities , and enemies who have been biding their time for years. Secca is no child, either, but a woman in her mid-30s.

This series tends to polarize readers more. Many of those who like it are almost fanatical, but I also have heard from readers who like it far less than my other fantasies. Despite the fact that I do not write about sex, or graphic violence, the last book in the series -- Shadowsinger , did win an award from Romantic Times Bookclub for the best epic fantasy of 2002, as well as a starred review from Booklist.


3- Same as the first question, but in regards to the COREAN CHRONICLES.

The Corean Chronicles are a work earlier in progress than the other fantasy series. So far the first ’trilogy has been published, all about a young man named Alucius. He has been raised as a nightsheep herder by his mother and grandfather, in a world where, thousands of years earlier, a great magical civilization fell, yet where isolated eternal towers still stand and great highways, impervious to time, cross the continent of Corus.

Nightsheep are not like any sheep we know. Their ’wool is black, and when processed, turns into the equivalent of fabric plate armor. Their horns are razor-sharp, and a ram could gut an earthly tiger without raising a sweat. They need those defenses because the predators who prey on them are even more fearsome. Unfortunately, Alucius lives in a poorly-governed state, threatened on all sides, and he ends up, as soon as he turns of age, conscripted into the militia. His training by his grandsire and the talents that enable him to be a nightsheep herder do not save him from capture by the troops of the Matrial , an eternal ruler who is recovering much of the lost magical technology of the vanished Duarchy.

The second ’trilogy begins with Alector’s Choice, scheduled for June 2005 release by Tor. This book takes place thousands of years earlier, in the days of the Duarchy, and follows the acts and careers of two individuals. One is Mykel, a captain of the Cadmian Mounted Rifles, and the other is Dainyl, one of the magically-Talented alectors who rule the world of Acorus and who are using human beings to make it more habitable for full colonization by the alectors. Dainyl is a colonel and third in command of the Myrmidons , those who fly the pteridons and enforce the will of the Duarches through their expertise and superior weapons. A rebellion breaks out, and the ancient soarers , the original inhabitants of Acorus , reappear.

In the Corean Chronicles, magic, or ’Talent, is linked to the very lifeforces of the world, exemplifying a Gaiean concept of world structure.


4- What role does magic play in each of those 3 series? How does the magical system work in each universe?

As I’ve noted elsewhere, I don’t believe magic , or technology , solves anything. It only makes matters more complex and harder to resolve, and that’s certainly true in all three series.


5- The RECLUCE saga has garnered what can best be described as a cult following. You have stated in the past that you don't believe it will ever become "mainstream." With that in mind, how rewarding is it to realize how successful the series has been and continues to be to this day?

I think it’s fair to say that every author hopes that his or her work will not only be read, but will continue to be read. That mine has been received well and continues to be read is extremely personally gratifying, and I feel very fortunate in that.


6- I have to admit that the reason which compelled me to buy THE MAGIC OF RECLUCE, in 1992, was Darrell K. Sweet's cover art. Like Robert Jordan's THE WHEEL OF TIME, the entire RECLUCE saga has distinctive cover art, giving each book some sort of visual continuity. How important is cover art to you, in terms of a marketing tool?

According to surveys by the publishing industry, cover art is the single most important factor in attracting readers, particularly new readers. My editor, David Hartwell, has worked very hard with Irene Gallo, the art director at Tor, and her predecessors, and with the artists to obtain art which represents the spirit of what I write. Darrell K. Sweet is particularly good in his use of color, especially, in my view, in such things as skies, buildings, and sunsets.
All in all, I’ve been incredibly fortunate in my cover art, and I’m very grateful that I have been, because the covers are extremely important in today’s book-selling world.


7- What was the spark that generated the idea which drove you to write each series in the first place?

The Saga of Recluce was generated by my very first con, BaltiCon, when I was placed on a panel that discussed economics, politics, and technology in fantasy and science fiction. In the process, I realized that I’d never seen a fantasy that tried to integrate all those factors within a rationalized structure. So I wrote The Magic of Recluce to see if it could be done. Before that, I’d written about seven or eight science fiction novels, but no fantasy.

The Spellsong Cycle came about because I’m married to an opera singer who is also a professor and the director of a university opera program. I was thinking about the rational [again] application of song as a way of controlling magic, when I realized that it wasn’t possible from within the culture , because of the power constraints. So... I thought about what would happen if someone like Carol Ann were placed in such a situation¦ and the books developed from that.

The Corean Chronicles¦ I’m not sure that they had a genesis in anything so concrete as the earlier two series. I did want to write a series where magic was tied to the very environment itself, and I just kept playing with the possibilities and concepts until I had something I liked.


8- What authors have had the biggest influence on you?

Probably William Butler Yeats, T.S. Eliot, and W.H. Auden. I did start out as a poet, you know. I just never got beyond the small magazines and rejections from the Yale Younger Poet’s competition.


9- Is there a character that you particularly enjoy/enjoyed writing? Why is that? By the same token, is there a character that you absolutely don't/didn't like writing about? For what reason?

I’d have to say that I’ve probably enjoyed writing Johan Eschbach in the ’Ghost books [my alternate history series in a world where ghosts are indeed real and can be measured with scientific instruments] and Anna Marshall of the Spellsong series. I just liked Johan, identified with him. As for Anna, it was a challenge to write from the female perspective.

I can’t say there are characters I disliked writing. There are a number of characters I wrote, however, that I would never wish to meet in person.


10- What do you feel is your strength as a writer/storyteller?

I used to think that I could define that. I’m no longer sure that I can. According to my editors, I’m a very good technical writer. I’d like to think that I’m able to present a more complex vision of the conflicts my characters face without losing the ability to entertain my readers.


11- Do you have a different approach when it comes to writing fantasy or science fiction?

As far as the basic approach goes¦ no. The underlying rules differ, and I have to keep that in mind.


12- Few authors are capable to jumping from fantasy to science fiction and maintain the high level of quality for which they are known in either one of the genres. But apparently, you manage to do so with baffling ease. What is your secret?

I don’t know that it’s a secret. Books, whether they’re science fiction or fantasy, should tell stories about people. Most readers, and certainly most of my readers, like to identify with or understand the characters. For me, while the magic should be logical or the technology possible, both are tools in the hands of the characters. For me, the characters are what make or break a book, although the setting and background certainly have to work as well.


13- The entire SPELLSONG CYCLE was told from a female perspective. And according to both readers and reviewers, you did so very convincingly. In this day and age where men have almost given up on trying to understand women, how were you able to pull this off!?!

It might have something to do with my life , and my failures. After three marriages and six headstrong daughters, I’ve been forced to learn a great deal. Remember, I didn’t write the Spellsong Cycle until after I married Carol Ann, and after my daughters were mostly grown. In such matters, I’ve been a slow learner, but eventually, I have learned a few things.


14- We spoke a few years back, and you were telling me that you doubted that your novels would ever be translated in French. Imagine my surprise when, last summer, I saw French translations of your books in Paris! Have you sold foreign rights in many languages? How does it feel to now have the possibility to share your books with people from around the globe, in different languages?


I had my doubts about being published in French for several reasons. First, translation from English to French increases the length of the books by as much as 40%. This increases costs. That’s why you seldom see large translated books in French unless they are books ’guaranteed to sell many, many thousands of copies. I don’t write short books, and my books are complex. That means they’re hard, if not impossible, to condense without losing much of the underlying support. Some readers would prefer that, I know, but most of mine would not.

So, initially, most of the translations of my books were into Germanic and Slavic languages, rather than romance languages.

However, recently that’s changed. There’s the French edition of The Magic of Recluce, and the first Corean book has appeared in Italian, and the second will in early May of this year.

All told, I’ve had books translated into eight languages other than English. Because French is the only language I read besides English, I can only hope the other translations are good!


15- What author makes you shake your head in admiration?

I really don’t follow authors per se. I tend to look at particular books, or poems, and I’m not comfortable making a statement in print about such. There are many works I’ve admired, but for many different reasons. To list those and why would take too much space, and to list just a few would be grossly unfair to those not listed.


16- Thus far, the RECLUCE saga is composed of 13 books. Only two of them occur in the "present" of the RECLUCE timeline, while all the others take place in its "past." Are there any plans to write a number of books taking place in the "future," since you have left a lot of things up in the air at the end of THE DEATH OF CHAOS?

As I have said, there will be no books set chronologically after The Death of Chaos. There are very good and structurally-based reasons why not, but to explain why not would reveal more than would be fair to those who have not read that far.


17- I know that you were not asked to participate in the first LEGENDS anthology. But were you asked to contribute to the second one? Many believe that you deserve to be a part of such a project.


I was never approached for any of the Legends anthologies.


18- Is a World Fantasy Award something you covet?

I certainly wouldn’t turn one down, and it would be nice to have one, but I can’t say I ˜covet’ one. I think it’s highly unlikely that I will ever be nominated, let alone receive one, because while my readership certainly includes devoted fantasy readers, my readers also come from many other areas, and because I’m a lousy literary politician.


19- You have claimed that Tom Doherty is one of the most underappreciated men in fantasy. What do you mean by that?

Tom Doherty is one of the few visionary publishers. He also has always been willing to allow his editors freedom in publishing a wide range of authors. His vision and energy have taken Tor from being something like the fifth largest publisher of F&SF in the U.S. in 1983 or thereabouts to the largest in the world today. He’s courteous, but direct. He doesn’t hide behind subterfuges, and he understands how the publishing business operates , all the way from the creative side to end-point sales , far better than do the bookstore chains. He’s a consummate salesman, and he’s also an excellent editor. And yet, I’ve seen very little recognition of Tom as an individual , just the recognition of Tor itself.


20- Does each new book you publish attract more readers than the one before? Or are your sales relatively steady, meaning that you have a loyal following? I ask, because at times it's as if you are fantasy best-kept secret.

I’m told that, over the years, my sales have continued to increase, although they don’t necessarily increase book by book. One book may sell about the same as the last, and then the sales of the next several may increase significantly.

I’ve often joked that I’m the most anonymous, best-selling author in the field. Part of that is, I believe, because a larger portion of my sales than of many other authors comes from readers outside the field. So, while my sales increase, my visibility inside the F&SF field doesn’t necessarily increase correspondingly.

Then, too, it could be that I’m just not charismatic. A number of years ago, I did a signing at a book store in London, and near the end, a gentleman appeared and said that he very much enjoyed my work. I asked him if he’d like me to sign a book for him, and he replied, ’Oh, no. I’m not interested in you. I just like your books.


21- Is the RECLUCE universe vaster than the island continents we see on the map? If so, will we ever discover what lies beyond?

Both Ordermaster and Wellspring of Chaos reveal more details about Austra and Nordla, since most of the events take place there, as well as a few scenes in Hamor. Over time, I hope to explore more areas.


22- What was the hardest part of the entire process involved in the writing of the RECLUCE saga? Each new addition reveals yet more depth to a series which has shown just how rich and complex it truly is.

I honestly can’t say that any one part has been harder than the others. When I start a new Recluce novel, however, I do take the precaution of studying the maps and my notes carefully.


23- Your science fiction novels are not as popular as your fantasy books. What can you tell us that could introduce readers to your work in that genre?

My science fiction, while also character-driven, tends to be somewhat more overtly thought-provoking than the fantasy. Most of my recent science fiction has received starred reviews from reviewers such as Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal, although not universally from all of them. Flash, which came out last October, features a resigned Marine lieutenant colonel, now a media/advertising consultant who has developed a high-tech method of evaluating the success of high-tech product placement advertising on the world-wide entertainment nets of the 22nd century. When he takes a contract for a public interest group to look into the application of these techniques to politics, people start trying to kill him and his family, and replica clones of him appear in illegal actions. Add to that the subversion of police AI nets, and a renegade AI, as well as the rebellion of a Mars colony against its corporate sponsors. The book is not only action-filled, but explores just what happens when the regulations of society, designed to protect us, become a trap where, if Jonat obeys the rules, he dies, and if he doesn’t, he has to go against everything he believes in.


24- What can you tell us of your future projects? Any chance of a new SPELLSONG novel?

A new Spellsong novel is unlikely at any time in the near future.

The next novel after Alector’s Choice is The Eternity Artifact, a stand-alone SF novel set some 4,000 years in the future. Mankind has explored much of the Galaxy, but has encountered no alien sentient life , until a strange planet is discovered at the edge of the Galaxy , with an abandoned and perfectly preserved single huge city upon it , and nothing else. The city is over 5 billion years old and contains advanced and inexplicable materials and technology. Every major government either wants to monopolize the city or deny to everyone, which creates considerable difficulties for the members of the science team trying to unravel those mysteries.

I’m currently working on the second book of the second Corean trilogy, and will probably write the third one after that, followed by another SF novel.


25- What is your work ethic? You appear to be the only fantasy/scifi writer capable of putting out 2 or 3 books a year, and big books to boot.

First off, I happen to like to write. I admit that there are days when it’s a bit harder to get the first words on the screen, so to speak, but I can’t imagine anything else that I would enjoy doing so much as I do writing, and since I’ve had experience in a number of fields over the years before I was able to become a full-time writer, I’m not at all tempted to change full-time professions again.
Second, for better or worse, I was raised by parents with a love of language and an incredible work ethic. They also had high expectations. Third, it’s become very clear that if I want to remain a successful writer I need to write books regularly. Readers do not pay for books writers do not write. For these reasons, I attempt to maintain a writing schedule of between 8 and 12 hours a day. I use the word ’attempt advisedly, because there are always interruptions, either from dogs who need to be fed and walked, meals that need to be prepared, and from all the other non-occupational miscellany of life.

I appreciate having the chance to ramble on at length, and hope my comments will provide some additional insight to present readers and intrigue possible new readers.

L. E. Modesitt, Jr.