The Book of the Talents

Lorian's Tale

2010-04-29T06:04:00.001-07:00

If you read my other blog (link in the left rail) you'll already know that I've put the rewrite of "The Book of the Talents" on hold. I'm spending a lot of time learning iPhone and Mac programming right now. But I've also found that my interest in the rewrite has been displaced by a desire to write the story of Lorian. I was hoping that I'd be able to put it off until after I'd finished the introductory iPhone programming book I'm working my way through, but alas, it is not to be. "Lorian's Tale" will not be denied.

A little background is in order. I wrote what is essentially a complete outline for "Lorian's Tale" before I wrote the backstory for "The Book of the Talents." I was planning to use it merely as background material, but I always knew that I'd be very likely to use it as the basis for a prequel if the envisioned trilogy was successful.

After completing the "The Storm Winds Rise" an unpleasant reality of publishing finally seeped through my rock-hard skull: it's nearly impossible for an unestablished writer to get a trilogy published. Sure, it happens, but not often, and there are enough barriers for an unknown writer getting published without adding "you also have to publish these other two books" to the bargain.

"Lorian's Tale" is much more self-contained. It's also a very emotional story. I think it will serve as an excellent springboard for a future trilogy without mandating one. It's been much on my mind lately, and it refuses to go away. I'd like to put it on hold long enough to at least finish my iPhone programming book, but it just won't cooperate. So this weekend I'm going to start writing it.

Don't look for sample chapters here. I am going to complete the first draft in its entirety and complete at least one edit before I let anyone read any of it. I have a feeling it will almost write itself, though. It's going to be quite different from "The Book of the Talents". Most of it will be written in first person, from Lorian's perspective, and it takes place more than six hundred years before the action of "The Book of the Talents." There will be much more information about the origin of the world of Edanar and the nature of the Talents, and it will be more contemplative and even elegiac in tone.

I've been reading adult fantasy novels with great fervor for the last six months, devouring the works of Joe Abercrombie and K.J. Parker, and I'm now on my second trip through Robin Hobbs' fantastic Farseer Trilogy. These writers have been tremendously inspiring to me. I think "Lorian's Tale" will be much, much better than "The Storm Winds Rise." I'll post updates on my progress here from time to time, but you won't be seeing a chapter and word count. I'm going to try to keep the first draft down to 120,000 words, but that's all I'm going to say about it right now. It will be whatever size it needs to be.

I'll see you again in a few months.

Chapter Three

2010-03-10T21:26:00.001-08:00

Thama stared across the foyer at the baby-faced man.

The intruder returned his gaze without expression, but a glint of amusement seemed to dance in his blackly shining eyes.

They came for me? Thama thought dazedly. Why? What did I do? His heart began to race. He looked at his father. “What does he mean?”

Nafar’s face was red with fury. “Do not speak to him!” he spat, staring wide-eyed at the intruder.

“Who are they, father?”

Nafar did not reply. His jaw clenched, the muscles standing out in his temple and neck.

The baby-faced man’s expression grew mournful. “Will you not introduce us to your son, Legate? No? Then allow me.” He gestured to the reed-thin man. “This is Hedric Gattis, formerly of the Academy of Vorado.”

The tall man inclined his head a fraction. He stared at Thama like a serpent watching a mouse.

The baby-faced man jerked his thumb to indicate the hooded man who stood behind him. “This is Grash. He has no country, no tribe, no title. He is my servant.”

Thama could not bring himself to look into the shadows beneath the hooded man’s face.

“And I...” the baby-faced man said, bowing deeply, “I am Adal Mettis. A Seeker in his Imperial Majesty’s Sacred Order of the Credein.”

Thama’s blood stopped in his veins. A Credein Seeker, here? “Why?” he blurted.

Mettis recovered from his bow. His absurdly red lips curved into a smile. “Why? Because that is what my mother named me.”

The tall man snorted something that might have been a laugh.

“Why are you here?” Thama squeaked. “There are no Talents—no Accursed—in this household.”

Mettis’ smile broadened. “That is amusing, coming from you.”

They think I’m a Talent, thought Thama.

Then the greater implications exploded through his mind. The Credein were agents of the Emperor of Aurdana, who collected Talents the way some monarchs collected jewels or rare paintings. The Aurdanans denied their existence, but no one would believe them if they said the sky was blue. The Credein worked in secret, even in places like Manthia, where the Talents were called Accursed and sacrificed to pagan gods. Yet Mettis had proudly claimed the title. That could only mean one thing. He did not plan to leave any witnesses.

Thama took a step back. “No,” he said.

The Residence guards, Ordan and Baris, drew their swords and moved in front of Thama’s father.

“You will leave now,” Nafar grated. “Count yourselves lucky that I do not turn you in. Credein are as unwelcome here as they would be in Vorado.”

Mettis laughed. “How little you know. You are to be commended, Legate. You hid Thama well, and he plays his part well. If I did not know better, I might almost believe that he was a normal boy—if a bit eccentric in his choice of clothing.”

Nafar said, “He...he does not know.”

An icy talon clutched at Thama’s stomach. “What do you mean, da?”

The Credein’s smile vanished. “How can he not? He is well past the age of Quickening.” He turned to Gattis. “Make sure.”

The thin man bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Thama cried out as a rippling wave of pinpricks ran across his scalp. It was more surprising than painful, and was over in an instant. He rubbed his head and stared at Gattis. “What did you do to me?”

Gattis opened his lavender eyes. “He has been blocked, but the Talent is there, and greater than we had been led to expect. Far, far greater.” He shivered and rubbed his sticklike arms.

“Blocked?” Mettis mused. Then he beamed at Nafar. “Well done, Legate. Very clever. When did you find time to visit Beradon? On your way out here from Vorado? It must’ve been before his little...mishap.”

“This man is mistaken,” Nafar said. “My son is not Accursed.”

Mettis shook his head. “Gattis was an Assayer, a pupil of Lord Boreal himself. He is never wrong.”

Nafar’s face contorted with rage. “Traitor!”

Gattis’ lips parted in a razor-edged smile. “Hardly. My true allegiance has ever been to the Emperor.”

“All of you, get out!”

“You heard him,” said Baris. He took a step forward, brandishing his sword.

Thama was staring at his father, so he did not see what happened next. He glimpsed only a streak of white light. Baris and Ordan fell, their swords clanging on the flagstone floor.

Thama stared at the motionless guards. Tiny curls of smoke rose from their heads. He ran to his father, who put a protective hand around him.

The Credein’s face was pale, and his jaw trembled. He drew something from beneath his leather vest and snapped his wrist. An instant later he was holding a sword: a thin, long, segmented length of dull black metal with a gleaming silver edge. It emitted a high, piercing squeal, and the end of the blade began to turn red.

Thama stared at the glowing sword. He could feel its heat across the width of the foyer. It was a Shaped blade, an artifact from the forges of Vorado or Aurdana. It had to be. He’d read about them in his father’s library. They were the rarest weapons of all, and costly beyond measure. That Mettis carried one spoke volumes of his rank in the Credein.

The now white-hot blade shook in Mettis’ grasp, but the Credein did not look fearful. Far from it. He looked cold. “Where is your lady wife, Legate? She would want to bid your son goodbye.”

“She left on a visit to Vorado this morning. She will not be back for two months at the least.”

Thama bit back an instinctive protest. His father was lying. She might still be in the house, or in town—or she might have escaped. Dawn Lord, please, let it be so.

Mettis sneered, “Very convenient.” His black eyes fastened on Thama’s. “Grash. Call Behastis in, and make sure.”

The hooded man swept past Mettis and went to the door.

The lean man in riding leathers came in a moment later, carrying a dripping sword. “The guards are taken care of,” he said in a matter of fact tone. He and the hooded man brushed past Thama and Nafar as they went deeper into the house.

Thama buried his face in his father’s side. “This is not happening,” he whispered as hot tears began to flow. Mother!

His father clutched him tight and said, “Do not be afraid, Thama.” His voice did not quaver, and his grip was firm.

The two men returned a few minutes later. “No one else is here,” Behastis said.

Relief swept through Thama’s veins.

“Get on with it,” Gattis said in a bored tone.

Mettis scowled at the Assayer. “Very well. Nafar. Let him go. Then you and I will go aside, and you will tell me how to unblock him. If you do not—well, my friend is eager to make your wife’s acquaintance. She has not gone to Vorado. We shall wait for her return.”

Gattis’ skeletal grin widened, and he fingered a jeweled dagger at his waist. “She must be lovely indeed, to have created such a handsome son.”

Thama stared up at his father. “What does he mean?”

A tear appeared at the corner of Nafar Mardant’s eye. “It does not matter, son. Do not fear. The Emperor will never have you.”

Mettis grated. “Say nothing more, Mardant. Let him go. The game is over.”

His father ignored the Credein. He said quickly, “Whatever happens, Thama, remember this. Salvation lies in diligence.”

Salvation lies in diligence.

The words seemed to grow louder as they reached Thama’s ears. They echoed across the chasm of his mind. Bile rose in his gullet, and the world grew misshapen and strange. His father seemed to grow taller. He was now a furious god, his tearful face swollen and massive, towering over him like a thundercloud. The room whirled, and he fell to his knees, crying out in terror.

“Salvation lies in diligence!” roared his father again.

The words grew substance as they rolled through the air. They struck Thama like hammer blows. They reverberated against his pounding skull. He scrambled away on hands and knees, whimpering. Then it was over, just like that, and the world snapped back to horrid reality. His father was just his father again, a look of infinite sorrow etched into his face.

“That’s a pity,” Mettis said.

The Credein stepped forward and swung his demonic sword. It slashed through Nafar Mardant’s body, parting wool and cloth and flesh and bone as if they were no more substantial than cobwebs.

The two halves of his father’s body toppled to the flagstone floor.

A wordless scream tore at Thama’s throat.

His father’s torso had been severed just below the rib cage. The upper half of his body lay face-up. His arms twitched and jerked, and his mouth stretched open in a breathless scream. His entrails unspooled onto the flagstones, followed by a crimson jet that arced across the foyer. Another, weaker pulse followed it. The air filled with the hot stench of iron and feces and the odor of seared flesh.

Nafar twisted his neck to look at Thama.

“Run,” he mouthed silently. His arms batted at the floor. Then, mercifully, he grew still.

“No!” Thama shrieked. He stared at Mettis, who stood above Nafar’s body, a gloating expression on his brutish, unfinished face. Blood hissed and spat as it boiled away from his white-hot blade.

The Credein met Thama’s eyes. He stretched out his hand and said, “Come, boy. Your new life awaits.”

Before he finished his sentence, Thama was flying down the hallway toward his father’s study.

He stumbled. Fear blasted through his veins. If he fell, it was over. Windmilling his arms, he managed to stay upright.

“Get him!” Mettis shouted.

“Be careful! He is unblocked!” said Gattis.

Thama got behind the heavy steelwood door, shoved it closed and shot the thick iron bolt home before the sound of running feet grew close.

The door was far too heavy for voices to penetrate it, but Thama could hear an angry pounding on the other side.

Tears blinded him. He leaned against the door, weeping. “No. Father, no. No. No.”

The hammering on the door intensified.

He tried to regain control. His heart was trying to beat its way out through his breastbone. He pressed his hand against his chest and took a deep, shuddering breath. His father was gone, his mother missing. The guards were dead, and who knew what had become of the household staff. He was the only one left. He had to get away.

He angrily wiped his eyes with his brightly checkered sleeve. The left and right walls of the large study were lined with books from floor to twenty-foot ceiling. He looked at the movable ladders that gave access to the highest shelves. Even if he could somehow get one of them free of its tracks, the skylights were well out of reach. The only way out was through the series of narrow stained-glass windows behind his father’s huge mahogany desk. On the other side was the courtyard where his fencing instructor worked him into a lather every Sixthday. The Residence grounds were vast, and four men could never keep watch over it all. If he moved quickly enough, he might be able to get out through the service gate in the rear of the grounds.

And then where? a hateful voice said from the darkest recess of his mind.

He shoved the thought away and took a step toward the desk.

Something dark fluttered past his right ear. He ducked instinctively. How did a bat get in here? He looked around in confusion. He was the only thing alive in the room.

Then he realized that the fluttering was not in the room. It was inside his head, behind his eyes, between his ears. The small hairs on his neck stood up. Before he could take another step, it became a storm of soundless wings, battering him from within. The room grew dark, and he felt himself falling. A galaxy of stars exploded around him as his temple hit something hard and unyielding. Then he struck what could only be the floor, biting his tongue as the hardwood surface slammed into his jaw. Blood filled his mouth, and the world went black.

He swam back to consciousness slowly. His mouth was thick with the taste of iron. The battering inside his head had subsided to a gentle brush of moth wings, but the pain from his temple and tongue more than made up for it. I must have hit the desk when I fell, he thought fuzzily. There was something else, too: a relentless, sharp hammering that sent waves of agony pulsing through his head with each repetition.

He opened his eyes and sat up. The room was filled with sunset light. He might have been unconscious for a long time.

The hammering continued with mechanical precision. It came from the door. Mettis was trying to break in.

Fear churned in Thama’s gut. He can’t get in, not through steelwood. Only Shapers had the craft to work the super-dense wood of the aifar tree. Ordinary tools couldn’t even scratch it. Then he remembered the Credein’s Talent-wrought blade with its white hot tip. That sword might be able to cut through anything.

He grabbed the edge of the desk and pushed himself to his feet. He had to get away.

The battering wings inside his skull grew fierce again.

Thama screamed. Clots of blood sprayed from his mouth onto his father’s desk. “Stop!” he cried, gagging. “Stop it!”

Hatred and terror boiled up inside him. Something else did, too, a new and alien and terrifying feeling. He felt a peculiar yielding dizziness inside his mind, then, like the crumbling of a wall. The new feeling surged through him, pushing aside the silent wings in his skull with an almost contemptuous ease.

It was power. Endless, endless power.

The impulse was nameless, instinctive, irresistible. He obeyed it. He lashed out with his mind at the tormentors on the other side of the wall.

The wings battering his mind stopped. The room grew bright again.

Mettis bellowed, “Gods of Night!” The hammering at the door ceased.

The power that filled him vanished, leaving a sick feeling of dread in its wake. He slumped against the desk. What have I done?

The door shuddered in its frame as the blows on the other side resumed, falling twice as fast as before.

“Lord of the Dawn, protect me,” Thama whispered.

He spat more blood, ignoring the shame that filled him at the thought of despoiling his father’s study. He rounded the desk and opened the bottom drawer. He flung the jumbled trinkets and keepsakes aside until he uncovered it: an ancient wheel lock cavalry pistol once owned by his grandfather. There was no powder or ammunition for it, but Thama did not care. At the end of its curved wooden handgrip was a steel ball studded with blunt spikes. It was used to smash in the faces of footmen after the round had been fired.

Thama grabbed the pistol by its barrel, stood on the chair behind the desk, and used the ball to smash out the stained glass of one of the narrow windows.

“Gattis!” he heard Mettis roar from the other side of the door. “Grash is dead! The boy’s trying to get out through the window!”

Thama’s blood curdled. The Credein’s voice was very clear now. He looked back as he put one foot on the windowsill. The door shuddered, and a long splinter of dark gray wood popped out and flew across the room. The blazing white tip of Mettis’ sword emerged through the crack. There was a wrenching sound and the sword vanished. Another blow fell. This time half a foot of blade came through, accompanied by a storm of sparks.

Thama dropped the gun and squeezed himself through the windowsill. At least I killed the hooded man, he thought with grim satisfaction. Somehow.

He looked out through the broken window. The blood-red sun had touched the western horizon, and the courtyard ten feet below him had fallen into shadow. It was empty.

Whispering his thanks to the Dawn Lord, Thama slipped through the narrow windowsill, turned and lowered himself down the stone outer wall of the Residence until he hung by his fingertips from the ledge. He dropped the last five feet, rolled with the impact and came up on his feet. His fencing instructor would’ve been proud.

He ducked low and ran in a half-crouch along the side of the Residence, trying to stay out of sight of the windows. The hill on the western side of the building sloped downhill so each window was higher up than the last. Soon he could walk upright. The Dawn Lord was smiling on him: so far the broad grassy expanse between the outer wall and the house was empty. He would have to cross that space when he reached the gate. His gut clenched as he realized that in his red and white checked doublet he’d stand out like a beacon, but that couldn’t be helped now.

A terrible thought struck him. Once he reached the gate, where then? He dare not seek refuge with any of the diplomats housed nearby. Their household guards would never admit him without an invitation. The Credein monsters would track him down in minutes as he ran from house to house. Even if the guards relented and let him in, Mettis would probably kill them all to get to him. His beautiful classmate Suria Theminides lived nearby. The idea of what Mettis and his men might do to her and her family was too much to bear. He would not visit that fate on anyone else. Enough people had died on his account today.

If he could get through the gate and reach the end of the service alley, he might be able to hide in the culvert that fed rainwater into the city’s ancient sewers. He’d explored the upper reaches of those tunnels once, five years ago, when he’d taken it in his childish head to run away from home. He couldn’t remember why he’d done it, but he would never forget the low, brick-lined tunnels with the deep, dank channel cut down the center, and the vile reek that had finally driven back him out into the sunlight and into Afferas’ rescuing arms.

Afferas, who lay dead on the far side of the Residence now.

He shook his head, willing the tears not to come. He couldn’t think about that now. He had to flee.

Shouts echoed along the wall from the other end of the compound. At least two of his would-be kidnappers were outside, then. If he hurried, he might be able to reach the gate after all.

“Behastis!” he heard Mettis’ distant shout. “Over there, fool! I’ll check the servant’s entrance.” The Credein’s voice sounded closer than it had before. He was coming.

Thama rounded the final corner. A cobblestone pathway led from the rear entrance of the Residence to the iron gate. Next to the path, face down in the grass, lay a motionless body in a long dark gray cloak.

“Oh, no,” Thama whispered. There was only one person here who would wear a heavy wool cloak on such a hot day.

He looked around to be sure he was still alone. Then, quick as lightning, he darted across the grass and knelt next to the body. The grass beneath it was thick with red. Though the body was face down, there was no mistaking that unruly shock of thin white hair.

“Haffray. Not you, too,” Thama whispered, choking on the words. He dashed his tears away. His mind raced. He had to have the cloak. He reached under Haffray’s chin to loosen the clasp. Something hot, thick and sticky coated his hand. Salt water flooded his mouth, and this time he couldn’t stop it. He retched into the blood-soaked grass for a seeming eternity. No, no no no! he raged silently. There’s no time for this!

At last the nausea subsided. He wiped his bloody hand on the grass and worked the cloak free of Haffray’s all-too-motionless body. Sobbing, he threw it over his back, pulled it tight across his chest and raced through the gate into the shadows of the alley.

Someone stepped out from behind the wall and seized him by the forearm.

He screamed.

It was the thin man with the lavender eyes.

Thama tried to wrench his arm free, but the thin man’s fingers were like thin bands of iron.

“Don’t,” Gattis whispered. He raised his free hand. In it was a long, curved, dripping knife.

“You killed Haffray,” Thama said, a terrible anger rising in him.

“He was in my way,” Gattis replied without rancor. He might have been talking about the weather. “Now let’s get you back to Lord Mettis, shall we?”

Rage flowed through Thama’s veins, and with it, a nameless, hungry power. He did not stop to wonder what it was. It was his, and it would kill, and that was enough. He hurled it at Gattis.

The thin man’s gloating lavender eyes rolled back. His fingers lost their grip. He stumbled and emitted a high, gurgling shriek.

Thama jerked his arm free and jumped back, staring at Gattis with growing horror.

Blood spurted from the thin man’s mouth and nostrils, cutting short his awful scream. His face reddened and blistered. Puffs of smoke boiled from his eye sockets. Then there was a heavy, wet snapping sound from somewhere deep inside him. He dropped like a felled tree.

As his body struck the cobblestones it ruptured like a burst balloon.

Thama leaped back. A hot, dank, fetid wind blew past him as chunks of dissolving flesh and bone spattered across the alley. In moments all that remained was a frothing pool of blood surrounding a sodden lump of clothes. The steaming liquid flowed downhill toward the distant opening of the culvert.

“Lord of the Dawn,” Thama breathed. He swallowed hard. Somehow he had killed two of his pursuers, but Mettis and Behastis were still out there, and the Credein had killed Ordan and Baris without raising a finger.

There was no time to weep.

He stepped over what little remained of Gattis and gathered the cloak around him. He glanced back once at the empty house where he had spent his entire life, and began to run.

Chapter Two

2010-02-27T21:47:00.000-08:00

Merro Eramis crouched behind the ship’s thick gunwale, waiting for the signal to attack.

The sails had been furled a few minutes ago at the order of the approaching pirate vessel. The summer sun hammered down on the freshly scoured quarterdeck. Merro was shielded from the worst of it by the overhanging curve of the gunwale, but it also blocked the breeze. Sweat poured from his exposed skin, and dribbled from the seams in his fighting leather armor to patter onto the deck.

He glanced at the sailors who shared his hiding place beneath the gunwale. Like all men who lived at sea, their skin had long ago turned mahogany, and none of them seemed to mind the heat. Some turned away as he looked at them, but not before he saw their pitying smiles. Even after six months spent in their company, Merro had managed to keep his skin a lubberly shade of light brown.

I might be a lubber, Merro thought, but once the fight starts you’ll be smiling for a different reason.

“How much longer, Ganet?” he whispered hoarsely.

The short, red-bearded, barrel-chested captain of Shaura’s Rage stood next to the ship’s wheel, a scant dozen feet away. “They’re coming alongside now,” he replied. He and the other sailors who stood upright on deck kept their hands in plain sight.

Merro gently eased the hammer back on his flintlock musket, and adjusted the scabbard of his long, curved sword so that he wouldn’t trip over it when he came out of hiding.

“No gunners in the tops,” Ganet whispered. “Maybe a dozen with muskets on deck. The rest have swords.”

Good, thought Merro. Musketeers on platforms on the enemy’s masts would have made springing the trap a lot more difficult, but their absence wasn’t much of a surprise. Most of the pirates who plagued Vorado’s shipping routes were too cheap or too poor for a well-trained crew of dedicated gunmen.

A voice boomed out from the approaching ship. “Drop anchor, you flea-bitten sea dog, or I’ll blow that leaky tub out from under you!”

Merro was impressed. Their captain must have the lungs of a bull. Elistan, by the accent. Maybe this time, Merro prayed. Maybe.

“You heard him!” shouted Ganet, and the Ragers in plain sight of the approaching pirate leaped to obey.

Merro couldn’t help himself. “Is it him?” he whispered. “Is it the Perilous Desire?”

Ganet nodded and waved to the unseen pirates. “Mmm hmm.” His murmur had an angry edge to it, and his bearded face was grim.

Now Merro had two reasons to smile. The first was Ganet’s reaction. He looked the part of a rundown freighter captain, with his dirty slops and tattered three-cornered hat, but he would brook no criticism of the Rage, even though she’d been dressed down to look just as wretched as her commander.

The second reason was that the man on the privateer was the one Merro had been sent to sea to find. Six months of fruitless searching was about to pay off.

The pirate roared, “What’s your cargo?” His voice was much louder now.

“Whale oil and ambergris,” Ganet called back, reluctance plain in his voice.

“Your destination!”

Ganet paused for a long moment before replying. “Duelpa.”

A volley of piratical cheers greeted this news.

“Fucking Elistans,” murmured the sailor next to Merro.

“Take our lines and pull us in,” the pirate boomed.

Merro saw half a dozen heavy ropes uncoil onto the main deck, a few feet below the level of the quarterdeck where he was hidden. The Ragers waiting there grabbed the lines and began to haul. From beneath the lip of the gunwale, Merro watched the shadows of the enemy ship’s yardarms as they slid across the deck. He felt rather than heard the Perilous Desire‘s hull bump against the rounded tumblehome of the Rage.

Ganet’s sailors fastened the lines to stout iron cleats on the deck and backed well away from the rail.

Merro tensed.

Pirates began to swing across from the other ship on lines dangling from the overhanging yardarms.

The first pirate to touch the deck turned, cutlass at the ready. His eyes widened as he spotted the Ragers hiding under the gunwales. He managed to shout “It’s a trap!” before a muffled shot rang out. He fell back onto the low rail at the waist of the ship, blood spouting from a great hole in his face. His body pitched backward into the sea.

The cheers of the pirates changed to shouts of confusion.

“Now!” cried Ganet as he and the rest of the unarmed sailors dropped to the deck.

Merro and the other hidden Ragers surged out from under the spacious overhangs of the fore and aft gunwales. They aimed their muskets at the pirates gathered along the rail of the Elistan pirate ship awaiting their chance to board.

They fired almost as one.

The pirates had no time to react. They fell in twitching heaps. A handful managed to swing across to the deck of the Rage before they were gunned down. The only sound from the Perilous Desire now was a banshee chorus of screams.

Merro dropped his musket on the deck and pulled two pistols from his belt.

Ragers poured out of the forecastle and the deck house and the hatches at fore, middle and aft. Most of them carried muskets and swords.

“Get free and make sail!” bellowed the bull-voiced pirate captain.

A dozen Ragers hurled grappling lines onto the pirate vessel and began to haul them tight before the pirates could cast off their own.

“Fire at will!” Ganet cried. “Shoot the ones trying to cut the lines!”

Shots rang out and more pirates fell.

Merro searched the panicked enemy faces for his man. The Perilous Desire was smaller than Shaura’s Rage, with two masts instead of three, and lacked the Rage’s raised quarterdeck. Merro spotted the ship’s wheel, and sure enough, his quarry was there. It was hard to miss him: he was a head taller than any of the other pirates, wore a bright red blouse, and his face was covered by the thickest, blackest beard Merro had ever seen.

Former Admiral Baraz Shadenko, Merro thought gleefully. At last! “Don’t kill the man in red!” he roared. “He’s mine!”

His voice must have carried all the way to Shadenko. The pirate captain’s face contorted with rage. He drew an enormous cutlass and pointed it straight at Merro. “Take him!” he screamed over the din.

At least two of his men must have heard him. They raised their muskets and took aim.

Merro leaped down to the weather deck as he fired his own pistols. His would-be assassins fell. Merro dropped his guns and had his long Shaper-made sword free of its scabbard by the time his feet reached the deck.

He focused his mind, and drew on his Talent.

Time began to slow for him even before he began his crouch. The power grew in him, and grew, and grew. Waves of cold radiated from his bones and into his muscles.

“Follow me!” he shouted, his voice sounding high and strange even to his own ears. He leaped over the rail and high into the air.

He heard Ganet bark, “Cease fire! Boarders away!”

For an endless instant he seemed to hang suspended over the gap between the two ships.

The few pirates still standing upright on the blood-soaked deck stared up at him with wide eyes, transfixed by the sight of this lone man hurtling down toward them.

Merro had just enough time to draw his double-edged poniard from its sheath at his right hip before he dropped into their midst.

Before his feet touched the slippery deck he claimed his first victim. The pirate’s body fell backward, crimson arcing in slow motion from the stump of his neck. The curve of Merro’s swing took the arm from another pirate before it ended in the chest of a third. He wrenched the blade from the shrieking pirate’s ribcage even as he speared a different man’s eye with his dagger.

Merro spun and whirled and slashed at his foes with the fury of a demon. The Shaped metal of his dagger and sword parted leather and mail and flesh and bone with indifferent ease. Pirates fell like stalks of wheat from a farmer’s scythe.

He relaxed his pull on the Talent that lent him such speed and strength. With the ease of long practice he struck his Balance, letting the heat from his straining muscles compensate for the cold seeping out from his bones.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that Ragers were swinging onto the Perilous Desire to join him.

“Vorado!” they cried. “Vorado!”

“Vorado!” Merro answered, hacking away at his foes.

The pirates began to fight back with sudden desperation. They knew that they had fallen into a trap now, and Vorado gave pirates no mercy. More of them boiled up from the hatches amidships, screaming incoherent curses as they joined the fight.

Merro was hard pressed to keep their blades at bay. One of them thrust a pistol toward him. He jerked to one side and swung, taking the hand that held the gun off at the wrist, but it discharged as it fell.

An answering blaze of pain erupted in his side. He gasped. The bullet had gone deep. He pulled harder on the Talent, and the pain went away.

He cut and slashed and speared, and more pirates fell.

Then the tip of an enemy sword slipped through his guard, piercing his left shoulder near the armpit.

He grunted and spun away before it could run him all the way through. The sword came free of his wound, but the damage was done. His dagger fell from his nerveless left hand. He finished his spin, slashing his curved sword down at his attacker with furious strength. The top half of the man’s skull fell away, showering his comrades with brains and blood.

Something struck Merro hard on the back of his head. Sparks filled his eyes. He shrugged it off and slashed behind him to drive the attacker away. He drew harder on his Talent to mask the pain, but the demands were too great. His Balance was upset, and the cold began to grow in him.

It was a race, now.

Sailors kept coming aboard from the Rage as Merro held the pirates off. He wielded his remaining blade with brutal precision. Pirates gasped and screamed and died, but Merro fought on, his bloody blade unstoppable.

Without warning, they broke. Men fell over each other in their panic to get away from him, no longer willing to get within reach of his evil sword.

“After them!” Merro shouted, and the Ragers cheered, pressing their advantage hard. The shrinking mass of pirates fell back toward the main hatch, shedding dead and dying men.

There was a crashing boom from below deck, followed instantly by screams from the Rage. Something thumped the front of Merro’s jerkin. He glanced down. A grape-sized blob of lead lay sizzling in a pool of blood.

A ricochet, Merro realized. The pirates had managed to fire one of their small cannon. At this range the slaughter on the Rage might be fearsome.

He spotted red-faced the Rage’s first officer in the crush of sailors. “Harman! Silence their guns,” he shouted.

Vellet Harman waved his acknowledgement.

The Ragers surged forward and pursued the fleeing pirates down the hatch.

With no more enemies in reach, Merro looked toward the stern. The pirate’s captain was there still, surrounded by heaps of dead and dying men. He held three Ragers at bay with savage sweeps of his bloody cutlass. There were no other pirates remaining in any condition to fight.

“Come on, you fucking cowards!” Shadenko roared. “Come on!”

Merro gritted his teeth. The pain from his wounds was growing fierce. A thick flow of blood dripped from beneath his leather jerkin, and he was wracked with shivers in spite of the summer heat.

He had to finish this.

He stalked toward Shadenko. “He’s mine,” he said, brandishing his sword. It was red from tip to guard. The Ragers stepped back, and Merro stood alone with Shadenko.

A fierce smile broke out in the middle of Shadenko’s black beard. “Saving the best for last, eh?”

“Drop your sword. Your fate is not to die today.”

Shadenko’s smile faltered. “Fate is what you make of it, boy.” He lunged before the last word passed his lips.

Merro batted the cutlass away as he yielded a step. “I’ve been looking for you for six months, Admiral Shadenko.”

The pirate’s eyes widened. “How do you know my name?”

“I came to offer you a second chance.”

Shadenko’s face grew dark. “A second chance? Can you raise my drowned fleet from the bottom of the sea? Can you give me my son back? Bugger your second chance!” He snarled and came at Merro, slashing down at him with astonishing speed.

Merro drew deep from what little remained of his Talent. Time slowed, cold burned, and Shadenko’s headlong rush became a lethargic walk.

Merro ripped the cutlass from Shadenko’s grasp with a single savage parry, sending it high into the air above the gleaming sea. Before Shadenko could do more than blink, Merro dropped his own blade, grabbed the pirate’s thick neck and smashed him onto his back.

The deck boomed like a drum as Shadenko struck it. A single strangled gasp erupted from the pirate’s mouth.

Merro still held Shadenko’s neck. He squeezed. “Your fate is what I tell you it is,” he whispered.

Shadenko’s tried to breathe and failed. His eyes rolled in their sockets as he pried uselessly at Merro’s iron grasp.

Merro looked up at the three awestruck Ragers. “Bind him. Take him back to the ship.”

They closed their gaping mouths and leapt to obey.

Merro struggled to his feet as the sailors subdued the pirate. He clutched at his side. The cold was deep in his bones now, and no amount of shivering would help, but he knew he could not release the Talent until he made it back to the Rage. Fadran was there, and only Fadran could save him.

He shambled toward the ship’s waist.

Ragers continued to pour onto the Perilous Desire, but someone had lowered a broad plank to bridge the gap between the ships. Thank the Dawn Lord.

He almost reached the plank before his hold on the Talent failed.

Agony speared through him. His limbs went rigid with cold, and the bullet wound in his side was a pure blast of fire. A dozen more wounds fought for attention, wounds he didn’t even know he had taken until this very moment. His skull felt as if it were shaking apart. The world grew dim as a mewling sound burbled out of his throat.

He toppled forward.

He barely felt the hands that kept him from crashing to the deck.

Someone gasped in his ear, “Gods below! He’s frozen solid!”

“Fetch the doctor and his coals!”

“Get him back to the Rage!”

The next few moments were a chaos of shouts and movements. He fought to stay awake. It would be so easy to let go, but the pulsing agony in his side and his head kept waking him up.

“Merro,” a familiar voice said. “Let your Talent go. Let it all go. Your’e freezing to death. Do you hear me? Let it go!”

He grated, “Already. Did.”

“Lord of the Dawn. Bring another cauldron, Zane. Go now!”

Merro finally recognized the voice. He opened his eyes. A lean, pale, beardless young man with a thinning shock of blond hair leaned over him. Merro couldn’t see his eyes for the brilliance of the cloudless blue sky behind the man’s head, but he knew him nonetheless.

“Fadran. Serat Fadran,” he said.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“If I... if I don’t... tell Phaneril... tell her....”

“Shut up. You’ll tell her yourself when we get back to Duelpa.”

Something heavy thumped the deck near Merro’s head.

Fadran looked up and said, “Good. This is enough to start with. Fetch another, Zane.” He looked down at Merro. “This is going to hurt a little. Are you ready?”

“Do it.” He closed his eyes. He wasn’t ready, but there was no use telling Fadran that. The Healer would do what he had to do.

A strange, empty sense of detachment flowed through him, and the pain from his bullet wound flared and guttered out. He had never felt the like before. Am I dying? he wondered.

Then a bonfire ignited in his head. A molten serpent writhed inside it. It found his soul and bit down hard.

Red agony flared through every fiber of his body, and he screamed in earnest.

Then all sensation vanished.

He floated in a milky void, soft and warm and pleasant. He could no longer feel his body, but he could hear something. If he’d had a head, he would’ve craned it toward the source. It was a voice, he realized at last: a constant muttering stream of strange words and all-too-familiar curses.

“Depressed fracture of the parietal. Hematoma. Concussion. Gods below, that’s a bad bleeder.”

Merro felt a twinge of—not discomfort, no, not that—a twinge of something nameless and alien. Then it was gone.

“So much for the fracture,” the voice crowed. “Tesham’s balls, he’s frozen half to death. Good thing or he’d have bled out by now. Zane, have some Healer’s Wine ready. And tell Oster he’s going to have to see to the other wounded until I’m done.”

A new voice intruded, rough and low. “Gods below, what a mess. Will he live?”

“He might if you’ll give me leave to work on him!” the mutterer snapped. “Out of the sun, Ganet. He can use every bit of heat he can get. Now let’s get that fucking bullet out.”

All was quiet for a long, long time. He couldn’t fall asleep, but he knew he wasn’t quite awake. He grew bored, then worried, then bored again.

At last the milky void began to clear, like summer fog lifting from Duelpa Bay. He blinked. The world turned bright blue, and Fadran’s face was hanging in the sky above him once more.

“Merro. Can you hear me? Merro. Merro!”

“Uh,” Merro gasped. His body was back, and he wished it wasn’t. “Gods below, what did you do to me?” he mumbled.

“Healed you. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been run over by the cavalry.”

“Beats feeling like a corpse.”

“How would you know?”

The Healer helped him struggle into a sitting position, his back to the wall of the Rage’s forecastle. The battle was over, but the screams and calls of the wounded still filled the air.

“Drink this,” Fadran said, shoving a leather wineskin into his hands. “Healer’s wine. Drink it all, and don’t try to stand until I get back. I’m not done with you, but I’ve got to help poor Murideen with the others.”

Merro snorted. “Stand up? Small chance of that.” With supreme effort he raised his hand high enough to squeeze the Healer’s shoulder. “Thanks, my friend.”

Fadran flashed him a quick grin and vanished.

Merro drained the entire wineskin almost without pause to breathe. He detested the thick, cloying “wine” that the Healers forced down the throats of anyone who lost a great deal of blood. One glimpse of the dark pool of red on the deck surrounding him was enough to convince him to obey Fadran’s orders.

He lowered the wineskin to his lap and surveyed the scene. He could see the Perilous Desire through the gaps in the waist rails. Perhaps fifteen Ragers stood there, looking down with evident disbelief at the crimson-stained heaps of dead pirates. Arms, legs, heads and fallen weapons littered the deck. Merro felt his gorge rise. He looked away, thankful that the wind had shifted. The Desire was now in the Rage’s lee. He didn’t know if he could have kept the Healer’s wine down with his nostrils full of the reeking aftermath of battle.

A shadow fell over him. “If it isn’t Major Merro Eramis of the Third Kestrel Brigade.”

Merro looked up.

Ganet Hothna stood there, all five foot five of him, looking down at Merro with his hands on his hips.

“Look at me!” Ganet said, pointing at a single shallow cut on his forehead. It had already stopped bleeding. “Fadran had to abandon me to take care of you and your paltry collection of flesh wounds? Ridiculous!”

Merro couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I think you’ll live. Could you get out of the sunlight? I could use the heat.”

Ganet complied, a broad smile appearing in the middle of his bristly red beard. “You look better, too. We thought... well, look at all this blood. You can guess what we thought.” His smile vanished as he continued in a lower voice. “What possessed you to take such a risk? Fadran says you were nearly dead from the cold, much less your wounds.”

Merro looked down. Next to him were four squat black iron kettles, their bottoms coated with a thick brown layer of insulating ceramic. They were full to the brim with smoldering ashes. “Four cauldrons?” he gasped.

“Four, and he was ready to call for a fifth. That’s got to be a record for both of you. You’re not a Primary or a Master Talent, boy, you’re just a Journeyman! Didn’t they teach you anything in that fancy Academy of yours?”

“Duty. Obedience. To complete my mission. I had to capture Shadenko.”

“Bah. Not at the cost of your life.” Ganet went to the rail and looked over at the pirate ship. “Still, you were in fine form today. By the Arc, I’ve never seen the like. Harman says you killed thirty-three of the bastards.”

“Thirty-three,” Merro echoed softly, looking down at his blood-stained hands.

Ganet turned to face Merro. “Don’t get maudlin. It was your duty, remember? You had to capture Shadenko, as you said. The fish get the rest.”

That thought was no more comforting. “Where is he now?”

“Down in the orlop, with the ropes and sailcloth. Had to use the biggest manacles we have on board. No one told me he was such a monster.”

“Convincing him will be a little easier if you’re gentle with him.”

Ganet smirked. “Gentle as a mother’s kiss. But fifty gold marks says he’ll never agree.”

“I’ll take that bet. Just don’t let him see....” Mero waved vaguely at the enemy ship.

“He's below the water line. He won't see, hear or smell a thing.” Ganet brushed aside a strand of hair blown across his face by a sudden breeze. “Good. Wind at last. It's time we finished this up. By your leave, Major Eramis, I now go to perform my own unpleasant duty.” He sketched a mocking bow and departed, shouting orders.

Merro sat in the waning light of the late afternoon sun and watched as the Ragers returned to their ship, retrieving the grappling lines as they did so. A bright green barrel of Brantian fire had been set upright between her the masts of the pirate ship. The last man on deck lit the long white fuse attached to the top of the barrel with one of Lord Albudrys’ new quick-matches and scrambled back to the Rage.

Sailors waiting along the rails pushed the Desire away with long wooden poles, and when they were clear of the pirate ship’s yardarms, Ganet called for the sails to be raised.

Merro did not need his Talent to hear the frenzied cries for mercy from the doomed men locked in the hold of the Desire.

The Rage’s sails flapped in the freshening breeze, and the pirate ship began to grow smaller. The calls of the bosuns and sailors drowned out the panicked howls of the pirates.

Fadran reappeared, his pale skin wan and sweaty even by the golden light of the approaching sunset. The ship’s loblolly boy, a grizzled old man named Zane, placed another cauldron close to Merro and whipped away the lid. It was filled with white-hot coals from the galley stoves. A wave of heat washed pleasantly over Merro’s face.

“By the Dawn Lord, that feels good,” he said. “Have the rest of the wounded been seen to?”

“Of course,” Fadran grunted as he took a knee next to Merro. The Healer stretched his left hand out toward the coals and placed his right hand on Merro’s shoulder. He closed his eyes. Smoke billowed from the cauldron, and in moments the remaining aches in Merro’s bones began to fade.

“Sit still, milord, I’m not done!” Fadran growled when Merro tried to get up. He looked up, his eyes wide with alarm.

Merro glanced around. “No one heard,” he whispered. “But try to be a little more careful.”

“Of course, mi— I mean, Merro. Sorry. I won’t take a moment.” He took several moments in truth, but he helped Merro to his feet when he was through.

“Thanks again, Serat,” Merro said, shaking Fadran’s hand. He was tired and sad, but he was whole once more. “Without you, I’d be—”

“Dead. Yes. You’re welcome. Again.” Fadran winced. “You can let go now.”

“Sorry,” Merro said, releasing the Healer’s hand.

Fadran rubbed it, grimacing. “I’d use the coals on myself, if you’d left me any. By the Dawn Lord, Merro, five cauldrons! I’ll start writing my paper for the College tonight. Lord Belias will scarcely believe it, not to mention Phaneril.”

“Ah. Well. I’d just as soon she never learn of it.”

“Sorry, mi— I mean, Merro. This could be important work. I don’t mean to wave my own standard, but I don’t know of any Journeyman Talent who’s been so far gone with the cold and still lived, much less won a battle almost single handed. You were incredible today. Incredible.”

Merro cringed inwardly, and moved toward the rail so Fadran wouldn’t see his blush. “The pursuit of knowledge has no limits, as you Academics like to say. Very well. I won’t stand in your way. You are a true Master, in every sense of the word.”

“There she goes!” shouted someone in the rigging high above them.

Merro sighed as he watched the white blaze of Brantian fire explode on the deck of the Perilous Desire. She was perhaps half a mile away now, but he could still feel the heat. The infernal liquid spewed in all directions, climbing the masts and flooding the deck with white flame. In seconds the entire vessel was alight.

“You should get some rest,” Fadran murmured.

“In a moment,” Merro said. He had to watch. It was his duty. He told himself that this was a more merciful end than feeding the pirates to the sharks, but it was no less ghastly to watch. The men belowdecks would not last two seconds in that heat.

The Desire was already beginning to break apart. Her sides buckled and her fiery masts crashed into the sea. Water would not douse Brantian fire. It would spread on the waves and burn for hours, but in the end there would be nothing left of the ship or her crew—nothing to warn the other Elistan pirates who troubled the waters between Duelpa and the Winter Islands of the predators in their midst.

He watched until all that remained was an tattered circle of fire guttering on the waves.

“All right,” he said at last. “I think I’m done.”

The Full Rewrite, Chapter One

2010-02-21T09:04:00.001-08:00

And so it begins. The book now begins with a different viewpoint, and there will be many other changes to come. The goal is to make this book stand on its own, hinting at (but not requiring) sequels, and to make it between 80,000 and 100,000 words. That is going to be damned hard for a wordy bastard like me, but it should make the book far more sellable.

And now, without further ado:

Chapter One

The day Thama’s young life became a nightmare began much as any other.

He awoke as the light of dawn broke through the warped and bubbled Manthian glass of his upper-story bedroom windows. He closed his eyes, turned over and pulled the light wool blanket up over his head, nestling deeper into his warm goose down mattress. He almost fell asleep again before his father’s ancient valet Haffray cracked open the door and growled, “You can’t fool me, Thama. Up, young master, up! Fat Yazmah’s made buckwheat groats with honey.”

Thama groaned, threw back the blanket and clambered out of the bed. He tottered into the bathroom. The room was sweltering from the heat of the fire the servants used to warm his bath water. He dropped his nightshirt on the floor and lowered himself into the tub with a blissful sigh. He soaked himself for a long, long time as he tried not to think about Brasten Yarrow.

The older boy was the son of a junior Voradan trade merchant who worked for Thama’s father. The difference in their fathers’ ranks meant nothing to Brasten. Thama had grown up here in Manthia, a backward nation of farmers and woodsmen, while Brasten had lived in the teeming metropolis of Duelpa, the capital of Vorado. Brasten never hesitated to make fun of Thama, his provincial accent, his unsophisticated manners, and the ridiculous clothes his mother forced him wear to the Foreign School. Today would be no different.

Eventually the water grew cold, and he could delay no longer. He allowed Haffray to dress him in his mother’s latest hideous purchase: a velvet doublet and hose made from a silky but eye-watering fabric of red and white checks.

“The other students won’t even be able to look at you, young master,” Haffray cackled as he pulled the doublet down over Thama’s upraised arms.

“Oh, lucky me,” Thama grumbled, wrinkling his nose at Haffray’s sardine-laced breath. “I wish I could just wear something plain and simple for a change.”

“Plain and simple?” echoed Haffray, his voice raised in comic outrage. “Are you a farmer’s boy, going out to work the fields and milk the cows? Or are you the son of Nafar and Alyssa Mardant? You don’t represent just yourself at the school, you—”

“‘—represent the Mardant family as much as Vorado.’ I know, I know.” Thama had heard the same speech every day for all of his fourteen years. He looked down at himself and shook his head. Haffray was right: the colors were so brilliant in the sunlight that he had to avert his own eyes. “Brasten will love this,” he grumbled.

“Sit,” Haffray ordered.

Thama flopped down on the edge of the already-made bed to let Haffray force his feet into a new pair of stiff black shoes with broad silver buckles.

“Be happy for small mercies, lad,” huffed Haffray. “It will be too hot today for the collar. We’ll leave it off, I think.”

Thama winced. “These shoes are too tight!”

“Sorry, young master. They’re as loose as they get.”

“Wonderful.” Thama stood up and tried a few experimental steps. “I’ll be crippled for life. It’s a good thing I don’t work in the fields.”

“So dramatic. If you were a farmer you’d be lucky to have shoes at all.” Haffray straightened slowly, the bones in his back popping. “Now to breakfast, and then to school. The Dawn Lord watch over you, young master.”

“You too, Haffray,” Thama said. He walked down the long hallway past the closed door of his parents' bed chamber toward the head of the stairs. The leather soles of the new shoes were so smooth he almost lost his footing on the freshly waxed hardwood steps. He grabbed the rail and managed to stay upright, but his mood was not improved. He gripped the rail as he descended the stairs.

The kitchen was on the far side of the spacious Residence from the family’s bedrooms. Wincing with every painful footstep, Thama clomped through the spacious dining hall. The tall windows were thrown open to admit the morning air. The sweet scent of his mother’s prized queen-of-the-night flowerbeds drifted into the hall. Haffray was right, Thama reflected: the morning was already growing hot. Thama silently blessed the old man for leaving off the heavy lace collar.

He passed his father’s library as he approached the entry foyer. How he longed to spend the day there, reading about distant lands and ancient deeds, with the heavy steelwood door closed and bolted to keep the wide world at bay.

His father Nafar was plagued with the same distractible nature as Thama, and had imported the monstrous door from the impenetrable forests of High Bellatria at great expense. Nafar had said that you could fire a cannon in the hallway and never hear it from inside the study. Thama could believe it. Two years ago he’d bolted the door shut and lost himself in a book for hours, emerging only when the light coming through the narrow windows began to fail. His furious mother had been waiting for him in the hall. She said she’d been banging on the door for hours to get his attention. He’d never heard a thing. Since then he was not allowed to bolt the door.

He crossed the grand circular foyer with its elaborate crystal chandelier and high glass dome of a ceiling, nodded to the guards who stood on either side of the front door, and made his way through the stone hallways of the servant’s quarters into Fat Yazmah’s spacious kitchen. She was alone for a change, standing next to the broad black iron cookstove as she tended a steaming kettle, adorned in her favorite blue smock and matching apron.

“You grow fatter by the day, Yazmah,” Thama said, grinning.

She turned and mock-scowled at him. No amount of eating could add an ounce to her birdlike figure, and as the head cook of the Mardant Residence, she never lacked for opportunity. “And you grow saucier by the hour, young master. You’re late. Sit! Eat!” She pointed at the round table next to the window. A large bowl of groats had already been dished up for him. Tendrils of steam rose from the bowl into a slanting shaft of lambent morning sunlight.

Something about the scene struck Thama. He paused to look at it. It was beautiful: the white and red roses beyond the window trembling in the fitful breeze; the luxurious whorls of amber and ochre in the polished wood of the tabletop; even the glints on the silver spoon next to the teak bowl. The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and aged cheese. Somehow, even then, before everything in his world crashed down around him, he knew that he would remember this scene for the rest of his life. An unaccountable swell of emotion rose in his chest. He turned to hug Fat Yazmah before he raced to the table to begin devouring his meal.

“Well,” Fat Yazmah said uncertainly, “It’s just buckwheat groats. Don’t forget the honey.” She turned back to her stove, but Thama thought he heard a quaver of emotion in her voice as well. He smiled.

“Even your groats are better than most cook’s finest meals,” said Nafar Mardant from the doorway. He wore a rumpled white nightshirt over a pair of gray cotton pantaloons. His shoulder-length mane of raven hair was tangled with sleep, and salt-and-pepper whiskers adorned his sharp-chinned jaw.

“The Dawn Lord be with you, milord,” Fat Yazmah said, bowing. “I mean, ‘sir.’ I’m sorry, I just.... Thank you, milord. I mean, sir.” She blushed.

Thama chuckled. “Every morning she says the same thing,” he said around a mouthful of groats.

His father shook his head. “Yazmah, don’t allow my impudent son to trouble you. I’m just a trade legate, not a lord, but I appreciate the courtesy. The Dawn Lord be with you both.”

“Would you care for some breakfast, mi— I mean, sir? Will Lady Alyssa be down soon?”

“Coffee only, please. I am late. And my lady wife is still abed.” He pulled a chair away from the table and sat opposite Thama. “I just came down to bid you a fair day, Thama. I won’t say a good one, since I know that Brasten boy is still giving you a hard time.”

Fat Yazmah put a large stoneware mug in front of Nafar, who nodded in gratitude as he raised it to his lips and sipped.

Thama looked up at his father suspiciously. Nafar was not smiling, but his dark brown eyes danced with mischief. “I can never tell when you’re being serious, Da.”

Now Nafar smiled in earnest. “All part of being a diplomat.”

“I thought you said you were a trade legate,” Thama shot back.

“Don’t bandy words with me, boy! It’s much the same thing in this benighted country. Being conquered by Bellatria may have humbled the Manthians, but it hasn’t made them any less productive, and Vorado has to compete for their goods on an unfair playing field. Every deal I make for our country is a heroic exercise in diplomacy.” He sipped from his mug again.

Thama rolled his eyes. He’d heard that story often enough. “Can’t you do something about Brasten?”

Nafar put down his mug. “Still tormenting you, is he? What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know,” Thama said, though he knew very well. Sell him to the Manthians as a river galley slave. “Maybe send his da back to Vorado?”

Nafar snorted. “Yarrow’s too useful, and besides, would it be fair to punish the father for the actions of the son? Should I stay after school with you when you get a bad mark on a paper?”

“That would never happen,” Thama said smugly.

“No, I don’t suppose it would, but you take my meaning. You’re capable of standing up for yourself.”

Thama shrugged. It was worth a try.

Nafar stood, picked up his mug and ruffled Thama’s curly black hair with his free hand. “Hurry up and finish your breakfast. Afferas is waiting to take you to school. Don’t let Brasten get to you. He’s just jealous of your mother’s taste in clothes.” He picked up his mug and turned toward the door.

“Could you get her to buy me something that’s just brown or black for a change?” Thama said, plucking at his silky doublet.

“Ha. Another lesson from the professional diplomat: only pick battles you know you can win. Good day, Yazmah.” Nafar left, chuckling.

Thama wolfed the rest of his groats, bade farewell to Fat Yazmah and found Afferas waiting for him with the two-horse carriage in front of the Residence. The former soldier was gruff as always, nodding to Thama as he opened the carriage door and put down the steps. Thama clambered inside and pulled the door shut. Afferas mounted the front seat, shook the reins, and they were off. Rastor, one of the dozen guards assigned to the Residence, stood by the gate in the high stonework fence and opened it at their approach.

They wended their way through the twisting, narrow, vertiginous streets toward the school. The Foreign Quarter was on the second-highest hill in Thandarell, and most of the huge Manthian city was visible below them, the air above it already shimmering with the Manthian summer heat. The town was a major trade center in spite of its being thirty leagues north of the Viceroy’s capital city of Orimell. It sprawled along five miles of both banks of the huge Vania River. Dozens of roads from southern Manthia’s justly famous farms converged on the city from east and west, guaranteeing an ample supply of fresh produce for the teeming ranks of the citizens. Wheat and rye and lumber and cotton in vast quantities passed into and out of the city on riverboats, destined for shipment to Bellatria, Vorado, and even the distant Empire of Aurdana.

As the carriage rounded a corner, Thama saw the blackened remnants of the Longshoreman’s Quarter. Smoke curled up from parts of it even now, a month after a wildfire swept through the shabby, tinder-dry wooden buildings. Only the high stone fence that separated the old city from the new one had kept the fire from destroying Thandarell altogether. More than a thousand had died in the conflagration. The survivors had been forced to erect a wretched shantytown on the northern edge of the ruins. Nafar had spoken of the diseases running rampant through the camp, and of the three Forgiven Healers who had been sent up from Orimell to deal with it.

Thama averted his eyes from the ruins, fixing his gaze on the distant riverboats, their sails drooping from their lateen masts in the scanty breeze. The camp must be terrible indeed for the Viceroy to be willing to send even one of the Forgiven, much less three. There were just ten of them in all of Manthia. Only the Dawn Lord knew what had happened to the rest.

The carriage continued down the hill toward the Foreign School, and at this point Thama’s memories began to grow hazy. He would never remember clearly the part of the day he spent at his studies. He knew that Brasten has teased him about his doublet and hose, much as he was certain that the sun had risen and set that day. He chose to believe that he had flirted with Suria Theminides, the daughter of the Aurdanan ambassador: a dark-haired, ivory-skinned beauty who always rose to his jests, and who teased him back just as mercilessly. He could never be certain that it had happened, though. She might not even have been there that day. He would come to regret not having a firmer memory of her. Even though the nations of Aurdana and Vorado were ancient enemies, she was the only one of his schoolmates he ever came to miss.

His memory grew sure again once Afferas had picked him up after school and driven him back to the Residence.

There were four strange horses in the courtyard being tended by a tall, lean, hard-looking man in black riding leathers. Thama instantly felt sorry for him. The cobblestone courtyard was as hot as an oven.

Blocked by the strange mounts, Afferas had to stop well short of his usual spot next to the paved walkway that led up to the house.

Thama stepped down from the carriage. “Damn these shoes and this heat together,” he whispered.

Afferas favored him with a crooked smile. “Sometimes no shoes are better than bad ones, young master.”

Thama laughed. “I think I’ll wait until I’m inside to take them off.”

Afferas escorted him to the head of the walkway, eyeing the man holding the reins of the horses with obvious suspicion.

Thama looked at the man sidelong. He had thick black hair, close-cropped to his skull, and the leathery brown skin of a man who spent all day every day in the sun. A scabbarded long sword and a long, curved dagger dangled from his waist belt. His face was as narrow and fierce as a leopard’s. Thama could not guess his age. Everything about his look said “soldier,” though “mercenary” would suit him just as well. He should have been sweating, but his skin as dry as his expression.

The man glanced at Thama. His eyes widened, but he said nothing. He nodded slightly.

Thama returned the nod, mystified by the man’s presence here. None but residential guards were allowed to bear arms in Thandarell’s Foreign Quarter.

“Who are you, fellow?” Afferas growled.

The stranger rasped, “My master is inside with yours. Ask him, if you will.” His sibilant accent was unlike any Thama had heard before. His eyes never left Thama.

A knot of tension began to form in Thama’s gut. He wiped the gathering sweat from his forehead and limped toward the Residence. He glanced back once, but Afferas was keeping his body between Thama and the stranger, and he had his hand on the pommel of his own short sword. The household guards opened the door for Thama, and he went inside. He glanced back as the doors closed behind him. His last glimpse of his bodyguard was of him turning to face the stranger in the courtyard, his mouth set in a stony frown.

“And here he is now.”

The voice was harsh and unfamiliar, but the accent was that of the man in the courtyard.

Thama whirled to face into the grand foyer.

His father stood there, wearing a simple blue tunic and gray woolen trousers, his dark hair bound into a long ponytail.

Three strange men sat on the circular benches on the far side of the circular chamber.

Thama stared at his father. Nafar Mardant's face was taut with anxiety. Ordan and Baris, two of the Residence's interior guards, stood on either side of him, glaring at the visitors with naked hostility written large on their guileless faces.

“Da,” Thama whispered. “What is happening?”

“I will tell you,” said one of the visitors. He rose from the bench. Ordan and Baris leaned forward, their hands moving to the hilts of their sheathed long swords.

Thama looked at the man who had just stood up. He was only a little taller than Thama, who was not tall even for a boy of fourteen. The man wore dark, dusty riding leathers almost identical to those of the man in the courtyard, and his skin and short hair were just as sun-darkened. There the resemblance stopped. This man was broad of chest, thickly muscled, and sported long sideburns that curled down along the sides of his round face. His thick lips were a startling shade of red. His face was somehow infantile in its crudeness—almost comically so—but there was nothing amusing about his eyes. They shone black and cruel in the middle of his weirdly babyish face, and they stared unblinking at Thama.

The other visitors stood a moment later. The one on the right was tall and thin—more a reed of grass than a man. He wore a forest green doublet with matching hose, and a violet sash was fastened around his waist. His eyes were an eerie shade of lavender. His tiny blond goatee tapered to a carefully waxed point, and a halo of thinning hair hovered above his scalp.

The third man stood behind the others. He wore a long gray robe with a hood that cloaked his face in shadow. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. Somehow Thama found it easier to look away from him than at him. Something about the hooded man chilled Thama to the bone.

“I will tell you,” the baby-faced man repeated. “We have come for you.”

The Return of the Blurb

2009-09-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

I'm beginning the prep work for book two, tentatively entitled "A Scent of War".

I have three queries out to prospective agents right now, and for some reason I can't get up the gumption to send any more out until I hear back from at least one of them.

Back to the fun part: creating and writing! I was so focused on "edit mode" for the last six months I forgot how much fun the actual process of writing is. Not to say that editing and revising isn't without certain charms. It's painful but also beautiful to see a more finished product emerge from the embryonic first draft. It's also quite startling (and educational) to see just how different the final draft turned out to be.

If I get a nibble from an agent, I'll let you know, O tiny group of readers.

In the meantime, I wanted to give my most ardent beta readers a reward for the work they put into their feedback and criticism. I just compiled a new version of the book for publication on Blurb.com. As I've already indicated, I wasn't too happy with Lulu in some ways. About the only advantage it had over Blurb was that I didn't have to use Blurb's vile Java-based book editing software. Even then, I had to export my manuscript from Pages (which I love) to Microsoft Word (which I loathe). Wrestling it into a publishable form was a bloody nightmare even with Lulu.

Although it's possible to import PDFs into Lulu, their prepress system is unbelievably finicky. There isn't a Mac program I can export the PDF from, including Adobe Acrobat, the King of PDF, which their system likes. I'm guessing it's a bit antiquated and wasn't specced out for cross-platform compatibility when they installed it.

Well, Blurb has made a giant leap since I last investigated them. They now support PDF import as well. What's more, their prepress system is fully Mac-compatible. All you have to do is save the files in PDF/X-3 format. Trivial to do with Acrobat.

I was able to preserve all the formatting just as I like it, use the font I want to use, and even design the book cover in Illustrator instead of being trapped into using a program that doesn't support optical kerning. Lo and behold, my files passed the Blurb prepress check, and I ordered ten more copies. They should be here in a few weeks, and I expect them to look as good as the first Blurb book did--only with real typography this time!

OK, back to the trenches. I've got plots to create.

A Better Synopsis

2009-09-05T08:49:00.001-07:00

Among the people of Edanar are the Talents: those born with rare, seemingly magical abilities. Two young men hold the fate of the world and perhaps of life itself in their hands.

One is Gothamon, the only survivor of a vast and mysterious explosion at sea, and whose mind is home to an alien life force of immense power and unknown intention.

The other is Thama, whose monstrous killing power and unique ability to learn new Talents make him the target of the sinister Emperor of Aurdana.

Major Merro Eramis, his beloved, the Healer Phaneril Aristedes, and the leaders of the free republic of Vorado seek to understand these powerful new Talents, only to uncover a dire prophecy: Merro must rescue Thama from the merciless agent of the Emperor, or their world--and a thousand others that circle their sun--will perish at Gothamon's hands.

Done.

2009-08-27T22:45:00.000-07:00

526 days since I began, and 186 days after completing the first draft, "The Storm Winds Rise" is finished.

172,433 words in 644 manuscript pages.

Done.

Next step: query letters and the agent search.

Done. That has a great ring to it.

Name Changes

2009-08-24T07:47:00.000-07:00

After spending so long thinking of my characters with their current names, it pains me to have to change them. Especially when one of them is the focus of so much of the novel.

But some changes are required, not because I dislike the names, but because I wasn't thinking about ways readers might pronounce them. Take "Mero Aramis", for example. He's the main man, the super-hero, and he's noble, kind and self-effacing. Yet his name is a problem. In my mind, "Mero" is pronounced "MARE-oh", yet it's all too easy for a non-telepathic reader to pronounce it "MEE-roh".

Mero the Hero. Ugh.

My reader said that she had a hard time warming to him until that pronunciation was made clear. So change it must, because I expect others will have a similar reaction. Fortunately the only population of readers that might be disconcerted by the change at this point is my happy group of beta readers.

But I still like Mero in its original spelling and pronunciation! Argh! I finally settled on making the spelling more phonetic. Henceforth he will be named "Merrow". Now all I have to worry about is people thinking about bone marrow, which isn't quite as big a problem. Dammit, now that I thought of that, I'll never be able to stop. OK, his name is now "Chuck". (Just kidding.)

OK, so much for Merrow's first name. What about Aramis? Yep, it's changing too. The same savvy reader who had trouble with 'Mero" reminded me that "Aramis" is the name of the most foppish of the Three Musketeers. Damnation! I've read that book several times and seen the cruddy movies. Why didn't I twig to that? Sometimes you're so close to the problem that you can't see it—just like my propensity for using the same distinctive adjectives in consecutive sentences.

So Mero's new name will be "Merrow Eramis". It's not quite as compact, but it still sounds the same. Grrrr. Hell, I might change his first name again to something completely different if it continues to stick in my craw. I'm not quite done with the final draft. There's still time.

There is one other name change that I have to make, though I doubt this will irritate many (if any) readers. Tinren Metter's surname is too similar to "Mettis." I haven't yet firmly decided on Metter's new name, but I'm leaning toward something completely different: Beradon. Tinren Beradon. That's not too bad. Distinctive enough in my gigantic cast.

I realized the other day that I've mentioned in the neighborhood of a hundred names in the book so far, although most of them are bit players. It's getting kind of tricky to keep them all straight.

Feedback Loops

2009-08-15T07:24:00.000-07:00

So what are the lessons I'm learning from all the feedback I've gotten on my book?

(1) I have an unfortunate tendency to repeat the same distinctive adjectives in close proximity to one another. I knew it was bad, but I didn't know it was this bad. Sometimes I do it in consecutive sentences! At least I haven't seen any instances in the same sentence. That would be depressing.

Worse yet is that these problems are all but invisible to me. I'm too immersed in the flow of my own consciousness to see many of them, even after multiple edits. The scene conjures up certain words in my mind, and those words work, as far as I'm concerned, so I have a tendency to repeat them. I find them rather embarrassing when I actually take note of them, because they're completely obvious to other readers, but right now, they're in my blind spot. If you ever decide to write a book, be aware that you too probably have blind spots, and the only real solution is to have other people critique your work.

(2) I've got to get out of the habit of setting the scene in a way that makes it seem like I'm going through a mental checklist. Example: clothing descriptions. At the beginning of each scene, whether I need to or not, when someone enters my viewpoint character's presence, I describe his or her clothing, whether it's relevant to the action or not. This is amateurish. (Well, no surprise; I am an amateur at the moment, after all. Easily fixed now that I'm aware of it.)

(3) I am a guy. (I already knew that.) Which means I have guy-viewpoints. Which means that I am not particularly good at emulating women's viewpoints on the same topics. Which means that if I don't get a feminine perspective on my stories, I am going to make some pretty egregious plot mistakes. Maybe this is a failure of empathy in me; maybe I've plumbed my own emotional depths and found that they're only just lapping around my ankles. Maybe I need to go out on a date. Whatever. I expect this is a problem I'm going to be stuck with for a while—probably forever.

(4) I do a pretty decent job of describing action and scene, but I do have a tendency to take too much for granted in certain areas of experience. The one I'm thinking about in particular is with regard to ships and sailing. While I'm no expert on these topics, I've been reading nautical fiction like a crazy man for the last two years. I finished Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey and Maturin books, and I'm eight titles into C.S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower series. I've read or skimmed several books on the Age of Sail. I'm fascinated by the topic.

I have to pull back from the more-or-less informed perspective I have on the subject in order to describe it properly to a general audience. I don't want to overwhelm them with detail, but at the same time I want to describe the scenes that involve sailing with the words appropriate to the subject. It's a fine line to balance, and I haven't quite mastered it yet.

(5) So far the feedback on the story itself has been extremely positive with a few minor exceptions. Several of the readers have told me that they're anxiously awaiting the next volume. That is the best kind of feedback, and very motivating.

I'm halfway through what I thought would be the final edit, and then I have to go through the truly astounding amount of feedback given to me by Erica Langdon (bless you), and then probably once more to make sure I haven't introduced any new errors. Let's see: I finished the first draft back in February, and now it's August: I think I've spent about as much time in revisions and edits as I did writing the book in the first place. Hopefully the next one won't take quite so long.

OK, back to the salt mines.

A Little Help From My Friends

2009-08-12T07:30:00.000-07:00

I am pleased and astonished at the amount of help my friends are giving me on this book. The feedback has been fantastic.

I'd like to publicly thank those of you who have contributed your time and energy to reviewing my "Monster In A Box", most especially the following people (listed in alphabetical order by last name): Archie Campbell, J Greely, Mark Klosowski, Erica Langdon, Max Pruden, Gordon Rios, and Allie Williams. Your encouragement, corrections, insights and thoughtful criticisms have (in my opinion) hugely improved the story. I can't thank you enough. Needless to say if this book ever sees print, you will be prominently featured in the acknowledgments.

Progress report: I'm about halfway through what I plan to make the final draft. I printed it out the other day in final manuscript form, using the font Courier 10, which I've always considered hideously ugly, but which seems to have a magical ability to reveal typos and extra spaces that I would never see if I were editing on the computer screen. I also feel fewer compunctions about marking up the double-spaced pages when they're set in this typewriter-style font. All of my subsequent books will be printed out like this.

The story line is firmly set, and I'm increasingly happy with it. Some much-needed and deeply appreciated feminine perspectives have contributed HUGELY to the improvement of the story of Mero and Phaneril. So far the feedback on these changes has been very positive.

I've lit fires under everyone to get me their final feedback as soon as possible, and I expect to be integrating their suggestions over the next few weeks. I'd really like to wrap this manuscript up and start shopping it around.

Speaking of which: in between extended editing sessions, I've been starting work on my query letter. Oh my God, it is horribly painful to try to summarize this huge, complex book in just a few hundred words. Based on what I've read on agent blogs and in books on writing good query letters, this is a monstrously important document, and it demands the highest level of professionalism, skill, and attention that I can bring to bear.

I expect to spend at least a month toying with the query letter. I'm trying to sell a series, not just a book, so the letter has to vibrate with energy and excitement and the promise of unspeakable riches in the form of agent commissions. If writing a book is like cooking a roast beef, writing the query letter is like making a superb demi-glace.

Okay, back to the trenches.

Place Name Pronunciation Guide

2009-07-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

Amistala (uh-MIST-uh-luh)
Aurdana (or-DAHN-uh)
Bellar (BEL-lar)
Bellatria (bel-LATT-ree-uh)
Brantia (BRAN-tee-uh)
Cyltane (SILL-tane)
Duelpa (DWELL-puh)
Elista (ee-LIST-uh)
Garadam (GARE-uh-dahm)
Garneo (garr-NAY-oh)
Levveria (lev-VARE-ee-uh)
Mantia (MAN-tee-uh)
Marholdgate (MAR-hold-gate)
Orimell (ORE-ih-mell)
Prashmar (PRASH-mar)
Rilata (rill-AH-tuh)
Savra (SAV-ruh)
Shestra (SHEST-ruh)
Talbrad (TALL-bruhd)
Tanashi Odana (tuh-NAHSH-ee oh-DAHN-uh)
Thandarell (THAN-duh-rell)
Thimral (TIM-rahl)
Vorado (vuh-ROD-oh)

Character Name Pronunciation Guide

2009-07-18T13:04:00.001-07:00

Sorted by nationality, last name, and first name

Bavvan Tribes

Edrian Behastis (ED-ree-uhn buh-HASS-tiss): Mercenary

Bellatria

Aran Betten (AH-run BET-uhn): Viceregal Guard
Osar Esteyen (OH-sarr ESS-tuh-yin): Caretaker of Tinren Metter
Brantes Hasteen (BRANT-eez hass-TEEN): Viceroy of Mantia
Karias Hasteen (KARE-ee-uss hass-TEEN): King of Bellatria
Tyana Hasteen (tie-ANN-uh hass-TEEN): Vicereine of Mantia
Madar Kershan (muh-DAR KUHR-shuhn): Mercenary
Oster Murideen (OSS-ter MURR-ih-deen): Surgeon, Shaura’s Rage
Horis Sotreen (HOR-iss soh-TREEN): Head of Ballant’s guard detail
Oram Yestern (ORR-uhm YESS-turn): Mercenary

Elista

Shara Adesko (SHARR-uh uh-DESK-oh): Sibyl
Tamra Afaz (TAM-ruh uh-FAHZ): Master Shaper, Academy of Lorian
Arszan Kyrenko (AR-san KEER-enk-oh): Husband of Jasta Aristedes (deceased)
Baraz Shadenko (buh-RAZZ shuh-DENK-oh): Captain, Perilous Desire
Utar Shadenko (uh-TAHR shuh-DENK-oh): Father-General of the Vescan Order

Garadam

Finian Bradorla (FINN-ee-uhn bruh-DORR-luh): Primary Shaper, Academy of Vorado
Adal Mettis (uh-DAHL METT-iss): Seeker of the Credein (Convert)

Mantia

Beda (BED-uh ): Vormil’s mother-in-law
Estan Baelus (uh-STAN BAY-uh-luss): Captain, Mantian Customs Patrol
Malliver Ballant (MALL-ih-ver BAL-unt): Governor-General of Orimell
Alard Berriver (ALL-uhrd BARE-uh-ver): Torturer
Astiver Derrant (ASS-tih-ver DARE-unt): Bishop of Orimell
Abaric Tristiver (ABB-uh-rick TRISS-tih-ver): Master Healer, servant of Brantes Hasteen
Cenric Tristiver (SIN-rick TRISS-tih-ver): Cell leader of the Brothers of Mantia
Efric Vormil (EFF-rick VORE-mill): Stevedore

Savra

Admar Hesanish (ADD-marr huh-SANN-ish): Sailing Master, Shaura’s Rage
Exer Torna (EX-uhr TORR-nuh): Lieutenant, Mero’s aide-de-camp

Vorado

Eshmer Amellis (ESH-murr uh-MELL-iss): Cavalry Sergeant, Royal Army
Mero Aramis (MARE-oh AIR-uh-mus): Major, Kestrels
Jasta Aristedes (JASS-tuh uh-RIST-uh-deez): Primarch of Vorado, Chancellor of the Academy
Phaneril Aristedes (FAN-uh-rill uh-RIST-uh-deez): Primary Healer, Academy of Lorian
Damindra Astanor (duh-MIND-ruh AS-tah-norr): Mother of Timaira Cullunet
Tamien Astanor (TAY-mee-uhn AS-tah-norr): figurehead King of Vorado
Darlan Asten (DARR-luhn ASS-tuhn): Sergeant, Mero Aramis’ orderly
Pilon Belias (PIE-lon buh-LIE-uss): Lord Healer, Academy of Lorian
Besher Callastar (BESH-uhr CAL-uh-star): Sergeant, Kestrels
Ranello Ceratis (ruh-NELL-oh suh-RAHT-iss): Lord of Shadows, Academy of Lorian
Handon Cullunet (HAN-duhn CULL-uh-net): Husband of Timaira Cullunet
Timaira Cullunet (tih-MARE-uh CULL-uh-net): Wife of Handon Cullunet
Serat Fadran (SARE-ut FAD-run): Master Healer, sworn to Mero Aramis
Alaret Fexen (AL-uh-rett FECKS-un): Knight-Seneschal of Cullunet household
Ordan Gallas (ORE-dun GAL-uss): Second Lieutenant, Shaura’s Rage
Hedric Gattis (HEAD-rick GATT-iss): Master Assayer (Convert)
Joran Gorias (JORE-uhn GORE-ee-uss): Sergeant, Kestrels
Aser Haltam (AZE-uhr HALL-tuhm): Chief Sergeant, Kestrels
Berat Hanser (BARE-uht HANN-suhr): Sergeant, Kestrels (Fusilier)
Vellet Harman (VELL-uht HARR-man): First Lieutenant, Shaura’s Rage
Allabel Harudis (AHL-uh-bell huh-ROOD-iss): Seneschal of Mardant Household, wife of Haffray
Haffray Harudis (HAFF-ree huh-ROOD-iss): Manservant of Nafar Mardant, husband of Allabel
Evitt Hasker (EV-it HASK-urr): Ganet Hothna’s steward
Ganet Hothna (GANN-it HOTH-nuh): Captain, Shaura’s Rage
Alyssa Mardant (uh-LISS-uh MARD-uhnt): Mother of Thama, wife of Nafar
Nafar Mardant (nuh-FAHR MARD-uhnt): Voradan Trade Consul, Thandarell, Mantia
Thama Mardant (THAH-muh MARD-uhnt): Son of Nafar and Alyssa Mardant
Tinren Metter (TIN-ruhn METT-uhr): Master Healer (Convert)
Gannar Orssa (GAN-ahr OR-suh): Sergeant, Kestrels
Albudrys Orstam (ahl-BYOO-driss OHR-stum): Lord Shaper, Academy of Lorian
Boreal Orstam (BORE-ee-uhl OHR-stum): Lord Assayer, Academy of Lorian
Odan Pelletet (OH-dan PEL-uh-tet): Telescope and glass maker
Branten Perlanides (BRANT-uhn purr-LANN-ih-deez): Master Messenger and Shadow
Randel Perlanides (RAND-uhl purr-LANN-ih-deez): Master Messenger and Shadow
Baris Santor (BARE-iss SANN-tor): Lord Commander, Academic Guard
Cady Senet (CAID-ee SENN-uht): Second Sergeant, Kestrels
Arombard Setten (AIR-uhm-bard SET-un): Lieutenant, Kestrels
Eddar Tassard (ED-ahr TASS-uhrd): Sergeant, Kestrels (Crossbowman)
Ebbet Thaster (EBB-it THASS-terr): Royal Glassmaster
Ashaya Variat (uh-SHY-uh VARE-ee-uht): Lady Interrogator, Academy of Lorian
Saro Variat (SAH-roh VARE-ee-uht): Younger brother of Mero, heir to Duke Valtar
Valtar Variat (VALL-tuhr VARE-ee-uht): Duke of Marholdgate

Winter Islands

Gothamon (GOTH-uh-monn ): Amnesiac boy found on raft by Mero
Iminar Goltam (IMM-ih-nar GOLL-tahm): Trade Consul, Vorado
Aberia Ildam (uh-BER-ee-uh ILL-dum): Master of Shadows, Academy of Lorian
Balides Lorian (BAL-uh-deez LORE-ee-uhn): Ultra, Creator of the Riverwall (deceased)
Balan Stornam (BAHL-uhn STORE-nuhm): Priest
Olan Vastam (OH-lann VASS-tuhm): Prince of the Winter Isles
Toman Vastam (TOW-muhn VASS-tuhm): Eldest Prince of the Winter Islands
Hasar Yorsham (HASS-ar YORE-shuhm): Guard

Unknown

Grash (GRASH ): Quiet Man

Chapter One, Try Five

2009-07-05T22:41:00.000-07:00

OK, so I've taken another stab at chapter one, scene one.

The rewrite was the result of some feedback from one of my beta readers, who had a lot of trouble with the sentence structure in the first few pages of the original version of chapter one. I was never completely comfortable with the opening scene myself, and I took it as a challenge to produce a scene that was both clearer and more entertaining than the original. So here it is. It's just a draft so there might still be a few problems, but I rather like the change.

Aboard H.M.R.W. Shaura’s Rage
150 leagues south of Duelpa Bay
3rd of Summersend in the Year 607 VR

“On deck there! Sail ho!”

Mero looked up as the lookout’s voice rang from the top of the foremast.

“Where away?” shouted Ganet Hothna, Captain of Shaura’s Rage.

“Directly off the larboard beam, not yet hull-up on the horizon!”

Mero and Ganet stood on the quarterdeck of the three-masted frigate, next to the helmsman at the ship’s wheel. Mero had been aboard the Rage long enough to have a nodding familiarity with the sailor’s jargon, but even after six months it hadn’t become second nature to him. He was facing the bow, so the larboard side was to his left. He turned and looked out across the shining waves.

He spotted the sail before Ganet did. “There she is,” he said, pointing.

“Ah yes,” Ganet said a moment later. “So, Major Mero Aramis: what kind of a ship has two masts, square-rigged on the foremast and fore-and-aft on the main?” He adopted a scholarly tone utterly at odds with his usual cheerful demeanor.

Mero racked his memory. “A sloop?”

Ganet snorted while the helmsman struggled to maintain a straight face. “No! A brigantine! By the Lord of the Dawn, Mero.”

“You sailors have a strange name for everything under the sun,” Mero grumbled, glaring down at Ganet. At six foot five, he was nearly a foot taller than the squat but burly captain.

Ganet shrugged. “And you groundhogs never seem to be able to learn them. You’ve been aboard six months!”

“Don’t remind me.” Mero shielded his eyes from the sun and looked more carefully at the ship. It was close enough to see the hull over the curve of the horizon now. Her wood was much darker than the blond oak favored by their own Voradan shipwrights. Both of her masts were rigged as Ganet had described. He said, “An Elistan brigantine, then, by the look.”

“Aye, so she is. Even you can recognize that ugly Elistan design well enough, at any rate. She sails west. I don’t think she’s seen us yet. She could be a merchantman.”

Even as Ganet spoke, the distant ship began to turn ponderously toward the Rage.

Mero grinned. “I think she heard you, old friend.”

“Let’s prepare a nice warm welcome for her, shall we?” Ganet turned and bellowed, “We will beat to quarters! All hands, ready her for entrapment! Helm, bring her about and make your course due east. All hands ready to make sail!”

“Aye-aye, sir!” came a chorus of answers from about the ship. Someone began to beat rapidly on a snare drum below deck. Sailors wearing ostentatiously dirty linen shirts and threadbare slops climbed up from below and scurried into the rigging, climbing the shrouds that braced the masts to the sides of the ship and stationing themselves along the yards with uncanny speed. Mero swallowed to quell the growing uneasiness in his stomach. Not now, damn it all, he told himself.

“Mister Harman!” bellowed Ganet.

A red-faced man appeared as if by magic. Like everyone else on deck, he wore a loose-fitting, filthy shirt and heavily patched canvas slops. His left arm ended at the elbow, and his sleeve was tied into a knot just below the stump. “Aye, sir,” he said. Even after six months aboard the Rage, Mero still found himself rankling at the deliberate absence of salutes, but you’d never see a salute aboard a real merchantman.

“Lieutenant, prepare the ship to wallow,” Ganet said in a sour voice.

“Prepare to wallow, aye-aye sir,” Harman said with a grin. He disappeared into the crush of sailors scurrying around the deck.

“I think he takes a little too much pleasure in repeating that order,” Ganet grumbled.

Shaura’s Rage turned away from the wind. Her sails billowing as they filled with the light afternoon breeze. She began to pick up speed, and the hiss of water against the hull grew louder.

“Ship ready to wallow, sir!” cried Harman from somewhere amidships. Mero looked for the voice and saw Harman standing next to a group of six sailors standing next to the larboard rail at the ship’s waist. They held something large and blue between them.

“Drop the sea anchors!” shouted Ganet.

The six men wrestled the object over the side. Another group of sailors dropped something similar over the starboard side at the same instant. The heavy cables attached to the anchors quickly played out and slipped over the side as well. Mero knew that the sea anchors were attached to the bottom of the ship’s hull to keep them from being visible to their pursuers. They would be cut free as soon as the close-in battle began.

The ship’s speed dropped rapidly in spite of the full mainsails.

“Topgallants and royals,” Ganet shouted. The sailors swarmed up the masts to do his bidding, and in moments the sails were sheeted home. The masts creaked against the strain, but the ship did not gain much speed.

“She’s making three knots, sir!” cried a young midshipman standing near the waist.

“Very well,” Ganet said. He chortled. “We ride low enough in the water that we look like we’re full of whale oil or some other heavy cargo. If they’re pirates, their deck will be awash with drool right about now. Look.” Ganet pointed at the distant vessel. Every scrap of sail her masts could bear was aloft, and she seemed to grow larger by the second.

“Plenty of panicked maneuvers, Mr. Ardo,” Ganet said.

“Aye-aye, sir!” The helmsman turned the wheel rapidly, and the Rage heeled over as she lurched to starboard.

“It seems a little unfair,” Mero observed dryly. “They think they’re going to swoop down on a defenseless merchantman who couldn’t sail his way across a mill pond.”

“Unfair?” Ganet roared in mock outrage. “They’re pirates! I suppose you groundhogs shoot rockets off to give away your position before you ambush your foes, Major Mero-bleeding-Aramis of the Third Kestrel Brigade?”

Mero laughed. “Enough, enough! I concede the point.” He looked out at the pirate vessel, now pursuing them from behind. “How long, do you think?”

Ganet scratched his face through his thick brown beard. The light color of his hair contrasted oddly against his deep brown sailor’s skin. “An hour, maybe. Could be less. They’ve got the weather gage and a freshening breeze at their backs. Those sea anchors are bloody efficient, but that’s our last pair. We’re headed back to Duelpa to resupply even if this doesn’t turn out to be Shadenko.”

Mero said, “It’s him. I have a good feeling about this one.”

Ganet shook his head. “You say that every time.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “All hands, to your action stations!”

“Begging the captain’s pardon,” Mero said, bowing. “I must repair to the cabin to find attire suitable to your little party.”

Ganet guffawed. “The carpenters have already struck your cabin by now, but they probably left your fighting gear out for you. Go on, you great beast, get dressed. It’s almost time for you to show off again.”

Mero chuckled as he climbed rapidly down to the gun deck. By the light of the oil lamps hanging from the low ceiling, he saw that his cabin and the captain’s as well had already been struck down into the hold to clear the deck for action. Two groups of at least two dozen musketeers crowded both ends of the deck, loading their weapons. Mero slipped past the crews who were preparing the Rage’s twenty eight heavy twelve-pound cannon for action.

Mero grinned as he made his way through the musketeers at the stern end of the deck. The pirates wouldn’t be expecting so many armed men to come pouring up from below. Nor would they expect real guns behind the deliberately false-looking square ports painted on the side of the Rage’s smoothly curved hull.

Merchant vessels routinely made themselves up to look like military ships to discourage pirates. Shaura’s Rage was a masterpiece of deception. She had been designed to look like a slightly down-at-the-heels whaler instead of a Voradan Royal Navy vessel. She had been successfully luring pirates to their doom for more than fifty years. He had no doubt that today she would emerge from the fray victorious once more.

Mero found his gear along an empty stretch of wall near the former location of his tiny cabin, just as Ganet predicted. He quickly donned his thick fighting jerkin and padded leather breeches, then slung his heavy sword belt around his waist.

An armorer wended his way through the musketeers to hand Mero his saber and dagger, both sheathed. “Sharp and clean, sir. Good hunting.”

“My thanks,” Mero said, nodding. He clipped the weapons onto his belt, then accepted the pair of loaded pistols the armorer handed to him, tucking them into the belt as well. When he was done he spent a few minutes talking with the Marines and the gun crew captains, spreading encouragement while gauging their mood, just as he would if he were preparing his own men for battle. The crew was eager to fight. Elistan pirates had been a scourge on the sea lanes south of Duelpa for many years, and to a man, the sailors and Marines aboard the Rage looked forward to taking another one of their ships out of commission one way or another—and to the money the prize would bring.

Mero gave a start as the ship’s bell ring four times. He’d lost all track of time. He made his way up the main hatch and glanced around. Only the sailors necessary for the entrapment maneuver were on deck now, as well as the riggers who handled the sails. Ganet still kept the helmsman company, but they were the only two men standing upright on the quarterdeck. All other hands were below. The pirates would think they had fled the deck from cowardice, but in truth nearly the entire ship’s company was waiting to join the battle.

Mero crawled on hands and knees from the main hatch aft to the quarterdeck. He kept his head well below the top of the gunwales so the enemy wouldn’t see him moving into position. A dozen or more sailors dressed as he was were already crouching behind the taffrail, and he could see another cluster of them hiding in the distant bow.

“Hurry, they’re getting close,” Ganet said in a low voice.

Mero scrambled across the quarterdeck to kneel behind the taffrail. He kept a hand on his scabbard to keep the long blade from interfering with his movements. “How close?” he whispered.

“About five hundred yards. They’re maneuvering to close with us on the starboard side.”

Mero moved on hands and knees to a position behind the starboard gunwale. The waist-high rails were nearly as thick as the Rage’s hull. They would withstand a direct hit by anything short of a twelve pounder.

Just then a pair of loud booms echoed across the water, followed closely by the low, ominous thrum of cannonballs flying low overhead. There was a sharp sound like a hand-clap. At the same instant a sailor in the rigging screamed and fell. There was a splash as his body struck the water.

Mero glanced up and saw instantly that one the riggers clutching the mainsail yard was missing. They stood precariously on a thick rope that was fastened at intervals to the yard. One of them was missing. There was a handspan-wide hole in the bottom edge of the topsail, near the starboard end of the yard. The fabric nearby was spattered with blood.

“Damn it all,” Ganet said, stomping over to the rail next to Mero and looking down at the waters.

“Anything?” Mero whispered.

“He’s gone,” Ganet hissed. He looked up and glowered at their pursuers. “Bloody pirates. Well, if we weren’t sure of their plans before, we are now.”

As if on cue, a gravelly voice with a pronounced Elistan accent called out from the other vessel. “Ahoy the ship! Heave to and prepare to be boarded! Strike your colors! You’ll not be harmed if you surrender! If you fight you’ll swim back to fucking Duelpa if the sharks don’t eat you first!”

Ganet shouted toward the main mast, “All hands, drop sail! Rudder amidships!”

A chorus of “aye-ayes” echoed back toward the quarterdeck. The sails went down quickly, and the hiss of water against the hull quickly died away as the sea anchors arrested the ship’s momentum.

“They’re about a hundred yards away now,” Ganet said in an undertone.

“How are their forces disposed?” Mero whispered.

“The usual. About two dozen boarders lined up along the rails, most of ‘em with flintlocks. The rest are just carrying swords and hatchets and the like. As motley crew as I’ve ever seen.”

“Any gunners in the tops?”

A puzzled look appeared on Ganet’s bearded face. “Now that you mention it, no. That’s odd.”

“Yes, it is,” Mero mused. “Well, I don’t like to question gifts. What about their captain?”

Ganet shaded his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun. He grinned. “Big, burly sod with a thick black beard. Brown as a nut, like any sailor in these latitudes.”

Mero’s pulse quickened. “Could be Shadenko, then.”

“Could be. Or could just be a run of the mill pirate. He’s got the beard for it.”

Mero snorted. “You’re just jealous that yours doesn’t turn black, no matter how much time you spend in the sun.”

Ganet sighed heavily. “Don’t I know it. Lord of the Dawn, Mero, that ship looks like she could break apart in a strong breeze. The Admiralty must really have it in for him.”

“Can you see her name?”

Ganet shook his head. “Probably painted on the stern, but I can’t see it from here. All right, boys, steady on. She’s almost on us.”

The Elistan voice boomed across the water once again. “I said, strike your colors! I won’t say it again!”

Ganet turned and shouted toward the mainmast. “Flags! You heard the man!”

“Aye-aye, sir!” came the reply from the maintop. The long blue pennant of the Voradan Merchant’s Guild began a lethargic descent from the masthead.

“She’s dropped all sail,” Ganet whispered. “Coming along side in three... two... one... now.”

Mero could hear the catcalls and gibes of the pirates as the other ship drew abreast of them. Then their taunts changed to shouts of alarm. Mero knew that the crews on the deck below had just pulled in the form-fitting gun port covers, revealing the maws of seven twelve pounder carronades. What had looked to the pirates like a fat, defenseless merchantman had just bared some very real teeth.

“Raise the true colors!” shouted Ganet.

The signalman frantically hoisted a new pennant to the top of the mast. It bore the blue and red stripes of the Royal Navy of Vorado.

“They’ve got cannon!” one of the pirates shouted an instant before the Rage’s twelve great guns roared.

Mero jumped as the cannon blasts struck his ears like hammer blows. A dull white roar filled his head in the wake of the concussions, but it could not disguise the screams of the men on the other ship.

Someone on the pirate vessel roared, “Return fire!”

“Everyone, drop!” shouted Ganet as he followed his own advice.

Most of the Rage’s guns were pre-aimed to take out the pirate’s cannon, and the rest to wreak havoc on the boarders who would inevitably be lined up along the rail. Thus only two cannon blasts sounded from the enemy vessel.

A hail of grapeshot hammered at the side of the Rage. The plum-sized lead balls caromed off the steelwood-reinforced hull without effect. The second blast followed an instant later. This one was aimed at the rigging. There was a chorus of shouts as the chain shot slashed through the horse line that supported the feet of the topsail riggers. Most of them managed to hang onto the yard, but two of them fell screaming thirty feet to the deck.

Mero stood, bringing his pistols to bear on the pirate ship. The other sailors crouching behind the aft gunwales rose to their knees, aiming their muskets at the figures on the deck of the pirate ship.

The boarders who’d been assembled along the rails had been cut down in the dozens by the Rage’s opening volley. Blood dripped from the scuppers down the slab-like side of the ancient pirate ship, creating patterns that resembled the roots of crimson trees. The lower sails and rigging were cut to ribbons. The twenty or so pirates who still stood looked dazedly at their fallen comrades. Only a few of them still held guns. The rest clutched swords and knives. The black-bearded captain whom Ganet had described was nowhere to be seen. Panic surged through Mero’s veins. He prayed that the captain had not been maimed or killed in the volley.

“Musketeers!” cried Ganet, rising from his crouch behind the gunwale.

Men poured out of the small deck house at the front end of the Rage. They swiftly lined up along the gunwales and took aim at the pirate ship. More musketeers clambered up the ladder of the main hatch, unslinging their long guns as they took cover behind the short gunwales along the waist.

The pirates began to recover. More of them emerged from below deck, though no better armed than their fellows. They shouted with alarm as they scrambled to find cover. Only a few scattered gunshots rang out from the pirate ship. None of them found their mark.

Mero aimed his pistol at a red-faced pirate with brown hair who was bellowing at the men around him to get up and fight.

“Fire!” roared Ganet Hothna.

Mero’s pistol added its throaty bark to the rippling volley of gunshots.

His target’s head jerked back as the ball took him just below the left eye. The man dropped like a stone, blood fountaining from his face.

Dozens of pirates fell as the other Ragers found their targets. Those who held guns returned fire as best they could, but there were too few of them still standing. The panic in their numbers began to spread.

A dozen Ragers emerged from behind the shelter of the forecastle. They hurled grappling hooks over to the pirate ship. Sailors boiled up from the main hatch and helped the grapplers haul the ropes taut. The riggers descended from the yards like panicked monkeys and added their strength to the grapplers’ ranks. The two ships drew together with astonishing speed.

Someone on the pirate’s quarterdeck bellowed “Reinforcements!”

Mero glanced in the direction of the voice. He grinned. The big black-bearded pirate captain stood there, screaming at his men to fight.

“That’s Shadenko, all right!” he shouted to Ganet.

The burly pirate captain’s head jerked up at the sound of his name. Mero was about to shout to him to surrender when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a pirate trying to cut a Rager’s grappling line. He aimed his remaining pistol at the man’s head, waited for the rocking vessel beneath him to reach the top of a swell, and fired. The pirate jerked and dropped his knife. A moment later he pitched over the gunwale and followed his weapon into the sea.

“Good shooting!” Ganet shouted.

Mero grinned back at his friend. He dropped the pistol. The ships were close enough together to board, and he didn’t have time to reload. Ragers scrambled to the tops of the gunwales and leaped across the narrowing gap to the pirate ship, swinging their swords in long and deadly arcs.

“Surrender!” he yelled at the pirate captain.

“Death first!” the black-bearded man said, grinning and pulling a machete from his belt.

Mero drew his long, wickedly curved saber from its scabbard with his right hand, and pulled a long, straight dagger from its sheath with his left. As he ran to the gunwale he focused his attention inward.

He called upon his Talent.

He pushed.

Instantly the power was inside him, ready to be unleashed. His strength multiplied three-fold.

He leaped, clearing the gunwale and the gap between the ships with effortless ease. For a dizzying instant there was nothing below him but the endless blue depths. He came down between the ship’s masts, squarely in the middle of a cluster of ten pirates who were trying to regroup. He glimpsed the whites of their eyes as they gaped up at him in the instant before he smashed into them.

He rolled with the impact and was on his feet in an instant. His Talent coursed through him, stealing heat from his body as he began to fight.

He thrust his dagger into the face of one man, puncturing his eye with unerring aim. Hot gore spurted onto his hand. The pirate fell away, shrieking. He raised his saber and smashed it down at the three pirates standing to his right. His Talent-wrought blade was sharper than any mundane weapon could ever be. It severed limbs and torsos with indifferent ease. The saber trailed a gaudy red arc that sprayed against the open-mouthed pirates standing behind the dead men as they crumpled to the deck.

Time began to slow for him.

Mero carved a hole in the pirates’ ranks for the other boarders. The enemy fell beneath his blades. He was a whirlwind of death. He took a few wounds, but nothing of consequence. He drew on his Talent and the pain vanished even as the cold leached into his bones.

Ragers poured into the gap Mero had made for them. The pirates fell back against the onslaught.

Mero shouted, “Vorado!”

The cry was taken up by the other Ragers. “Vorado! Vorado!”

The pirates blanched. Mero saw hope fade from their eyes. Vorado’s Navy showed no mercy to pirates. The pirates rejoined the fight with a recklessness bordering on insanity.

It was their recklessness Mero was counting on. He was more than a match for them. His blades were red from tip to guard, and he wielded them with savage precision. His body instinctively struck a balance between the heat created by the hard work of fighting and the chilling demands of his Talent.

Then he slipped on the slick redness beneath his boots. He felt the tip of a long blade puncture his heavy fighting vest and pierce deep between the ribs of his left side. Agony speared through him.

A Rager’s cutlass chopped down on the hand that held that sword, severing it before it could drive the knife all the way home. The pirate staggered back, howling in agony. Without hesitation the sailor pulled the needle-slender dirk from Mero’s side.

He gasped. Something bubbled up in his throat. The blade had gone deep.

He drew deep from his Talent. The pain vanished, but his fighting balance was upset. His Talent sucked heat from him. An icy chill spread from his gut into his limbs, and he began to shiver. Suppressing pain was harder than boosting strength and agility. The battle must end soon, or he would be forced to withdraw.

He threw himself back into the fight. He slashed at the handless pirate who’d knifed him. The man flopped to the deck, blood spouting from his nearly-severed neck.

Hot liquid ran down Mero’s side from the now-painless wound. His blades dispatched one victim, then another, and another. He thrust and parried and dodged with a speed bordering on miraculous. Pirates fell in blood-soaked heaps around him like stalks of wheat beneath a scythe.

His dagger suddenly caught in a pirate’s chest. He tried to wrench it free, but it was hilt-deep in the breast bone. As he tried to pull again, he felt a searing agony as his right forearm was sliced open. His sword fell to the deck. Grunting with the effort, he ripped the dagger out of his fallen victim with his left hand and jammed it up under the jaw of his new attacker.

The pirate gurgled and fell.

Blood ran down from the long cut on his forearm. His Talent deadened the pain to a dull throb. He quickly tested his grip, found that it still existed, scooped up his sword without hesitation and rejoined the fight.

A crossbow bolt slammed into his right shoulder. He reeled away from the impact. It was buried in the muscle, much too deep for him to pull out. He drew even harder on his Talent, and the agony faded to a dull ache.

He fought on.

Something hard struck him on the back of the head. Red bolts blazed through him. The pain was staggering, but he somehow managed to keep his feet.

He fought on.

“He’s Accursed!” one of the pirates shrieked, just before the point of Mero’s saber went through his throat.

The few remaining pirates broke and ran, screaming in terror.

The Ragers pursued the fleeing pirates down the hatches into the depths of the ship. They screamed “Vorado!” at the top of their lungs.

Mero spun around. Suddenly there was no one left to fight.

He looked at the quarterdeck.

Three Ragers held the pirate captain at sword-point. Dead men lay everywhere around him, but the captain was untouched.

Mero’s six-month mission was accomplished.

He stumbled over to the quarterdeck.

The black-bearded pirate stared at him with eyes as blue as the sky. Dismay and awe fought for possession of his craggy brown face.

“Sorry, Admiral,” Mero said. “It’s not your destiny to die today. You’re needed elsewhere.” Then he coughed. He wiped his mouth, and it came away red.

The pirate’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

The chill was deep in his bones now. Mero released his hold on the Talent, all but what was necessary to keep the agony of his many wounds at bay. And they were many, he realized belatedly, looking down at his bloody arm and the end of the bolt protruding from his shoulder. Something hot was in his mouth. He spat. A gobbet of bright red blood sprayed onto the already-crimson deck. A faint buzzing filled his ears. He shook his head, but it wouldn’t go away. His sword and dagger fell from his suddenly listless hands.

“Major,” someone behind him said.

He turned slowly.

It was Vellet Harman, the one-armed first officer of Shaura’s Rage. He held a bloody cutlass in his good right hand. His red face was creased with worry.

“Oh, hello, Harman,” he said faintly. A wave of nausea broke over him. Black spots began to dance in front of his eyes, swelling and shrinking in time with the beating of his heart.

Harman dropped his sword to the deck and gently grasped Mero by his unwounded forearm. “We need to get you back to the Rage, sir. Right now.”

Mero let himself be guided back to the broad gangplank that now bridged the cap between the Rage and the pirate ship. Two sailors helped him across, one in front of him, the other behind. The walk was not long but Mero felt his strength ebbing with every step. His Talent was draining all of the heat in his body. He shivered again, and this time he couldn’t stop.

“Fadran!” Vellet Harman shouted. “Mero needs you! Now!”

He felt himself being lowered to the deck. Pain seared through him as one of the sailors bumped the end of the bolt in his shoulder. He cried out, then coughed as something hot and tasting of iron bubbled up into his throat. He turned his head and coughed again, and was shocked at the number of bright red spots that appeared on the clean wooden deck. “Ganet’s not going to like that,” he mumbled thickly.

“Mero!”

He turned his head, squinting against the bright afternoon sunlight.

The face hovering over him was that of a lean young man with a shock of thinning blond hair. His striking green eyes were wide. “Let it go,” he urged. “Let your Talent go, Mero! You’re freezing.” He looked up at someone outside of Mero’s view. “Zane! Three cauldrons, and a skin of healer’s wine. Now!”

Mero knew that he should obey the man’s command. He could barely feel his arms and legs, and his shivers were growing into convulsions. He’d never gone this far before. He remembered one of Boreal Orstam’s lessons at the Academy then. The Lord Assayer spoke of Journeymen who’d actually frozen themselves to death before relinquishing their hold on the Talent. If he didn’t want to join their ranks, he would have to let the pain in.

He released the Talent. Torment filled his world. He couldn’t draw a breath deep enough to scream. Black bolts of agony swept through his head from the crushing blow he’d taken. A lance had been driven through his side. His arms and legs were rigid with cold. He gasped for air. A curious sense of empty detachment began to fill him. Am I dying? He wondered what it would feel like.

The blond man appeared above him once again, blotting out the sun.

Mero recognized him at last. “Serat Fadran,” he gasped, choking.

“Shut up, Mero,” the young man said. “Your lung is full of blood. Hang on. The cauldrons will be here soon.”

“Serat...” Mero mumbled. “If I don’t... if I don’t....”

“Shut up, I said!” Fadran glared down at him. “I haven’t let you die yet, have I? You’ve had worse wounds than this one.”

“Liar,” Mero whispered. Then he heard the clatter of approaching footsteps.

“Thank the Dawn Lord,” Fadran said. “Put them down. Open them. Baritt, get the small bellows and stoke those coals well.”

Something heavy thumped the deck near his head. There was a metallic ringing sound that grew louder with each passing second. The clear blue sky was growing dim, and it was too early for dusk. “Tell Phaneril,” he whispered. “Tell her....”

“Tell her yourself,” Fadran snarled.

A wave of blackness engulfed Mero. His body seemed to drift away into the void. The agony became dull and remote.

Then a bonfire exploded inside his head.

He screamed in earnest, then, choking on the blood in his throat. A molten serpent writhed inside his skull, looking for the seat of his soul. It found it. Its fangs bit down hard. Red agony flared through every fiber of his body.

Without warning, all sensation vanished.

He floated in a milky void. Light came from everywhere—or perhaps from nowhere. It was white and soft and pleasant. He could no longer feel his body at all. But he could hear something. He strove to make out the words.

Depressed fracture of the parietal. Hematoma. Concussion. Oh, that’s a bad bleeder.

If Mero had a brow, he knew it was wrinkling in puzzlement. The sounds were familiar, but he couldn’t put meanings to them.

Blood and death, Mero, you’re as cold as ice. There. That will help. Now, what else? the words echoed around him. As the voice droned on, the words began to have meaning. Punctured lung, of course. Nicked the liver too. Gods above and below, that blade went deep. Lucky it didn’t sever the abdominal aorta. There was a long pause. Then: All right, that’s taken care of. What now? The crossbow quarrel. Missed the radial artery, thank the Dawn Lord. There was another lengthy pause. Down to cuts and bruises. Oh, that’s a nasty one. All right, Mero, it’s time to wake up. I’ve got other patients to see.

No, Mero whispered, or thought he did. Comfortable here.

Don’t be an infant, the voice said. Wake up!

The milk-white void began to dissipate around him, yielding to abstract shapes and forms that were disturbingly familiar. There was a broad swath of azure with a bright yellow dot in it. Brown and blue shapes moved around him. Sounds that were probably words echoed strangely in his ears.

Then the world snapped into focus.

He still lay on his back, on the deck of the Rage. The sunlight felt good on his skin. He was exhausted to the bone, but that was normal enough after a battle. The pain had vanished, but he was desperately thirsty.

Serat Fadran stared down at him with his hands on his hips and a familiar disapproving grimace on his face.

Mero squinted. He raised a hand to block the sunlight. “My thanks,” he said. His stomach rolled as he realized that his tongue was still thick with clotted blood.

“Drink up, and when you’re done, get to your bunk,” the healer said, dropping a wineskin onto Mero’s chest without ceremony. He was gone before Mero could say another word. It was then that the cries of other wounded men began to filter into his consciousness. They came from all around him.

Mero grabbed the skin before it slid onto the deck. He sat up, uncapped the nozzle, squeezed some of the so-called “healer’s wine” into his mouth and swirled it around.

“Don’t spit that on my deck,” a gruff voice said from behind him.

The bearlike Captain of Shaura’s Rage had evidently come up behind Mero while Fadran was Healing him. He wore a wrinkled gray linen blouse and a matching pair of sailor’s slops that had once been white. He looked down at Mero with a severe expression beneath his dark brown beard.

“Over the side, or swallow it,” Ganet Hothna said. “You’ve already bled enough on my ship. The men will be holystoning these decks for days as it is.”

Mero suppressed a grin. He got to his feet and stood a bit unsteadily, still clutching the wineskin. Ganet was at his side in an instant, helping him to the rail. Mero leaned far out and spat the wine into the waters between the Rage and the pirate ship. He was seized by a fit of coughing that seemed to last for hours. Gobbets of blood and mucus desecrated the innocent waves. Finally, he recovered enough to take a breath, and the fit of coughing passed.

“My thanks,” he rasped, looking down at Ganet. He stood nearly a foot taller than the squat but muscular Captain. Without waiting for a reply, he drank deep from the wineskin. Healer’s wine wasn’t wine at all, but a sweet, heavy drink that was supposed to help replenish lost blood. It tasted of cinnamon and pomegranate and not the slightest trace of alcohol. Mero found it cloying, but he couldn’t deny its effectiveness. He began to feel better immediately, but he knew from hard experience that it would be days before he would be ready for a fight again.

He drank until his stomach bulged, then capped the wineskin and looked back at the deck where he had lain. The boards were indeed covered with blood. Three iron cauldrons filled with cold black coals sat next to the spot where the sailors had placed him.

Mero frowned. “He used three pots, eh? That’s got to be a record.”

“You gave the lad quite a fright,” Ganet said severely. “He went pale as snow when they put you down.”

Mero shrugged. “He wasn’t as frightened as I was.” He glanced around to get his bearings.

Perhaps twenty Voradan sailors lay elsewhere on the deck, moaning or screaming as their wounds dictated. Serat Fadran knelt among them, as did the ship’s regular surgeon, Oster Murideen, a tough old Bellatrian who’d fled his home country in favor of Vorado during the last border war. Mero could hear Fadran ordering Murideen’s three young loblolly boys to fetch more cauldrons of hot coals from the galley.

Mero felt a twinge of envy. Fadran was a Master Talent. He could draw his power from the fire in the coals. Mero was just a Journeyman, and had to rely on his own body’s heat to drive his abilities. His jealousy faded as he watched Fadran work. The young Healer was sworn to Mero’s service, but he gave freely of his abilities to Ganet and his crew. The sailors loved him for it. Murideen was a fine surgeon, but he could not match a Talented Healer at the prime of his abilities.

Mero looked at the captured prize. Bodies littered the deck. A few exhausted-looking sailors stood guard over the corpses, muskets at the ready should one of them decide to stand up again. Blood ran down from the scuppers, creating patterns like crimson roots on the slab-like side of the decrepit Elistan vessel. Tattered sheets hung from the yardarms, torn to shreds by the canister shot from the Rage’s cannon. The air was thick with the foul odors of battle: gunpowder, bile, blood, and feces. A whirlwind of seagulls had already formed over the captured ship, waiting until the corpses were tossed overboard.

Mero shook his head. So many dead, just to capture one man. “How goes the fight?” he asked Ganet somberly.

The captain snorted. “Just mopping up. There weren’t many survivors. Lord of the Dawn, Mero, I think you killed half of them yourself. Never seen the like, even from you.”

Mero looked for the captured pirate captain on the other ship’s quarterdeck. A Voradan sailor stood at the wheel, but there was no sign of the beefy Elistan. “Don’t tell me their captain is dead!” Mero barked.

“Just a few scratches and bruises. He’s below deck, under guard. The rest of them will be over the side soon enough. Harman plans to make our prisoner watch.”

Mero cleared his throat and spat into the water with great deliberation.

Ganet shrugged. “I don’t like it much myself, but orders are orders. Not enough room on The Twins for our own prisoners, much less these scum.”

“We could always ransom them back.”

Ganet laughed. “Who’d pay for them? The Elistans can’t admit that they’re sending pirates against our merchant fleets! Come now, Mero. For such a hard soldier you’ve got a damned soft heart.”

“That’s why the ladies love me,” Mero said, trying to smile. He opened the wineskin again and took a deep draught of the sweet liquid inside. Both of his hands were shaking. “I’m going to lie down for a bit. Treat their captain well, all right? He’s the man I’ve been looking for.”

“I know,” Ganet said, smiling smugly. “I went over and looked down at her stern. Her name was painted there, plain as day. She’s the Perilous Desire, all right.”

Mero’s grin broadened. “Good news.”

“We can start back for Duelpa tomorrow. It’ll take a bit for my lads to secure the prize and dispose of those bloody pirates, and I want everyone to get a good night’s sleep before we make way.”

Mero’s smile vanished. He didn’t wish to be awake to see that. Killing men in open battle was one thing; tossing them overboard to drown in the middle of the sea was another. “Do me a favor? Leave their captain below-deck for that. It’s going to be hard enough to convince him to come over to us as it is.”

Ganet scowled. “As you like. Harman won’t like it. He hates Elistans.”

“Bugger Harman,” Mero said softly.

“I’d rather not, but you’re welcome to take a crack at him.”

Mero shook his head and made his way across the crowded deck to the main hatch, chuckling in spite of himself. He clambered down the ladder onto the gun deck. The crews were securing their cannon and sponging them out to prepare for the next battle, whenever that may be. The carpenters were busy erecting the bulkheads that comprised the walls of the captain’s quarters at the aft end of the long room. One of them caught sight of Mero and dashed over. “Won’t be a minute, sir.”

“Take your time,” Mero replied. A few minutes later they had rebuilt a miniscule cabin attached to the captain’s quarters in the rear of the deck. It wasn’t big enough to hold a man of Mero’s size comfortably. Its sole saving grace was that it had an actual wooden bunk. No one, least of all Mero, could understand why he was unable to sleep in the more usual freely-swinging hammock, insulated from the motion of the rolling seas. Sleepers in bunks were subject to every roll, pitch and yaw—everything that made him sea-sick while he was awake. Even in the depths of slumber, Mero seemed to have an instinctive need to know the exact state of the ship. Fortunately Ganet was willing to accommodate him.

The carpenters finished at last. They’d even made his bunk. Mero nodded his gratitude. They knuckled their foreheads in grinning obeisance. Mero was a notorious landlubber but the sailors of the Rage all seemed to like him. “Get some rest, sir,” one of them said.

“That’s my plan,” Mero said, yawning again. He opened the thin cabin door and closed it behind him. Only a little light from the gun cabin penetrated the cracks above and below the edges of the bulkhead, but it was enough to see by. He peeled off his bloody clothing and dropped them to the floor. He pulled a long night shirt from the chest the carpenters had stowed beneath his bunk, shrugged into it, and collapsed onto the thin bedroll atop the too-short bunk. He curled into a ball, closed his eyes, sighed once, and began to snore.

Beta

2009-06-22T21:02:00.000-07:00

I decided to self-publish a few copies of "The Storm Winds Rise" and give them to friends who were interested in beta-reading it. The books are back and I've handed a few out, and I'm getting ready to mail a bunch to friends who live as far away as Hawaii, Maine, and even Ireland.

It was surprisingly inexpensive. Although I'm not entirely happy with the covers, the interior print job done by Lulu.com was quite passable. I did a one-off copy through Blurb.com, and although the print quality was good, the binding and the cover were excellent, the wretched import and typographical characteristics of their software were an absolute turn-off.

Although Lulu has its share of problems, the experience preparing the manuscript for publication was much easier. I was irritated that their pre-press service can't seem to handle Mac PDF files of any kind, even those generated using Adobe Acrobat and Distiller. I wrote the book in Apple Pages (2009 edition). It's such a breeze to do press-ready layouts in Pages.

It was depressing to have to save it as a Microsoft Word document so I could upload it to Lulu. There were quite a few edits that had to be made to get the format quite right, and even then the idiotic way it handles "odd vs. even" (as opposed to the perfectly sensible "left vs. right") page customizations made it impossible for me to predict what page would be on what side of the printout. I eventually gave up on different left and right headers and made them all the same.

It was also a little depressing to use plain old Times Roman as the body font, but it's overused for a reason: it's highly readable, if a bit on the dull side.

What I sacrificed in flexibility I gained in presentation quality. Unlike Blurb, the hyphenation worked properly. Blurb actually put line breaks in the middle of words following an apostrophe, fer chrissakes! Not to mention randomly center-justifying paragraphs, or adding an extra line and a half of empty space now and again, just for grins.

The covers, on the other hand, were a mess. I should've known better. I chose to get dark blue covers with white lettering. It was very easy to design the covers, and I thought, "Wow, this should look nice!" But when the box of books arrived at my office, I was chagrined to find all of them looking as if they'd been scuffed. The books were shipped without slip covers between the covers, and the blue ink rubbed off in various places. Next time, white cover, black ink.

The maps look good. They wound up on the left and right facing pages where I guessed they'd wind up, and whatever line screen they chose for the printout was high enough resolution for even the smallest labels to be legible. And although I'd probably widen the interior margin a bit if I had to do it again, the pages are quite readable.

So now it's just a matter of finishing the mailings and waiting for feedback—assuming I get any.

In the meantime, I'm trying not to write. Oh, I originally promised myself I'd take a month off from writing to give my brain some time to decompress. But it's killing me to not do something creative. I've gotten into too much of a groove. So I'm going to write down notes on the plot outline for the rest of the series, and I'm going to start working on query letters to agents. More details as events warrant.

Done.

2009-06-14T22:06:00.000-07:00

Fourth draft. Finished. Next step: beta readers. More detail later. Kinda sick of writing right now!

Draft 2 complete!

2009-05-17T20:03:00.001-07:00

After two marathon days of non-stop work (well, I stopped for food), I'm done with the second draft of "The Storm Winds Rise".

163,804 words, 617 manuscript pages. Dang, the binder is thick.

Now I let it rest for a little while and go back at it with the red pen for spelling, punctuation, style and continuity checks.

If you think writing a book isn't a lot of work, let me be the first to dispel that notion.

Die, Back Story! Die die die!

2009-04-07T20:20:00.000-07:00

I'm about a third of the way through the edits and rewrites of Draft 2. Up to chapter 10, it was pretty smooth sailing. I rewrote three chapters completely and excised a lot of useless crap from the others. The story isn't appreciably shorter, but it's much much better.

Now I am editing a chapter that had a gigantic indigestible bolus of exposition in it. Back story, not to put too fine a point on it, inelegantly wedged into a scene where two of my main characters are walking to a breakfast rendezvous with a third.

Back story should stay in the back.

I've been procrastinating and goofing around for the last couple of days, working myself up into a frenzy trying to figure out a way to keep this exposition in. But it just won't fly. Maybe if I were writing another Tolkienesque ring/sword quest story, I could do it. The oral tradition of the storyteller fits into the medieval mindset more easily.

But I've already established that my characters have a more modern sensibility. Their technology is about equivalent to ours circa 1800. They have books. When they want to learn about their history, they read. There aren't any bards standing around declaiming the great tales of ancient lore in stentorian voices while strumming a mandolin. A military man in his mid-thirties wouldn't explain the history of an ancient artifact to a boy in his teens while they're walking to breakfast!

I guess it finally dawned on me that I can just let the story speak for itself. There's a gigantic artifact called the Riverwall that plays a major role in the story. It influences every aspect of the relations between two of the most important countries. I have a detailed and LONG back story that describes every important event that led up to the creation of the Riverwall.

For some reason I keep thinking I have to shovel that into the book itself. After all, I spent three months on that back story! I want someone to read it! It's good! It's interesting!

And as it turns out, it's doesn't belong in my book. Oh, I can hint. I can allude. I can dangle enticing mysteries in front of my readers with the promise, sure to be fulfilled, that their curiosity will be satisfied.

What I can't do—and what I'm gradually coming to accept—is that I can't just stop the action while I come out and describe to the audience just what the hell is going on.

That might've worked for the Chorus in Henry V but it doesn't work for modern readers. So I'll eliminate those ugly blocks of exposition. I'll hint and I'll allude. Keeping it mysterious is part of the fun. I've been watching "Lost" for five seasons now and there are still questions posed in season one that haven't been answered.

Besides, that back story would make a hell of a prequel.

How Not To Write A Novel

2009-03-07T08:08:00.000-08:00

I bought a very funny book the other day. How NOT to Write a Novel: 200 Classic Mistakes and How to Avoid Them—A Misstep-by-Misstep Guide".

It's hysterical, but it's scary at the same time. The first few pages are just howlingly funny. Then the mistakes they talk about get subtler, and a nervous tremor starts to invade the laughter. By the end of the book, if you've just written the first draft of your first novel, you're fairly trembling with anxiety.

I'm glad I read it before I really started on serious revisions on my book. It sensitized me to quite a few errors and pitfalls that might've slipped by me. I don't think my first draft is bad by any stretch of the imagination. But I have been engaged in a lifelong battle against crippling perfectionism when it comes to my writing.

As I've written more and more, I've become less perturbed by the possibility of making a mistake. I know that the perfect is the enemy of the good. At some point I know I'm going to have to say "That's good enough" and move on to the next book.

It was quite liberating to ignore the temptation to edit while I wrote the first draft of "The Storm Winds Rise". But now that it's time to become self-critical, I have to keep myself from declaring "This is just a piece of shit!" and throwing the whole thing away. I'm not saying I'm going to do it, but the temptation will be there. How much easier it would be to succumb to the desire to hide my deficiencies away forever in the locked bottom drawer of my filing cabinet, than to expose them for all the world to see?

But how ridiculous that would make this last year of work. The many hundreds of hours I've spent in front of the computer putting this story together. No, I'm committed to making this book as good as I can possibly make it—within the limits of rationality—and then trying to get it published.

I'm sure at some point I'll look back at this book and think, "How could I ever have written that?" or "I actually dared to show this to prospective agents!" But with any luck at all, I won't cringe too much.

FINISHED!

2009-02-22T09:57:00.000-08:00

The first draft of "The Storm Winds Rise", volume I of "The Book of the Talents", is finished!

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Down to the epilogue

2009-02-21T09:47:00.000-08:00

Chapter 22 was the climax of the book. It's now complete, and at 16,706 words, it's a corker. I'm quite happy with it. Now all that remains is the epilogue, which sets the stage for the next book, "A Scent of War".

I can't believe I'm nearly done with this beast. The manuscript is now 630 pages long. The epilogue will be pretty brief, perhaps not more than five or six pages.

Whew.

832,354

2009-02-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

This is impossible, I know, but If I somehow maintained my current average of 2,279 words a day, in a year I could write a book 832,354 words long.

In a thirty day month, that's

I used to think NaNoWriMo seemed impossible. I realized today that I wrote more than 68,000 words in the last 30 days.

I don't know where the speed is coming from, but I sure like it. Hopefully my readers won't think the story is about the same quality as a typical NaNoWriMo "novel".

OK, This Is Starting to Get Scary

2009-02-08T10:41:00.000-08:00

Usually I write for a couple of hours (if I'm lucky) every morning. My productivity level on the book has really soared in the last few weeks, though. This weekend it's approaching the level of insanity.

Yesterday I felt like writing in the evening, which is kind of unusual for me. I'd already had a very busy day and I was pretty tired, and I'd finished chapter 18 earlier that morning, so I felt like I already had a pretty productive weekend under my belt without doing anything else. But the story has me really jazzed at the moment. I'm getting very close to the conclusion of volume one, a goal I've been aiming at for nearly a year now. I know I have a ton of work to do to get the book into publishable shape, but it no longer really seems like work. I'd rather do this than just about anything.

So I sat down in front of the computer last night at about 8:30. Before I knew it, it was 11:30 (about an hour and a half past my usual bedtime--yeah, I know, I know). I'd written about five pages of chapter 19. I went to bed with my head buzzing with ideas, and got up at my customary 5:00 with the same ideas. I knew there wouldn't be anything for it but to write, and to write hard.

I made coffee, slumped over to the computer, fired up Apple Pages '09, and began to work. It didn't take me long to get back into the groove. This particular chapter is pretty short, consisting of only one scene, and most of it is dialogue.

For whatever reason, I find dialogue a total snap. (It helped that I had this chapter outlined from here to next Sunday.) When I'm not thinking about it, the words just magically seem to beam from my brain onto the screen, and I'm not even conscious of having typed them. (Naturally enough, since I'm now thinking about typing, my WPM drops to about twenty. It's so ridiculous.)

Anyway, even with a break for bacon and eggs, I finished the chapter about 10:30 this morning. Five thousand, three hundred and sixty six words in a little less than fourteen hours, five of which I spent asleep. Now that... ain't... bad.

On to chapter 20! Oh, this is gonna be a grisly chapter. I've been anxious to write this one for MONTHS.

Numbers, Numbers, Everywhere, And Not a Drop to Drink

2009-02-04T07:56:00.000-08:00

I recently made the switch from Microsoft Word 2008 to Apple "Pages" for the book. Although there are a couple of features I miss from Word (particularly the "draft" mode, which shows the writing without any kind of page layout formatting), I don't miss the bugginess. You would think that they could figure out how to make it possible to scroll down to the end of the document without having horrible font redraw problems by now. I mean, it is 2009 now, ferchrissakes.

Today I had occasion to use another program that comes with the Apple iWork package: "Numbers".

Numbers blows Excel away for casual spreadsheet use. For one thing, it behaves the way a Mac program is supposed to behave with respect to editing the contents of a cell. I guess Windows users are used to the psychotic number of times you have to click in an Excel text cell to properly edit the contents. Mac users expect the selection technique to be THE SAME from one program to the next. I was happy to find that Numbers works properly in this respect.

I prefer the formula editor in Numbers as well. It's far more intuitive to me. I did have to get used to using different commands to select and relocate cells in the spreadsheet without altering the references used in the formulas, but once I found the appropriate command, it seemed much more rational to me than the cut and paste methods used in Excel.

So why am I talking about Numbers on my book blog? Simple. I am nearing the end of Book One, "The Storm Winds Rise", and I have to figure out the timeline of the chapters at the end very carefully. There are two groups of people who are trying to reach the same spot. One of them knows about the other, and is trying to get there first, but they have a much greater distance to cover.

Enter "Numbers". Once I had done some research into how far it was reasonable to expect light cavalry to be able to travel in a day, I was able to use Numbers to compute the time required for each leg of both groups' journeys.

One group is ignorant of the other, so they don't feel a pressing need to travel quite as quickly. On the other hand, they are not supposed to be where they are, and they have to maintain the secrecy both of their route and their destination. Though their situation is not as fraught with suspense as the second group's, they do have some interesting stories to tell.

The second group is always pressed for time, and it affects both how hard they're willing to press their mounts and their general attitude toward delays, unnecessary or otherwise. They get crankier and more fractious with each other the closer they get to their goal. And they have a battle to fight when they get there so they can take out the reinforcements who might make it impossible for them to ambush the first group. They have a hard row to hoe.

Add to that the fact that the second group doesn't really know precisely where they're headed, and will have to negotiate with a group of monks who have no reason to love them for painful historical reasons, and their side of the story is fraught with all kinds of potential for good scenes. I have to not only know how long they will take to get where they're going, but how to put even more obstacles in their way to make the race even more dire and suspenseful.

Naturally enough, readers want conflict, so I will focus on the second group from the storytelling perspective. They get three chapters out of the final eight. Knowing exactly how much time they have to achieve their goals is key to making the story interesting. I'm glad I have a nice spreadsheet like Numbers to help me figure this all out.

Of course, I could use Excel, but then I could shave with a dull straight razor, too. The whiskers would come off, sure enough. It just wouldn't be as pleasant (or safe) as using my Braun electric razor. The right tools for the right job make all he difference.

Picking up the Pace

2009-02-03T07:55:00.000-08:00

Since Christmas I've written six chapters. I think I'm over the initial fascination with the latest World of Warcraft expansion. It doesn't even seem as though I've been working that much harder on the manuscript, but I must have been.

The other day I sat down with Excel and figured out what my average writing speed has been since I began work on the manuscript last July. The first few months were pretty lethargic compared to my current pace. Before Christmas I was averaging 660 words a day. Respectable enough. A lot of writers set a goal of 500 words a day, so I've read.

Since Christmas, I'm averaging 1,910 words a day. I actually peaked at 5,193 words a day on January 11, when I spent most of the day writing chapter 13 from beginning to end.

I'm on the home stretch now, for book one, at least. The words flow easily, and my keyboard hasn't broken from the hammering it takes day in and day out. I'd like to take the Facebook typing speed test again once I'm done with this manuscript. I don't think it's a measly 81 wpm anymore.

On to chapter 18!

Fastest chapter yet! Even faster than last time!

2009-01-11T13:18:00.000-08:00

I think this officially qualifies as "being on a roll."

I finished chapter twelve yesterday before going down to Scott's for our usual gaming day. We played World of Warcraft (we're geeks, we know it, we don't care). My friends have spent more time leveling their toons than I have, so I wasn't able to participate in their high-level heroic dungeon runs. So I soloed my death knight for much of the afternoon, and after dinner I wrote the first few words of what would become chapter thirteen.

As is my wont, I awoke very early (5:00), petted my yowling orange tabby Julius for a few minutes, put on a pot of coffee and headed to the study. The best thing about my small apartment is my study. It's maybe eight by nine feet, but it has a high ceiling, so it doesn't feel cramped, and it's dead quiet unless my upstairs neighbors, The Stompers, decide to walk around. (The walls of my apartment complex are quite solid, but the floors must be hollow, because everyone upstairs sounds as if they're bouncing around on pogo sticks.)

Fortunately for me they didn't stir until 9:00, by which time I had already been writing for several hours. This chapter went incredibly smoothly. I finished the complete outline of Book One a little over a week ago, and now that the path is clear to the end of this volume, I am making excellent progress. There's very little fat and almost no exposition in this chapter. Now it's time to go out and get some lunch. It's a beautiful day, made better by some excellent progress.

Today the manuscript surpassed the 100,000 words mark. Dang. I am one wordy S.O.B.

Halfway there... not!

2009-01-04T19:30:00.000-08:00

My sister was in town visiting this weekend, so I didn't have much of an opportunity to write. I managed to finish chapter 10 and write all of chapter 11 during the Christmas break, so I don't feel guilty for having taken a bit of a break. I didn't have the luxury of entire days of uninterrupted writing time, so I thought I'd focus on smaller tasks. I managed to finish the outline of Book One.

Dammit.

I thought I was about halfway done. Now I realize I'm not quite halfway there. I've written eleven chapters, and the revised outline calls for twenty seven.

Up to this point I've just been writing in a very free-form way. The creative writing class I took with Floyd Salas at Foothill College a couple of years ago taught me one very important thing: I shouldn't edit myself while I'm doing the first draft. It should be a purely creative effort. There will be plenty of opportunity to edit later. I should get everything, and I do mean everything, that needs to be said out on paper. Or in this case, into a Word document. The more I feel compelled to edit myself at this stage, the less likely I will feel free to create.

The chapters have varied from 7,000 to as much as 13,000 words up to this point. They're verbose, I know, and I'll savagely trim them into shape, but if I have 85,000 words now, sixteen more chapters even at only 7,000 words each will put the first draft at a pretty hefty 197,000 words.

Well, shit.

Editing is going to be fun! I'd like to get the manuscript down to around 120,000 words, which is still pretty hefty but not completely out of line for epic fantasy. One thing I discovered after re-reading chapter one is how very badly it needs to be destroyed and replaced with something much tighter and more engaging.

Instead of describing the pirate ship battle after the fact, I'll be showing the pirate battle from beginning to end. "Show, don't tell." It's one of the Commandments I wrote and put up on my wall, and I was guilty of failing to observe it right from the get-go. I read that chapter aloud to my sister while she was working on some knitting, and although she claims to have been interested, the exposition clearly bored her. And the overuse of nautical terms. I'm not writing a half-assed Patrick O'Brian book, dammit! It's supposed to be FUN.

I clearly have a lot of work ahead of me. But I'm still having a ball.

Addicted to writing?

2008-11-19T20:10:00.000-08:00

Is it possible to become addicted to writing?

Could be.

I finished chapter nine last night. It was a long chapter and I blew through it in seven days. Less than that, really, since two of those days were spent thinking about the story and deciding what order the scenes should be in before I sat down and actually started the writing itself.

This evening I got home, made dinner, watched an episode of "House" I missed last week, let the cat crawl all over me in a futile quest to find a comfortable place to go to sleep, and I feel antsy and uncomfortable. My body wants to get up out of the La-Z-Boy and go to the computer in my miniscule study to do some more writing.

So in lieu of working on the book, I'm blogging about working on the book. Hoorah. I'm not even writing! I'm writing about writing!

I can see why writers are often drunks. Archie gave me a bottle of Midleton a few months ago. Maybe I should go pour myself a finger or two. I only like Irish whiskeys; why not emulate an Irish writer and get steenkin' dronk?

Oh well, it was just a thought. I'm not a steenkin' dronk in any case. It's hard to write when your fingers can't find the right keys. You wind up with something like "Finnegan's Wake".

Ah, so that's how Joyce did it. But he was too poor for Midleton. No doubt he employed Bushmill's, which is to Midleton as Budweiser is to Chimay Ale. I tried a sip of Bushmill's once. Once.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will start plotting chapter ten. And chapter zero. Yes, chapter zero. My current chapter one has good stuff in it, but it's not the right way to start the book. Its beginning is a contemplation by the grievously wounded hero of the battle that just ended.

What the hell was I thinking? Starting a book with the end of a battle? Why not write about the battle?

I think I was a little timid when I started the book. I didn't fully trust my ability as a writer to do the really rather difficult job of imagining, choreographing, and describing something as complex as a battle. But my book will have many battles in it, and I just finished a chapter that has a truly harrowing scene in it. It was hard to write, but it was so satisfying to work through it and emerge on the other side with a product I can be proud of.

So chapter zero will be the battle between the Voradan frigate Shaura's Rage and the Elistan privateer Perilous Desire, from ambush to cannonfire to boarding to conquest. Will it be hard? Oh, absolutely. I have no illusions about that. It doesn't help that my only experience of battle between tall ships is from reading Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey and Maturin series. But if I can carry it off, it will be a great way to hook the reader.

But tomorrow is chapter ten. I'm in the middle of two independent plot threads that require a great deal of attention to continuity, and I'm alternating between them, chapter to chapter. I have an equally harrowing scene to write in the next chapter, in which the true nature of one of my characters becomes evident. It's exciting stuff to write. I only hope that my future reader(s) think so too.

Okay, enough. Time to put the computer down and watch another episode of "House". I'll think about the book tomorrow. Unless I go into writing withdrawals so bad I just have to get up in the middle of the night and write something.

Fastest chapter yet

2008-11-18T19:55:00.001-08:00

Chapter nine was a breeze. Seven days from start to finish, and over 9300 words. That's about 1333 words a day. Dang. It almost wrote itself. I have to admit that my fingers are a little sore from all the typing, but then I type all day at work too, and today was a particularly busy day of documentation work.

Now it's time to kick back with a beer and think about chapter ten. While watching something especially mindless on TV, of course.

Titles!

2008-11-17T15:12:00.000-08:00

Writing progresses at a rapid pace. I'm now close to finishing chapter nine, and the words are flowing smoothly.

A few weeks ago I came up with titles for the three projected volumes in The Book of the Talents. Here they are:

Volume One: The Storm Winds Rise

Volume Two: A Scent of War

Volume Three: Let Fall the Stars

I'm still not 100% on the first one, but I like the titles for volumes two and three quite a lot.

I have also decided to redo the first chapter and add a new scene which I merely alluded to in the first version. That's the joy of word processors: they make it easy to revise. It will be a pitched battle at sea between the ships of one of the heroes and a privateer who may—or may not—be a villain.

When I'm happy with that chapter, I'll post it here as the first public sample of the story.

Wikis Make You Think

2008-10-17T08:30:00.001-07:00

I'm discovering something very interesting about using a Wiki to organize the background material for my book. It's an inviting tool, in the sense that it really leads me to think about my story in a highly focused way.

I've divided the wiki into broad sections: cosmology, history, the nature of the "magical" abilities of my characters, and so on. One section is devoted to a list of every character in the book. Already I have over sixty entries in that list. Most of them are bit players, of course, and need only the most cursory of descriptions.

I created a little template that I'm using to remind myself of the character traits of my characters: physical descriptions, origin, personality traits, and so on. I can even upload the little thumbnail pictures of the actors I've "cast" in their roles, to give myself an even more concrete reminder of the type of person I envision them to be. It's all very orderly.

I considered note-taking on paper for all of this, but as a fast touch typist it just seems like a silly way to limit my speed and give myself hand cramps.

The Wiki did seem a bit sterile and bloodless at first, especially on the day I installed it, but I already had a huge amount of background material in the form of Word and OmniOutliner documents. I spent several hours cutting and pasting this information into the Wiki while I watched a Sharks game. (The Sharks are up 4-0-0 to start the season! Woo hoo! Sorry, couldn't resist.)

Now that I have a significant investment in time spent populating the Wiki, I'm discovering that I really quite enjoy adding more background material to it. I've imported my entire back story, such as it was, and have fleshed out the cosmology of my fictional world to an amazing degree. I've even gotten a pretty concrete understanding of the way I'm going to finish the series. The more I write, the more concrete that understanding becomes. Funny how that happens.

I have to admit I'm a bit stalled on my current chapter, since I'm introducing a number of new characters that I haven't done "due diligence" on yet, so the Wiki gives me a chance to be productive in other ways. Now that I've put it to use, I can't imagine a better way to write a complex book.

MediaWiki

2008-10-14T06:36:00.000-07:00

I've been keeping track of my characters and story line in OmniOutliner Pro, a terrific program from Omnigroup. But outlines only go so far. I'm now at the stage in TBOTT where I've introduced enough characters that I need to be able to refer to their descriptions, histories, and other important facts quickly, but using a tool that's capable of displaying information in a more free-form way.

I'd considered writing a Ruby on Rails application to do this, not only because it's fun, but because I can use the practice. But I finally decided to install MediaWiki on a little Mac Mini that's running Yellow Dog Linux. Why Linux and not Mac OS X? Because, believe it or not, it's easier to get it running on Linux.

We use MediaWiki at work. Like all wiki servers it has its flaws. Wiki markup language is a little odd, and takes some getting used to, but it's a damned sight faster than coding the pages in HTML. I could do that, but I'm a lot more interested in speed when it comes to writing this book than in screwing around with the tools. Another nice contrast to my previous attempts to write books. (I have two half-completed books in the bottom of my filing cabinet. Emphasis on half-completed.)

Already it's been useful. About half of chapter seven is about a crucial meeting between the Powers That Be who will decide what to do with a mysterious young man found floating on a raft in the middle of the ocean a day after a colossal explosion was seen in the vicinity. There are five or six important new characters to introduce. Bit players, to be sure, but important in their way, and keeping track of all of them is a little tricky.

I have rather vague mental images of them at this point, but by the end of the chapter I will know them and understand their motivations. The Wiki will help me keep track of it all. If I bring one of them back into the story, I can just look at their character page in the Wiki, complete with a little picture of them so I can bring them fully back to life in my mind's eye.

That reminds me: one of the little exercises I did a few months ago was to create a "contact sheet" (a grid of small pictures with names written beneath them) of my main characters. As a movie buff, I thought it would be fun to try to "cast" my story with actors who fit the parts both physically and behaviorally. It turned out to be a damned useful trick, and I plan to keep using it. It gave me the focus necessary to really pin down the types of people I believe my characters to be.

Now all of that information goes into the Wiki. It'll take some time to fill it up, but I think it will absolutely be worth it in the long run. Even though I'm writing a fantasy—a genre in which "anything goes"—I think it's crucial that I make sure all of my characters behave consistently, and that the action never compromises the reader's willingness to suspend disbelief.

I suppose I could use a notebook just as profitably, but a Wiki is a lot easier for a touch-typist... and I'll admit... it's a lot more geeky-cool.

The Story in Short

2008-10-06T10:01:00.000-07:00

"The Book of the Talents" takes place on Edanar, one of a thousand inhabited planets circling the same yellow sun.

The inhabitants of Edanar have been blessed—or cursed—with the Talents: wild, seemingly magical powers that can be used for good or for evil. But the truth is both more complex and more sinister. The Talents are loved by some, and hated by others. They face danger from those who would exploit them, and from a deadly ailment that threatens their very existence.

The Talents could spell doom or salvation not only for Edanar, but for thousands of other worlds—and possibly for life itself.

This blog will contain updates on my progress writing the book, observations about writing, science fiction, fantasy and related topics, and perhaps, from time to time, samples of the story itself.

If I can find a publisher for the first volume, the focus of this site will change. Stay tuned!