D. Thourson Palmer's Blog, page 10

RAZE – 003

I was bathing; my mother and father had gone inside, and my young siblings were still inside as well. Their baths would be after I was finished, and so mother waited inside with them. That they were not outside when the knife winds came, I am grateful.

The wind howled in the south, leagues away. I had worked hard that day and was filthy with dirt and animal stink and I was proud to have worked alongside my parents like a man. I wanted to finish bathing quickly, before the wind blew in the dust, so I ladled the water over my body and it drained back into the shallow basin in which I stood. I splashed much away into the yellow grass, careless as I was. The water was already brown and dusty from father and mother. It might not have mattered much if I was caught in a dust storm after bathing. I would leave the bath filthy, regardless. Funny to think what habit and hope make of plain truth.

While I stood in the basin, shivering with cold, trying to wash myself in filthy water, and the sun sank, the wind howled in the south from the mountains. From Lonireil. I looked and in the falling sunlight I saw the wind cutting a path through the rocklands and the gold grass bending before it, wide paths like those of a passing suliard, flattening, undulating, but invisible, laying down the low grasses and then sliding right, then left, waves on a far off golden ocean. I stared. The wind sighed and whistled. Then, as the wind neared I saw it was not flattening or bending, but cutting down the grass, as a scythe driven by a tireless arm. The grasses were being shorn down by the wind, and then I saw the boulders were etched by its passing.

I ran to our house. The water sprayed up onto my back and then the knife wind, the first knife wind to visit death on Naban in the south of Serehvan, caught me and spiderwebbed my legs and ass and back with razor cuts. I reached the door and inside I bled on the rugs and I struggled to hold my tears, for I thought I was a man. Outside, the wind howled and scored our walls.

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RAZE – 002

Naban, in the south part of Serehvan, is a harsh place. The earth is flat, cut through by dark cracks of floodways, jagged cracks of night in a sea of waving grasses, green as the sea in the summer, when the rains come from thunderheads that are gray monoliths, towering in limitless sky, shot through with blinding lightning, gold after the rains end, waving, silk cloth fluttering on its table in a breeze that is the cold breath of Lady Oulesur. It was beautiful before the knife-winds came. Now it is harsh and ugly both.

In my sixth planting season, my father and mother worked tirelessly in that dry, rocky earth beneath an unforgiving sun, hot on the body despite the chilly air. They had two oxen, skinny old beasts, and they put them in turns to pull the plow, taking turns themselves at pushing while the other came behind with seeds. We planted poppies and we planted mezakh, a hardy and, as I think on it, foul-tasting grain. I have not eaten it since I left home. I find I miss it, even if it had the taste of ash and dirt. The people of Naban look like me; pale eyed, dark haired, with clear brows; it is said we have burnished brass for skin. Naban was a harsh place.

They tried to teach me how to sew the seeds, but my mind was elsewhere. I wandered off alone, with bright blue cloth wrapped around my shoulders and head and rough wool leggings for warmth.

As I said, that was the day my life truly began, and it began with the taking of another’s life. Perhaps that action was truly one of taking; perhaps I took the life and made it part of me, filled my husk with the contents of another’s.

I found a mouse. A little thing, gray and pink, writhing on the ground beneath a yellow wall of ridge a hundred yards from our squat stone house, in the midst of the great dust and stone rocklands to the south. The ridge was part of a floodway, but in that dry time before the mountains further south thawed, there was only a thin trickle of water. The floods would come in the next month’s time and soak the field.

I walked up the riverbed and found the mouse wriggling away in the dust, its eyes closed, its mouth open. I squatted beside it, watched it, and then slowly lifted it in my hand. I walked around and climbed the ridge and searched for a mouse hole or warren, but found none. The mouse writhed in my hand and an understanding seized me, that it might not live even if I found its family. It had fallen a great distance for a tiny body and was wounded gravely. I remembered one of Lord Salat’s teachings: “Do not let another suffer if it is in your power to aid.”

Tears filled my eyes. Just that morning, mother had lamented that we had scarce enough mezakh for ourselves when I spilled my porridge. “Oh, Heshim,” she had said as she knelt, picking up grains by her fingernails, “we could not spare one grain for a mouse. You must eat it.” She was strong and short, with a deep-lined face and calloused hands and a soft voice. I and my brother and sisters never went hungry. Holding the tiny cool body, I thought she must have seen the creature already and left it there since we could not feed and nurse it.

I placed the creature on the ground and picked up a rock. I stared at it, writhing and pink and gray, and I chose a strange mercy.

My life had begun. I spent the rest of the day helping my parents sew mezakh seeds.

Little of import happened between then and my fourteenth planting season, although I felt all the events of the interim were of serious import. In the fourteenth season, though, the knife-winds first blew up from Lonireil.

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RAZE – 001

The balance of all decisions, which are all of life and death, is the difference of the weight of a feather.

It is the fourteenth evening of Ram’s, of the 55th Year of the New Day. I am in the city of Lonireil, in a cell within their Edifice of Truth. Tomorrow or someday soon after, the woman I love will execute me to roaring cheers in their grand plaza. Well the onlookers should cheer. A death like mine they will never witness again.

My name is Raze, but my name as it was given by my mother and father was Heshim il-Naban, and I have been called by many others in many lands. Raze is the name I have chosen for myself, after some thought and time, and it is the name by which I’ve come to be known. It is true. It is destruction, to completeness. It is removal.

It may sound pretentious, but I like it, so there you are. Many lay dubious claim to the title of warrior, or other such pretentious names as Archdeacon, or Warlord, or Prime, or some other epithet for The-Best-of-Whatever-It-Is. I am Raze.

I swear to truthfulness, in recording of thought and deed. I am old and have no time for fabrications or exaggerations. When I tell you that I broke the Prime of Avandeil, I broke him. When I claim to have stolen the fleet of Red Kharcos, you may alert her, finally, as to the culprit’s name. When I say I drove the dead out of Silverime, rest assured, it is so. When I say I am still a fool, you may take it as, at least, a very strong opinion.

I am greatest swordsman the world has ever known.

It is the why which none yet know. When I am dead and my final deed acted out – which should be in a matter of days – those who remain will have their answer. They have asked, but I shall answer in my own fashion. It is buried in what follows.

My life began, truly began, the first time I ended another’s. It was the planting season of my sixth year.

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Book Sale & Signing March 6

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Writing Updates!

The Victorious Death of Eliza Warden, Part One of the Wardens Trilogy, is out with beta readers. So far the feedback has been both great and very helpful. The entire trilogy was originally planned as a single volume, but came in around 320K words, more than three times as long as Ours Is the Storm, so it got split into three volumes.

I had to do some looking around to find out, but apparently this was the product of about four years of work. Soon I’ll move onto the process of searching for an agent or publisher, or simply decide to keep on self-publishing. All of that will be after I get my reader feedback and then go back through and make sure I used all the right words.

After that will be another fun part – ARC reading! If you or anyone else is interested, I’ll be giving out free Advanced Reader Copies of tVDoEW so that I can generate reviews in advance of the book release. Alert your reader/reviewer friends, direct them to this site, and get them to sign up for updates, and I’ll be ever grateful.

In other news, I’m nearly done with the first draft of the first book of my Mona series. Some of you read the short stories recently which were the genesis of this character, but Mona is an ass-kicking petty thief, vigilante, and reluctant hero. She resides in the frontier city of Canifar, where she’s on the run from a dangerous past in her home of Ria Vancha. Look for more news about that one going forward.

 

Review – Crimson Peak

I love Guillermo Del Toro.

Watching this yesterday, I found myself trying to find the right adjective for his work, and I came to “lush.”

Decadent is wrong; nothing he does is extraneous, unneeded, crass. Rich is close, but implies a sweetness or savoriness that’s again, not quite right.

Crimson Peak is a great expression of his style and ability; it’s lush. The costumes, dialogue, sets, story, violence: all of it is full, brimming over, so good you can’t get enough. This is a blood-soaked, gothic, romantic horrorshow, but not a horror movie. It has its moments of classic scare, but the terror permeating every scene, the wait, the anticipation, is what distinguishes Del Toro from others who wish they had half his skill in engaging an emotion.

Tom Hiddleston and Jessica Chastain are particularly fantastic – but I won’t spoil anything by telling you why.

Once again, I want to stress that this isn’t a horror film. It’s a Del Toro film, much more about human horror and nastiness than that of cheap evil spirits or motivationless monsters. Don’t go expecting to jump out of your seat every ten seconds only to laugh at it. This is awesome storytelling, amazing visuals, and creepy, Mary Shelly-like gothic horror, meant to hold up a mirror instead of zoom in on the machete blade. Awesome, 9/10 would be creeped out again.

Review – The Lies of Locke Lamora

Here I am, procrastinating on actually working on my new projects (The Festival of Masks, a Mona Scrap, and RAZE, a fantasy web serial) or old projects (The Victorious Death of Eliza Warden) but sort of doing something useful by blogging a little.

The Lies of Locke Lamora is funny, brutal at times, clever, and fresh. It’s Ocean’s  Eleven meets Dungeons and Dragons, Catch Me If You Can meets Lord of the Rings. It’s a fine long read and stands well enough on its own, but is also part of a planned seven (I think) part series. Settle in and enjoy the creative profanity, teeth-knocked-out fights, and witty banter. I wouldn’t suggest it if you’re squeamish about any of those things, but if you are you may have found the perfect modern expression of fantasy thievery and con-art.

Locke resides in the canal-lined city of Camorr, which shares a lot with Terry Pratchett’s Ankh Morpork, Lieber’s Lankhmar, and renaissance Venice. He works for the Capa, sort of a Don-like crime boss, in a city that regulates its crime right along with its nobility. He leads the Gentleman Bastards, a con-artist group without peer, as they scheme and steal and pull one over on just about everyone else in the city. Things grow more complicated, however, as their latest job takes a few unexpected turns, and meanwhile a mysterious gray figure begins stalking the city’s criminal elite.

I will say that I felt a few parts of the book had a little too much room to breathe; a few pacing missteps and a little bit of forced dialogue aside, , this is a fun, engaging read, written in a modern style that makes the characters, events, and wildly imaginative setting easy to relate to. If you’re a fan of modern fantasy, crime stories, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, this might be for you. Want to get away from fantasy involving worldwide wars, the fate of humanity, and esoteric magic systems? This will be your thing.

This and other goodreads reviews here.

I want something good to die for, to make it beautiful to live

That line’s been on my mind for a while. Pertinent to the Wardens books. I’ve got beta copies out with several readers and so far am hearing good things. Hoping to be ready to do a final clean-up and shop it around late this year or early 2016.

Review – The Book of Merlyn

The Book of Merlyn

I’m not certain that this volume is quite as necessary as the back matter suggests. That said, it has the wit and beauty you’d expect, and includes one of my favorite segments (the geese) from The Sword in the Stone. Some of the segments about communism vs. capitalism, property – the more political topics – detracted for me. Then, however, those segments would be interrupted by the poignance and emotion that made me love The Once and Future King so much, and I was glad I’d picked it up. If you’ve read the rest of the Once and Future King, it’s worth it, but only as the capstone to the series.

4/5 magic talking hedgepigs

Some other goodreads reviews here.

Do You Want to Know the Truth?

Who were the Wardens? Find out soon. Follow my blog for more updates, or follow me on Twitter or facebook