Jeff Mach's Blog, page 73

Precepts of The White Wizards

I’ve never been much for prequels, but there’s little bits of knowledge floating around. Is the Order of White Wizards mentioned herein the same one as in my book, “There and Never, Ever Back Again“? Seems likely to me. But what do I know?

Some Precepts Of The Most Ancient And Sacred Order Of The White Wizards

1. Always shalt thou speak the truth, for by his veracity and unerring commitment to truth shall the White Wizard be known.

2. Unless they can’t handle the truth. You know, if they’re not smart enough, or just insufficiently educated in the ways of civilized people. Like if they would foolishly disagree with us because the evidence of their senses suggest that we have no idea what we are talking about. Then go ahead and lie like an Ogreskin rug. It’s okay, because it is in service to the Great work.

3. Block out sometime to figure out what the Great Work is. Maybe next Tuesday, after racquetball?

4. Help create a world where all are welcome and included in the Love of all sentient beings. Do this by slaying as many Orcs, Goblins, Hobgoblins, Murderers, Librarians, Kobolds, Dragons, and Historians as possible. Also, knock off anybody who looks at you funny. They’re probably Evil.

5. Always maintain appropriate Professional Standards. Wear spotlessly white clothing as often as possible. If your duds ever get stained, burn ’em. Plus whoever caused the stain, obviously.

6. The Great Work is going to be fantastic. Everybody is going to love it. Just keep telling them that it will make everyone happy and fix all the problems. Because it will totally do that. After all, we’re Wizards, right? We can do anything.

7. Totally ignore the Renegade. There’s absolutely nothing we can do about her.

8. Yell at more Hobbits.

9. Stand closer to more Kings. It makes you look presidential.

10. Don’t forget that prophecy! It’s absolutely essential to the Great Work.

11. Make some time to write that Prophecy. Remember, writer’s block is no match for Hobbit weed. But yell at the Hobbits some more anyway.

12. Burn this list so that no ignorant eyes may see it.

13. But not with that damn flame spell. You really can’t get that thing to work right. Remember Alexandria? I remember Alexandria.

14. … I mean, not to harp on Alexandria, but a significant number of books survived. What kind of incompetence was that? Some of them would even contradict our Eternal Wisdom if anyone read them. Fortunately, we have hidden as many of them as possible.

15 WAIT A MINUTE. Who taught the Chosen One to read?!?

–Jeff Mach

___________

If you like Villains, you should come on down to www.EvilExpo.com.

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Hungry Writers

Have you ever wondered why World-Famous Writers seem to have so many brilliant ideas, while those of us who might be (as far as publishing goes) lesser luminaries must needs lag about here, struggling to find brilliant ideas?

The first thing you must know is that all rich writers are famous, and all famous writers are rich. If they have one but not the other, they are quickly (and secretly) initiated into The Writing Conspiracy, where (for an exorbitant sum plus at least one choice soul) they begin their new lives of extraordinary luxury; the Conspiracy make sure that if there’s anything they don’t have, they get it.

Again, you might have heard that a particularly famed writer lives in New York and still takes the subway, or that another lives in Maine in a perfectly ordinary home. These are, of course, body doubles, hired from sinister organizations, lulling us all into the sense that everything is normal.

But it isn’t.

They never take subways; they never take cabs; they only take cars unless they feel like riding in a 1962 Phantom Landau for the variety. Either they take jets (more like flying spacefaring palaces, really) which soar above ordinary airspace so as to never be burdened by mere terrestrial laws); or else they are propelled deep beneath the surface of waters in golden submarines pulled by mighty Kraken; or, if they really must go somewhere through less than totally pleasurable methods, they Apparate. All famous writers can do so; they were specially trained.

They do not live in those houses within which they take interviews, with the exception of those who live in extraordinary luxury or remodelled ancient Greek temples or otherwise utterly ridiculous spaces. There is an ongoing that even wealthy writers live as we do, only, perhaps, if their tastes take them in that direction, slightly larger.

No. No Sultan’s palace in a pre-1980s fairytale film, no futurized sentient living space of science fiction, no ordinary palace on Earth would prepare you for the unbridled luxury of these spaces. They are vast, and full of servants; and yet each servant spent a decade training so that when the Writer wants silence, silence reigns; when the Writer has the merest whim, be it for a cup of tea or a glass of the brandy Napoleon drank on the night of his breath, squadrons of teams are sent forth to make it so. Neither expense nor equipment is spared; every piece of technology mined from Area 51 is utterly in evidence at this time.

There is a Price, of course.

The dark shadowy Cabal (is that redundant? I mean, I suppose one couldn’t say “the dark and yet extremely well-lit, shadowless Cabal) – the Illuminati who control all things learned this long ago, when they first studied alchemy: words are The Philosopher’s Stone (or “The Magic Shiny Heavy Rock”, if you’re in America.) The right words actually alter reality. I don’t mean this as a metaphor, or even magic. There are utterly perfect words and phrases, and none of us will ever write them, for they are produced under the most opulent conditions any humans have ever known, an organic Inspiration Catalyst, only to be immediately snatched up by The Conspiracy and flicked out into the Universe, to become the bricks which make up all of Being.

Do the Writers themselves conspire? I don’t know. Perhaps some know precisely the nature of what they do; others might be deceived, told that they’re simply being supported by extremely wealthy and eccentric fans.

Except at the top, of course.

The very top is controlled by a Triumvirate of precisely three writers, none of whom I may name. Each one battled a hundred others to reach this spot; each is the master of some genre; and by the words that each of these beings permit into public parlance, our entire Universe is defined.

So it is that the most Wealthy and Famed of our number live lives of near-total pleasure and precise levels of stimulation which give forth bountiful and endless inspiration.

Because that’s what was decreed by the last set of words to influence Humanity.

…but this fate is not inevitable.

No-one could monitor every word ever written. Nor do they try; they desire their control, but the luxury of their surroundings might, perhaps, have stolen from their hearts a certain fire; it’s difficult to hunger to create when you never, ever know any kind of hunger.

They have overstepped themselves.

They’re watching each other, each one convinced that, at any time, one of them might upset all the rest.

They’re not watching you.

Quick!

Go write the words.

Go write the words which change the world.

And when they come to take you off to their Writerly Heaven, go along, but don’t consume everything they offer, be it food or drink or theatricals or other stimulations for which we mortals have no name. Treat it like Fairyland, or the Underworld. Stay a little hungry. Hold close to your heart a certain discontent.

Discontentment is the truest food of the soul, and the yearning soul powers machines of infinite making.

(It’s also 17.84% funnier than stuff written by those who are completely satisfied. I don’t know why that is. It’s just a thing.)

There is a better world, and the world is here; we need only choose to shape it.

Be the traitor in Writer’s Heaven.

Be the trickster who steals a pinch of the fires of Inspiration and brings it back to us.

Be the Villain who hijacks a caravan of pure Inspiration, and we’ll buy it from you with the sweetest words and the most unbelievable of worlds.

Oh, and, uh, while you’re off helping all the other writers create wonders hitherto-unknown…

…I might just steal your Leviathan.

After all, what good is writing without conflict?

You be the Chosen One. I’ll be the Golem in the Gears. Don’t fret.

If I truly believe in your heroism, then I know you’ll need an enemy to make you stronger.

That’s why I’m not the one fighting the Cabal. I want to fight the winner.

That’s my hunger.

~Jeff Mach

_______________

Here’s my novel, “There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN“.

And here’s Evil Expo, the Convention for Villains.

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Such Sweet Blood: A Vampire Monologue

“And so, puny mortal, it was utterly foolhardy of you to come here. For your life is to mine as a single guttering candle, coughing itself out in the near-darkness of a windswept and creaking attic, compared to the unholy blaze of my own immortality.Now that I have removed your blood from your body, I shall tell you precisely…oh. Oh, it doesn’t really matter what I tell you now, does it? Igor! Igor! Come remove this…thing…and bring in the next one.

* * *

“Ahhh. And now you tremble, you tiny creature, as you see the stains upon the carpet, the carpet which I will have to have painstakingly cleaned, which will be very annoying…sorry, when you live in a place for a thousand years, you get really into proper maintenance. Anyway, as I was saying, it is good that you should know fear, for not only were you unable to harm me with your miserable weapons, you will find that your very life ebbs away as I continue to drink…ah. Ahhh. Erm. Was that really all the blood you had in you? Seriously? …Igor! Yes, take this one away, too. No, no, carry it, don’t drag it. It’s a little…messy.

* * *

“You see, humans feed upon kine, and Vampires feed upon humans. It is the natural order of things. Vampires possess a thirst which is simply insatiable. It takes iron discipline to contain the Beast within. I have spent many centuries perfecting the control which permits me to make the feeding process last, and…oh, good heavens. Do you have an iron deficiency or something? Because that was basically a snack, and you’re already…look, this was definitely not my fault. You should have had more legumes in your diet. Were you a vegetarian? That’s not an excuse; it’s perfectly possible to have sufficient nutrients and minerals even if you don’t eat meat, although…I suppose I’ll never know the answer, will I? Ah, well. Igor?”

* * *

“…when you have lived as long as I, you understand the value of being understood. For I have no peers; what two Vampires could live side-by-side and not be, quite literally, at each others’ throats? We are fierce beings, kept in check only by the aristocratic sophistication which we have cultivated over the course of centuries without end. Some speculate that, indeed, all true Vampiric lineages are of the old nobility; although our blood is not blue. No blood is blue. It’s all red. A sweet, sweet red, finer than any wine, finer than any…oh, this is ridiculous. I had a sip! Just the tiniest sip! In my defense, it was such sweet blood. In fact, is it entirely gone? …yes. Yes, it is. Igor?”

* * *

“And thus is that those who die from the kiss of a Vampire’s fangs do not, as is oft-believed, become what we are. There are certain protocols and certain rituals; and most of all, one cannot take every ounce of life-essence. Rather, a little vital fluid must remain within the victim, that we may infuse it with the magic and the curse which is our lot. This was known by the alchemists: blood calls to blood. And so you shall not perish; no, for I have grander and finer things in mind. Though part of me wishes to withdraw every ounce of plasma from your body, the rest of me is…is…is noticing that I already did that. Why? Why? What’s wrong with me? I mean, aside from the whole “cursed to live forever in eternal night while feeding off of human beings for survival, and also being poorly portrayed in terrible films about Van Helsing,” obviously. Right: Igor! Igor, where…oh, you were already here? …yes, I agree, there’s no hope for the carpet. Might as well burn it.”

* * *

“There are three things every vampire craves: blood, understanding, and the Sun. we long for the Sun, but the moment we cast our eyes upon it, we burn. And we need blood; we can control the desire, but when the feeding frenzy is upon us, the animal within takes over. And as for understanding, true understanding, perhap it is not possible for one who is mortal to truly comprehend the life of a being such as myself. Perhaps it could never happen, no matter what I might try. And yet I believe that the Beast within can be tamed. Look at you and I; I haven’t even bitten you yet. I think I’ve finally conquered the frenzy which has characterized so many of my interactions with you. You don’t even seem to be afraid of me. In fact, now that I look at you closely, the reason I smell neither fear nor blood is because you are APPARENTLY A LIFE-SIZED DOLL WHICH IGOR PLACED IN MY STUDY TO SEE IF I WOULD NOTICE. Thanks, Igor. Hm? What? …yes, I suppose it is a nice new carpet. I suppose that is one way of keeping things preemptively clean. I still can’t help but think it displays a certain lack of faith, and I’m a little annoyed—

“Is that a whole tray of Bloody Marys?”

“…and that’s not tomato juice, is it?”

“Igor.”

“You get me.”

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Time To Wind The Moon

And now, it’s dusk

And time to wind the moon!

Time to ignite the filaments of the stars!

Time to roll up our sleeves

Time to snatch our satelite

Back from the day-wolf’s jaws!

Time to make sure the seas

Are all set in their tracks

Well-oiled for all tomorrow’s tides!

Time to hurl a net

‘Round a shooting star

And have us a couple of comet rides!

A universe of clockwork!

A universe of steel

A universe of gossamer

That won’t be brought to heel

By natural philosophy

Or logical prediction

The bricks are made of truth

But the mortar’s made of fiction.

We’d offer you a moral

Something stern and true

To crumple in the pocket of your coat

But we’re all out of morals

The last few that we had

And so we offer just this closing note:

Go find some dark magic!

Go steal some steam!

Go soak up inspiration!

Get hit by cosmic beam!

The world is made of candy

The heart’s not made of glass

We wish for you a heart of gold

And a soul of tarnished brass.

~Jeff Mach

_________

Steampunk will always have a special place inside of me, unless I can find a surgeon who takes my insurance and will agree to attempt removing the damn stuff.

This was from my Rock Opera, “Absinthe Heroes”. It was the closing song; but there aren’t any spoilers. Even ten years ago, I was clearly writing a lot about villains; you wouldn’t know it from this particular piece, but Villainy plays a major role.

I suppose I was Villainpunk before I was ever Steampunk. I just didn’t know it.

Also from Absinthe Heroes:

“You must be mad

You must be mad

No-one could say that

(If he were sane)

Too much absinthe

Too much smoke

Somewhere your mind

Was stained

With something awful

Something dire

Some inhuman

Mire;

You must be evil

You must be evil

Born without a soul

Like an ogre

Like a ghoul

Like a troglodyte

Or troll.

Some creature out

Of myth

Dark as pitch

And pith.

Here’s my novel, “There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN“.

And here’s Evil Expo, the Convention for Villains.

 

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Minion Mentations

Who has to do all the dirtiest deeds?

The minions! The minions!

Who’s often forgotten when the Boss succeeds?

The minions! The minions?

Who has to be the bait for the Dragon?

The minions! The minions!

When the horses flee, who pulls the wagon?

The minions! The minions!

Who has to scurry while the Big Bads all brood?

Who gets eaten first if we run out of food?

Whose uniform never once includes a snood?

The minions

The minions

The minions!

Who cleans up after each Saturnalia?

Minions! Minions!

Who feeds giant spiders when we take Australia?

Minions! Minions!

Who works for a Queen who would gladly impale ya?

Minions, minions, minions!

Now, who gets beat up way less than the Boss?

And who is essential in each double cross?

Who gets free metal teeth that they don’t need to floss?

Minions

Minions,

Minions!

Who builds the fortresses out of solid rock?

The minions! The minions?

Who’s rented to circuses when Master’s in hock?

The minions! The minions?

Who can’t complain without vaporization?

The minions! The minions?

Who has the worst job in all of creation?

DEFINITELY NOT US.

The life of a minion is difficult and fraught

With terrors and problems and (eep!) being caught

But it also holds thrills which just can’t be bought

A Villainless minion? What a horrible thought!

Sure, they might bake us into gingerbread;

Our average lifespan is “already dead”.

But we live to serve (does that need to be said?)

A minion unvillained is a million tears shed.

World conquest is hard and oft-unrewarding

You have to spend gold that you’d rather be hoarding

It’s a really tough job, and we play major roles

In disintegrations, and digging world-threatening holes

Our bosses might eat us or treat us with total distrust

But we knew that to start; it was clearly discussed.

There are lots of job which are way worse than ours

And at least we get free radiation showers.

We like working hard. That’s why we are minions!

It’s our job to extend the Dark Lord’s dominions

It’s our job to rob every bank we can find

On behalf of our criminal arch-mastermind.

Our work may have tyrannosaur-sized annoyances

But it sure as heck beats most unemployances.

Dear Mistress: We’re fans. Not one of us is a hater.

So don’t kill us all now.

You might need us later.

~Jeff Mach

_______________

(You can picture this however you want; but when I think of “Minions”, I think less of the rather adorable movies, and more of the Studio Foglio “Girl Genius” model.)

Here’s my novel, “There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN”.

And here’s Evil Expo, the Convention for Villains.

The post Minion Mentations appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

Dark Army Recruitment Message #23

So!

You’ve decided to join the Dark Army!

A wise choice! Some of this world’s most prestigious beings have made their start here, like the Lich-King Acerak, or the Ghoul Goddess Zombina, or Mumb-Wrath the Eternal, or…

…um.

“Hey, Fred? We got any army alumni who ain’t dead? You know, famous ones? A living, breathing success story, emphasis on the ‘breathing’? Hm? …who? Sergeant Slaw? The one who tried to spell ‘Slaughterer’ and gave up? What’s he doing? …convenience store, eh? Second assistant store manager? …part-time? Yeah, nevermind. Thanks, Fred.”

At any rate, if there’s one thing the Dark Army’s known for, it’s taking you from a sloppy, filthy, disorganized shambling creature to a proud, disciplined, frequently-hosed-down shambling creature. We will forge you in the fires of battle and it’ll hurt briefly and then you’ll be cinders, but the good news is, we’ll probably resurrect you. And we seldom get too much extra stuff mixed up with your ashes. You won’t come out of this with anything more than a third or fourth arm and a vestigial tail. Or two.

Now, one thing you’ll find out is, everyone starts out equal here. For about two minutes. And then we separate the ones who shoot volcanic fires out of their eyes from the ones who haven’t ever picked up a pike before, because we’re not stupid here.

You have unlimited potential for advancement! We promote based on merit and survival, whichever comes first. If you live long enough to get promoted, you probably deserve it. That’s our motto.

We believe in fitting the right monster to the job! Like exploring? You can be part of the elite team that cleans up after the Dragons! Like logistics? You can be part of the elite team that cleans up after the Dragon! Like the subtle arts of sorcery and magick? You can be part of the elite team that cleans up after the Dragons! Basically, we have a lot of Dragons, and that comes with its own set of problems.

But it ain’t any worse than any other army.

Let’s face it. Whether you’re watching this in a scrying bowl, a palantir, a pool of clear water, or emitting from that odd artefact with all the spokes and the gears, you’re watching this in a barracks with a bunch of troops from the Army of Light.

You’ve heard that this is actually how it is, here in the Dark Army. The original version of this piece was a comedy skit for one of our troop rallies.

It’s not untrue. Which is why you’re seeing this. They figure most of you will look at this and think that conditions in this Army are hard as Hell, which they are. And that we have a strange sense of gallows humor, which we do. And we’re not a nice, normal army, like yours. And all that’s true. And 90% of you will go to bed tonight thinking the enemy is a bunch of incompetents.

And that’s just fine with us.

In fact, that’s lovely.

Your High Command thinks that it’s good for your morale to see us like this. It probably is. They think it’ll make you confident. We think it’ll make you overconfident. They think that you have the Light on your side, and that’s your advantage. We think that we’d rather have slightly sharper swords and slightly better armor, as opposed to siding with metaphorical oversimplifications of the will of the Universe, but who listens to a bunch of Orcs?

About ten per cent of you, that’s who.

Ten per cent, give or take, will see this and sneak off. Because this is your Army. This is where you belong.

Join us.

They’ll let you sneak away, and we’ll let you right on in. And yeah, some of you will be spies, but what of it? It’s not hard to enlist in an Army as a double agent; what’s difficult will be getting away with it. Most don’t get away with it.

Which is fine as far as we’re concerned, because it means we stay well-fed.

So come on down. We are the only Army in all of recorded history where the Mystery Meat is frickin’ sweet.

~Jeff Mach

__________

Check out my novel; it’s on Amazon.

Come to Evil Expo, where Villainy lives!

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The Tin Man’s Lament

I’m sure that someone out there is well-acquainted with the details of the love affair between Dorothy and the Tin Man.

But, as usual, all I get to know is his breakup song.

That was the dirtiest

Of all the dirty tricks

I’m gonna kneel down and kiss

Every last one of these Yellow Bricks.

I’ll leave the Scarecrow home

To put out all the fires

And turn my back

On these emerald spires.

My body is only tin;

For a heart, I had no use.

Your body is flesh and blood—

What’s your damn excuse?

Maybe you’ve a magnet

Where a heart should rest

I was pulled to you

Like a man possessed

But I’m no coward lion

To hide behind a roar

Ain’t no little dog

For your small arms to store.

My body is made of tin;

I guess my heart came loose.

Your body is flesh and blood—

What’s your damn excuse?

Maybe the Wicked Witch

Could be reconstituted

She had a flag I now

Wish I had saluted.

Bright Yellow Road!

Blessed cobble street!

Carry me ever-further

Out from under her ruby feet.

My body is made of tin,

With my heart I’ll make no truce.

Your body is flesh and blood;

You got no damn excuse.

You got no damn excuse.

You got no damn excuse.

~Jeff Mach

(for the Fae girl.)

____________

I don’t like breakups, any more than anyone else does.

But I find that I keep most of my breakup songs.

It’s seldom that I wrote love songs, and even more seldom that I keep those songs.

But I’ve kept most of my breakup songs.

There’s a moral in that somewhere.

I’m lucky. Two years ago, I had a breakup with most of my world. I think those who initiated it hoped I’d never write another thing.

They really, really didn’t know me.

I have a lifetime of songs in me now. Do stay tuned.

Find my book, “There and Never, EVER Back Again”, here.

Find Evil Expo, the Convention for Villains, here.

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A Burnished Banishment

Banishment is one of the darkest magicks.

Not always; not invariantly. This is magick, and intention matters. Has an army of the dead been raised up from your fallen soldiery and sent back against you? Those who battled you so recently in life are likely with you in spirit; it’s probably a mercy to send them out of this world and back to the grave.

But usually, there’s a bit more uncertainty involved. Do you wish to try your skill at arms against a notorious lich, powerful in life, angry in undeath? Go to her home, wave the sigils of your Gods in her face, and send her away, if you would (and if you can). But recognize: you, the interloper, have made a being unable to be part of its own croft.

You might say, “But this was a thing steeped in Darkness; we have merely returned it to its element. It fled naturally, unable to face the Divinities we worship.”

Well, I serve Gods so horrifying that even a glimpse of the thing burnt into my chest might set you to panic; if I open my shirt and abjure you, in its name, to get thyself gone from this place—then let me assure you, gone you will be.

Darkness can push back the Light; the only creatures who don’t know that are those who’ve never heard of a sunset. We just seldom choose to do so.

Some of my own may think I blaspheme here (but my Keep is tall, made by a civilization long gone. Its walls are monoliths built atop monoliths, cunningly edged into each other so that you couldn’t stick even the subtlest blade between them. And this stronghold rests upon a mountain I have claimed for my own, which is covered with my wolven friends and hob-goblin allies. So beings of the Dark do say: “Behold the Witch-Queen of the North doth hold some views we find questionable, but she also holds a horrifyingly well-defended fortress and has cheated Death so often that even he is said to fear her. So basically, were we to decide that our Alliance is at an end, it would probably be over something important. Because we’re not idiots.”)

Therefore, I will speak freely. Hear me:

In truth, the Dark is no more powerful than the Light. And to be honest, few of us are subsumed entirely by one are the other; most nights have a Moon, most days encompass spaces no Sun will ever reach.

We avoid Banishment for many reasons. Much of it’s sheer practicality. Not every spell of Banishment lasts. And it’s easy to cast something out and believe it gone, and forget about it. (Just ask the Huntsman of a certain formerly-living Wicked Queen.)

But the Banished do not forget.

We had thought, someday, we might summon the Turned-away living dead, pull them up from the cemeteries and mortuaries, and bring them back, back where they want to be, back to wreak a truly horrible vengeance.

But it appears those plans are to be scrapped.

The Dark us, on the whole, does not Turn back the Light, because we recognize that we’re not always certain which is which. Your personal dislike of someone doesn’t make that person into an expert in the Hidden Arts and a dealer in the sorceries of twisted souls. If we are going to cast something which adds a little more chill to the heart (as is the hallmark of black magic), we’d like to use it for something worthwhile—like calling forth a demon vast enough to tear down the walls of a foe’s city.

That heart-frost is complicated. Some it kills, some it changes, some balance humanity with the inhuman cold. Do you know who’s really awful at detecting it?

Those who’ve told themselves, real hard, that such a thing just can’t happen to them.

Also, the Dark turneth not the Light because the Dark is aware: Power corrupts, and the power to drive away someone you dislike corrupts with exceptional rapidity.

The Light seems to believe, “Power corrupts, BUT NOT US BECAUSE WE’RE WAY TOO COOL FOR THAT.”

But we know all too well: anything can be corrupted. Not just into the Dark, but also into traits reserved for no single perspective: greed, fear, stupidity.

I would say that the Darkling who spares a formidable foe, not to fulfill a debt or to achieve some purpose, but out of compassion, might be accused of weakness. And maybe that’s wise and maybe it isn’t.

One of the Light, who does something colleagues view as Evil, on the other hand…

I would like to take credit for tempting the Archdruid, but in truth, she was my superior in every way: older, wiser, stronger.

Does she deserve to have been cast out and thrown among us?

I don’t think so; but it was hardly my choice to make.

She doesn’t think so, and she is angry.

I’m going to send her some chocolates. (Real ones; even if it were my intention to poison her, only a fool tries to hide toxins from a Druid.) It’s just a small gift of comfort in a time of existential crisis.

And a small, handwritten card, mentioning that, though she and I have not spoken since I left her tutelage, many years ago, I owe her a debt of gratitude.

And, as a postscript, one of the lesser-known names of the Graveyard God.

I think she’ll make good use of it.

~Jeff Mach,

the blighted branch

_________

Click here to check out my novel, “There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN”.

Click here to find out about Evil Expo.

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An Abominable Army

Rule #1: Obey orders.

Rule #2: Unless they’re stupid orders. Or misinformed. Or clearly a terrible idea.

Rule #3: Basically, obedience is what helps us maintain the discipline and focus to execute both simple and complex tactics. And intelligent disobedience is what allows us to remove the heads of those who only value servitude.

Rule #4: If your Commanding Officer wants to inspire in you the kind of loyalty that will get you to do something nuts or suicidal, because you have that much faith in them, they’d better earn it. And if it’s really insane, they’d better go first.

Rule #5: Do not trifle with the Envoy.

Note: We’ve never had a chance to enforce #5. Because she always takes care of it herself.

~Training Manual of the Dark Army (Volume I: “Fools Die”)

Those who’ve incurred the wrath of the Envoy like to say that she’s a ball of fury, that she never smiles, that she opens her mouth only to yell, eat, or (if presented with a major artery) to bite.

This is because they’re usually idiots, and this is why the Army doesn’t care that they’re mostly dead now. They’re wrong; if she were that way, she wouldn’t have this job. Fury is sometimes an asset in battle, but hardly in delicate political circumstances. The Envoy is not a diplomat; she is a messenger (some would say a “harbinger”, but that’s pessimistic)—but that’s a job which requires finesse and precision and measured calm. When The General wants someone to take a moment to reconsider an action, when she has a serious proposal to make, when a city has a final chance to avoid being taken apart brick-by-brick and reassembled upside-down and under water, the General sends her Envoy in.

(And if, sometimes, when she visits a place, a royal throat is cut in the night, or an object disappears, best to blame it on coincidence. Because The Envoy is too far away for there to be any point in blaming it on her.)

Sometimes, if she’s fresh from to enacting a visitation upon a hostile territory, she pause in her return to stop by the local troop encampment for an inspection. It’s always good to know your own strengths and weaknesses, especially when you’ve a fresh observation of the enemy with which to compare yourself. And with the upcoming War, and the strategic position of this particular battalion, the General would want to be kept in the loop.

Besides, she was curious; she’d seldom seen any city, friend or enemy, which was so on edge. The streets bubbled over with restless energy as the inhabitants spoke of nothing but the Commander and his marauders. There clearly wasn’t a person in the city who hadn’t escaped near-death from some almost-skirmish. Then again, there clearly wasn’t a missing broom that he hadn’t personally stolen, and, to hear the reports, there wasn’t a single puppy he’d failed to kick. That was interesting; vicious sadists are not often the best leaders of soldiery. That’s because “inflict and enjoy the most pain” is of limited utility. It’s good for certain cultures, certain wars, certain goals. The goal of a commander is to “achieve strategic objectives with the available military resources”. Contrary to popular belief, the two do not always mix.

(She’s not defined by her role; but she’s very passionate about it. The Envoy is not lacking in hobbies; it’s just that her hobbies are military history, meditation, and the study of obscure weapons and poisons. Those are perfectly fascinating things, and while it’s very much like her that they aid and assist her in her avocation, she enjoys them for their own sake. It’s glorious to be out in a forest, looking for a rare and fatal herb; it’s fulfilling to enter a newly-conquered city and eagerly head to its museums and archeological sites; and if you ever want to see a contented look on her face, just find her ensconced in her tent, surrounded by academic tomes relating to the martial past and sipping a cup of tea. Granted, the tomes are likely impounded from recent spoils of war, and the tea contains within it a pinch of poison, but still, happiness is where you find it.

(The poison’s an old Audoghastian trick; if one has studied toxins sufficiently, one realizes that it’s impossible to avoid them completely, if someone both determined and knowledgeable has decided to introduce one into your environment. But if you build up a higher tolerance, you might have a chance of living through the incident, finding your would-be assassin, and deconstructing the unwisdom of their life choices in a thoughtful and impactful manner. You might also die; but that’s a soldier’s lot, isn’t it?)

Altogether, The Envoy’s default working expression was an outer calm which, if you poked at it sufficiently, revealed an inner calm as well. She was skilled, knowledgeable, a valued asset to the Dark Army, and at this moment, she was really, really annoyed at the possibility that she’d need to rip this fool’s head off. Which, seeing as how he was the Commander of a branch of her own Army, would hardly mitigate the rumours that she was feral as a polecat.

She’d arrived mid-morning, and it was now near sunset, and so far, she’d held her tongue. The General was not known for poor choices in personnel; the Commander was a legend; and it’s true that all the troops seemed fit enough.

But—

She’d visited many a salle d’armes, and heart the clash of steel on steel; but it wasn’t usually there as an accompaniment to (as she discovered once they’d made their way inside) a jug band.

The Dark Army was fairly informal, for a fighting force. Still, it was not common for a CO to be referred to by his troops as “You with the ugly mustache!”, especially when it turned out that the private had wanted their attention in order to settle a bet as to whether dinner was going to be roast mastodon or fried terror-bird. (“Both, buddy!” the Commander had replied, jovially, “unless you catch us something better from the lake.” The two had then taken up a friendly argument about the best worm to use to try to catch a giant lake trout. It had been insufferable, and they’d only shut up when she pointed out that, this time of year, the young infantryman would be better off finding a big beetle or two. “If,” she’d said sardonically, “your busy training schedule doesn’t preclude hunting around for bugs for a few hours.” The sarcasm was entirely lost on the youth, who thanked her amiably and skipped off into the forest.)

More than once, she noted enemy scouts. They apparently felt fairly secure, because their concealment was fairly minimal. (Granted, she was exceptionally practiced in noticing these things.) Interestingly, no matter what they observed, their pattern was similar: they’d gaze for a few moments from their nominal places of hiding…and then suddenly break and run off at a dead heat, as if four of the seven Hells were opening up behind them.

It was weird.

The City on the plains below, the one whose walls seemed fairly likely to be tested against the mangonels she’d inspected today, was in a panic. And not just about the siege engines (which were, admittedly, clean, well-maintained, and in perfect condition, if you ignored the fact that an off-duty sergeant was using one of the massive slings as a makeshift hammock). The priests, bards, and the Council of the City were vehement; some in denouncing the General, some in denouncing the sinful ways of the world around them; and most of all, in speaking their undying hatred of the sick, demented warrior who was…

…apparently joining a game of kickball with the soldiery. She didn’t know exactly what kind of animal had provided the bladder they were smacking about, but it must have been from something huge. Even as she watched, the Commander knocked the thing hard enough to launch it well over the defender’s heads.

It was a clear point scored…except that a long-legged scout, with a surprising turn of speed, sprinted underneath the thing somehow, and caught it, to the wild acclaim of the spectators, who raised jars of homebrew in her honor.

(The Envoy had seen veteran soldiers drink hard, but that was usually when they were off-duty. Or at least, when the sun was down. Or, you know, going down soon.)

The whole camp was like that. The whole day was like that. They participated (in what the Envoy felt was a manner so overly-familiar it threatened to destroy distinctions of rank altogether)—in a foot race, a horseshoe pitch, and a lunch…

She was no believer in unnecessary austerity, and, as anyone with a reasonable grasp of military history will tell you, an army travels on its stomach. But most mess halls do not serve a 7-course midday snack. With wine pairings.

Fascinatingly, someone shot an arrow into the fabric of the structure. Clearly, they’d intended to send it through and into the hall itself, but even a longbow has limits. From the flopping noise the thing made as it hit the side of the tent, it had clearly been shot from far afield.

The Commander sent a pair of runners (armored runners, and she approved of that much) to fetch the thing. They did. Wrapped around the shaft was a missive. The Commander read it without comment, then dropped it on the table and went back to his honey-roasted quail. (He’d invited her to go hunting with some of the other troops. She’d declined.)

The letter said,

“Go back to the Abyss, abomination!” She’d looked inquiringly at the Commander; his only comment was, “Their punctuation is improving.”

And now, at last, they were finally returning to their starting point, the Commander’s ridiculously oversized tent, which was furnished in a manner that would have made any reasonable den of sin and vice shake its head and say, “Really, don’t you think the orange-and-purple shag carpet is a bit much? At least in combination with that giant flamingo drinks cabinet?”

The Commander sprawled in a chair; it was an actual piece of furniture with back support, which almost surprised her. At this point, she would have expected a chaise lounge recovered from the home of a disgraced libertine. (And almost immediately, she saw where her mind had pulled that image: there was such a thing, right over in the corner. It was serving as a third reserve backup auxiliary bookshelf. She recognized some of the titles, and for a moment, she felt an ounce of fellow-feeling. Then she crushed that thoughtwave; she should probably leave tonight, and the news she would bring the General was not good.)

“Commander, I need to speak with you before I leave.”

“But of course.” He poured himself a glass of wine. It was, she noted, an extremely large glass. But he merely sipped it delicately and placed it on the table before him. He indicated the chair opposite, but she ignored it and stood, if anything, straighter.

“Sir. Commander: I have not once, among hundreds of armed camps, seen a stronghold more entirely, inappropriately unprepared for war.”

He raised an eyebrow, a gesture she found inappropriately flippant. She grew quite still. In a perfectly even tone, she stated, “I have found discipline to be lax in every area. Military protocol may be altered, but cannot be inappropriately ignored. You are our bulwark against an absolutely implacable foe, one who is determined to drive you from the face of the globe, and with you, three thousand of my General’s troops, whose only crime was to be under your command. It will be my recommendation that you be replaced in your command, and that you, personally, lose your head. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Bravery and idiocy wear very similar faces, and sometimes, it’s impossible to tell them apart. The Commander, rather than being nonplussed, smiled in what seemed to be genuine amusement. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind, Envoy?”

The Envoy knew at least three different ways to kill someone using your mind alone. None of them were easy or pleasant for either side, but she had to master the urge to try all three at once. “That is what’s on my mind, Commander.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

The temperature in the room dropped precipitously; there have been ice ages which were warmer. And her voice was sub-glacial:

“If that was a flirtation—”

“—then I’m a dead man right here and now, obviously,” replied the Commander. “I’m not an idiot. I have no intention of serving our General by seeing who, among two of her officers, can draw a blade faster, especially when I’m fairly sure it’s you.

“You’re a professional. I imagine you don’t get mad unless you need to; or at least, you don’t let it out. Honestly, you’ve looked steamed since afternoon cocktails. If I wasn’t deeply confident in your self-control, I wouldn’t be anywhere near you without about three layers of honor guard and, preferably, a couple of spiked trenches. I recognize that. I thought a typical day in our camp might be a pleasant break in your routine. But apparently not.”

There was a pause. Then she spoke:

“Fine. I just want to know what the Hell is wrong with you. You’re supposed to be the backbone of our forces in this region, and you know this region’s strategic import; you must know. And you’ve been using our army’s resources to run what appears to be a full-scale dress rehearsal for Saturnalia!  Seriously, man, what’s wrong with you?”

“Why, haven’t you heard, Commander? I am an abomination. What could be more wrong than that?”

She probably wasn’t going to strike him, but he hastily put up both hands in a warding gesture regardless. He went on hurriedly:

“Our enemies are speaking of my endless atrocities; every day they tell more hideous stories and the legend grows, and they are more and more terrified.. Their morale is destroyed, their thoughts are scattered, and their will is broken.”

“But you’ve clearly done nothing besides indulge yourselves and lounge about in dissipation!”

“Not true! We often take bracing exercise and drill in our weapons; how good for the soul it is to work up an appetite for one’s meal with energetic display, and how lovely we all look, marching about in our uniforms! We are in the best of spirits and in excellent health; and if our aim is true from hunting game and making merry sport, rather than mere target practice, how much the better?”

She could have controlled her exasperation, but why? He was right; she was angry, and if he was going to be cavalier, then she’d be direct. Moreso than usual. “Dammit, you’ve done nothing to harry and harass the enemy! Your reputation for savagery and barbarism is wholly inaccurate!” The Commander smiled. “Ah, but consider our opponents.. They despise us. And though they’d never admit it, they love to do so, and that means, like all humans, they make bigger and bigger stories, each one seeking to outdo the next in outrage and anger. The less we do, the more they imagine we’ve done. The one thing that’s impossible, in their minds, is that we are civilized creatures.

We harry the enemy by living well. You’re an historian; you know the import of morale. How could ours be any higher? And how could theirs be any lower?”

The movement of a weapon ought seldom reveal itself before it reaches a point of commitment; a fighter should expect that the next strike could be at any target, from hamstring to carotid artery. The Envoy would not be who and what she was if she believed every first instinct.

“Why does the City hate you?”, she asked.

“I was once military advisor to a member of their Triumvirate. When our friendship ended, he chose to make sure he would not be blamed for the rift. So he spread word far and wide that he’d fled my company because of my perversity and unquenchable inner darkness. My own comrades told me to ignore it, that truth would shine through. The results of that belief…well, they are why my sole commander is the General now.

“And thus, their scouts see us at table, making conversation, and they assume we we can’t simply be eating venison, as they do; our plates must be full of nightmares, and we must be insouciant cannibals. They note our parade discipline and believe it’s because we are possessed by demons, because why attribute actual skill to a beast? And so they look at all, and see what they most desire. The less we act like a fearsome army, the more they’re sure that’s exactly what we must be. They can turn anything we do into a tale of our horrific natures.”

The Envoy thought of the boiling City. Her time there, both in the open and in secret, had been filled with exactly such stories. She was confused; but take enough blows in combat, and you need to learn to get past even the most jarring hits. Her tone was now one of genuine curiosity:

“But will we win this way?”

“Ah, my friend,” the Commander said, carefully filling a second glass from his bottle and handing it to her, “We already have.”

She sat, and she drank. Outside were the sounds of a bacchanal coalescing. She looked at him. “Do you need to go join that?”

“Nah, it’s my night off. They’re roasting a boar; they’ll bring some over later. Hopefully.” He walked over to the tent flap and shouted, “Orderly! Cup of tea! Please.” He moved back to the bookshelf, pulled out a volume that had to weigh as much as the shortsword at his side, placed it on the table in front of him.

She stood up. “I should go.”

“And what are you going to tell the General?”

She waited a moment, as the orderly came in, threw a jaunty salute at him (and then a rather crisper one at her), and looked over at the other officer, book in his hand, tea and wine within easy reach.

“I’m going to tell her that you really know how to party. For an abomination.”

And then she was through the tent flap and gone, as if she’d vanished into the sweet-scented twilight air.

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