Daniel M. Bensen's Blog, page 103
June 12, 2014
Wheel in the Sky 13
Candegar ran.
The thought occurred to him to stop. Why flee the towering abomination bearing down on them? The rogue power could only kill him, after all.
Whereas if he ran, Candegar might escape. If he escaped, Martus would attack him and finish the battle he had started. And if Candegar dueled with the krypterion and won…
If Candegar won, his cursed blade would become even stronger.
Already Voidcleaver had gained the ability to move his body. How long until he had turned into a revenant like that woman in the keep? A shuffling sack of larval weapons? Better to die now, by all Seelie Powers.
A noise like wind howling between ice-bergs at sea, and a chunk of earth the size of a house ripped itself free from the hillside. Still howling, the minor Power molded itself into a green and brown globe and rose into the air, where it hung like the fabled First Homeland in the air.
Nebuchak’s snapped the globe out of the air with tree-trunk mandibles.
“Why have you stopped?”
Lady Saria was behind him, mantle flapping, veil gone. To Candegar’s horror, she stopped, too.
Nebuchak rose behind her, a nebulous mass atop a next of lightning-bolt-legs. The power didn’t stomp or stride so much as drift, its body so divorced from natural law that the massive creature blew in the wind like a dandelion seed.
“Wait,” Saria gasped. “yes. Maybe. Yes. Stick it in.”
“What?” Candegar stared at her.
“It’s deactivated now,” she said, “but I think I know a spell that can wake it up.”
He didn’t understand her. “My lady, I know you came here to die, but—”
“Voidcleaver, man! Cut it with Voidcleaver,” Saria was shouting now. “Pierce Nebuchak’s seals and render it Seelie again.”
A shadow coagulated over them. A voice rose, loud as an avalanche, pitiful as the weeping of a child.”
“Here!” Saria wrapped her mantel around her hand and thrust it toward Candegar, “prick my finger through the fabric.”
Candegar drew back, horrified.
“Would you rather die?” she said. “Because I don’t. We can do more good alive than dead. We can tame the Powers, rebuild the world, make things work again.”
Nebuchak arrived.
It’s foot did not descend from the sky, but flickered upward from the ground like a guttering candle flame. But when its tip brushed the tangle of the Power’s body, the leg solidified and pivoted to slide that impossible weight over their heads.
But Candegar was no longer afraid. He imagined a world with tame Powers. No more Nebuchak, no need for any Krypteria. No more cursed blades.
He drew Voidcleaver and pricked Saria’s finger.
A tingle in his hand. An ache in his bones. A vibration in his jaw. And a voice.
Now here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.
Next
June 10, 2014
He causes the walls of fire to fall down
Tepin hid with her children in her brother’s house and watched the enemy come.
Her sister-in-law was there too and the woman’s old mother. But Mazatl, himself, had been called upon to fight, which meant he was outside and probably already dead.
At least Tepin could tell her sister-in-law she couldn’t see his face on any of the warriors milling around the street.
“What do you see?” asked Yolotil, her brother’s wife, and Tepin leaned farther over the edge of the roof.
“The enemy are walking right into our trap,” Tried to sound confident. She didn’t like the size of the enemy cohort, nor the way they moved.
“Their feet strike the ground like a drum played by a single musician,” said Tepin. “They walk in lines like rows of corn. There are two sorts, I think. The ones in front have sword-clubs, but they’re made of silver. The ones behind carry spears, no, just staffs.”
“Are they warrior priests with ceremonial daggers and effigies,” wondered Yolil? “Do they think we’ll just bow to their display and let them take butterfly-prisoners?”
“They’ve pushed this far into the city,” said Tepin, “and killed everyone who’s resisted them. That’s why we’re breaking chivalry whith our ambush. They must have real weapons. I just don’t see them.”
She soon would, for someone screamed from the other end of the street, as high and fierce as that of a red-tailed hawk.
“Now!”
“The people of Cihuatlan rise from their ambush spots,” she said over the weeping of the children.
With efficiency and synchronicity almost beautiful in its perfection, half the enemy knelt and the other half raised their staffs.
“They run toward the enemy,” said Tepin. “Common warriors with arrows and atlatls, knights with sword-clubs and spears. Women with slings. Sticks. Rocks. Oh, praise the Hummingbird who causes the walls—”
Echos of thunder cracked against adobe and the warriors slammed backward in a spray of blood.
Tepin blinked. Squinted.
“What is it?” Yolotil’s hand was on her shoulder. “What happened? What was that noise?”
“I saw,” Tepin stammered, tried to make sense of it. “The earth cracked to swallow them. No. A thunderbolt struck them from the blue sky. No. Our warriors just…exploded.”
Just like Pochotl had said. Tepin wondered if she ought to feel worried about the man who’d brought this curse down on them.
“What’s happening now?” said Yolotil, holding back the children from the edge. “How many are dead?”
“Everyone. They’ve killed everyone.” The ones who hadn’t died in the thunder stood or ran or fought, and were hacked apart by those impossibly sharp silver swords.
“How is that possible?” creaked Tepin’s brother’s mother-in-law. “How can they take prisoners now? Who will they sacrifice in their home city?”
“This isn’t a flower war, mother,” said Yolotil. “It’s an anger war. A war of conquest”
Worse than that. Tepin believed this was hardly a war at all, but an extermination.
The poem paraphrased in the title
Flower War, Anger War
Xōchi yaoyotl, Cocoltic yaoyotl
Tepin hid with her children in her brother’s house and watched the foreigners come.
Her sister-in-law was there too and the woman’s old mother. But Mazatl, himself, had been called upon to fight, which meant he was outside and probably already dead.
At least Tepin could tell her sister-in-law she couldn’t see his face on any of the warriors milling around the street.
“What do you see?” asked Yolotil, her brother’s wife, and Tepin leaned farther over the edge of the roof.
“The warriors fight,” she said over the complaints of the children. “But they’ve almost stopped firing arrows and darts. They’re hiding. Waiting like jaguars to spring on the enemy.”
“Hardly chivalrous,” creaked Tepin’s brother’s mother-in-law. “And dangerous. What if they surprise and enemy and kill him by accident?”
“This isn’t a flower war, mother,” said Yolotil. “It’s mortal.”
Worse than that. Tepin believed this was hardly a war at all. More an extermination or a hunt.
“Attack now!” shouted someone from behind the corner of a house and four warriors leaped out of the shadows. They pounded across the earth, ponchos flapping behind them, clubs raised…
Tepin covered her ears against the sudden thunder.
She blinked. Squinted.
“What is it?” Yolotil’s hand was on her shoulder. “What happened? What was that noise?”
“I saw,” Tepin stammered, tried to make sense of it. “The earth cracked to swallow them. No. A thunderbolt struck them from the blue sky. No. They just…exploded.”
Just like Pochotl had said. Tepin wondered if she ought to feel worried about the man who’d brought this curse down on them.
“What’s happening now?” said Yolotil, holding back the children from the edge.
“There’s smoke,” said Tepin, “but I see people. Enemies. Two of them. The first has a…it’s some kind of sword-club, but it’s all silver.”
“One of their noble knights,” said Tepin’s brother’s mother-in-law.
“Maybe. And the other has a short spear or a staff. Yes, a staff. He sets it on the ground and kneels to it.”
“Aha. A warrior priest and his effigy.”
Except this priest didn’t look particularly devout. Easily, casually, as if he’d done so a thousand times before, the praying man shook black kernels into the fluted opening at the top of the staff, followed by black sand. Then some business with a long black rod and a bit of gray cloth. Was he feeding the effigy? Certainly these men must be confident indeed, to pray in the middle of a bloody battle.
The confidence was justified. The few arrows and slung stones that still flew glanced harmlessly off the men’s turtle-shell clothes, and nobody could get close enough to do damage with a staff or sword-club.
“A throwing-ax,” wondered Tepin out loud. “Or an atlatl dart at close range?”
“Tepin, what’s happening down there?”
“The priest propitiates his effigy. His guard swings his metal sword-club up.”
They could all hear the alien shout from below, impossible to interpret.
June 8, 2014
60 Manga on Kickstarter with Phuong Pham
http://www.thekingdomsofevil.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/60Phuong.mp3
This week I’m talking to Phuong Pham, an editor at Digital Manga, Inc and Project Director for the English translation of Captain Ken. We’re talking about Kickstarter, specifically the campaign her company is doing (and which you should visit and fund right now!)
We also discuss yaoi, hentai, and then …
Triton of the Sea, Unico, and Atomcat
Make sure you have all the numbers figured out
Osamu Tezuka , author of Astroboy and the God of Manga
The Astroboy movie?
Can two species co-exist with each other?
He would devote several pages to one moment in time.
Takarazuka (and kabuki and noh)
Westerns based on samurai movies and did the reverse ever happen?
Godzilla, King of Monsters!
The more anime I watched, the more those cultural traits started to stick.
How the English dubbing of Furi Kuri said “niisan” although come to think of it, I think it was actually “sempai”
You might remember my friend Emil
Itadakimasu and ohayou
Nande ya nen (I said “Nande yo ne” in the podcast because I don’t speak the heathen drawl of western Japan. Not because I made a mistake. No no.)
June 6, 2014
64 Research with E.C. Ambrose
I’m back with E.C. Ambrose, talking about her new book, Elisha Magus and the research that not only informs the series, but got it started in the first place. Also…
The whole thing began with research.
For me a book usually begins with a person in a place with a problem.
What kind of problems would this kind of person face?
The Society for Creative Anachronism
My own historical fantasy book.
I am a huge fan of the Mongols
Jack Rutherford’s Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World
The Secret History of the Mongols (pdf)
The Sons and the Spears trope from the lives of Genghis Khan and Khan Kubrat (not Khan Asparukh, who was Kubrat’s son)
The sausage is actually delicious
Barbarian Empires of the Steppes
Also, because I cannot get enough of Mongols
The International Congress of Medieval Studies
16.50
Wheel in the Sky 12
“So this is what you want?”
The two traitors spun around to face Martus.
Behind them, the perimeter of Nebuchak’s influence curved across the crown of the hill, as straight as the line drawn by a draftsman’s compass. One side, red light and ravenous swirling mist the other yellow sun and green grass and trees.
“You,” the black and green blade of the Cursed Hero rose between them, long as his forearm. “I thought Voidcleaver killed you.”
“Clearly not, although the wounds your master gave me were grievous enough.” Martus gestured with his hands, and the slick black tentacles that covered his head and back rippled. “And don’t menace me. Don’t run either,” he raised his voice. “Step too far from my influence and I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“What are you talking about?” snarled the Hero, but a look of comprehension dawned on the face of the apostate noblewoman.
“You’re why we weren’t disassembled.”
Behind her, the air within the perimeter darkened. The Assumption was close at hand, and Martus could only hope that Nebuchak, when it Assumed physical substance, would prove seelie and respect the immunity of the Krypteria. Martus’ acolytes and assistants might yet escape alive, those that hadn’t been slaughter by the mad Hero and his Cursed Blade.
“You expected this to be a suicide mission,” Martus agreed. “It is good to know the enemies of the Church have so little confidence in themselves.”
The Hero lowered his blade. “You’re holding us hostage.”
Martus’ mantel was damaged, but still sufficient for the task. With eyetwitch speed, he had grabbed the traitors in black and oozing bonds. “Why. So I am.”
Lightning flashed. Mundane at first, blinding the eyes and blasting the rocks, splitting the air with thunder. Then the black lightning flickered upward from the Keep, skewering the clouds. The dark trunk split into branches, which split into twigs, which wrapped around the tower. Tore.
“Why?” said the aristocrat.
“Why capture and not kill you? I want you to take me to those who command you, of course, so that I may kill them. Or do you mean, why did I abandon my post to chase after you? Well,” said Martus, “my influence isn’t great enough to save the structure in any case.”
Stone cracked and a section of the tower fell into the growing black void in its heart.
The assembler mist danced around a forest of jagged legs, a tower itself, taller than any work of man. Limbs of black un-matter bent up, became wings and a long, gnashing pair of jaws longer than galleons.
“And if you think your life is worthless next to the purity of your cause, lady then you can imagine, how strong my own willingness to sacrifice myself must be, since I know my cause is right. My cause it to prevent that.”
The huge head swung as it knit itself together. Eyes kindled like volcanic calderas. Loops and buttresses of black tissue became wings that fluttered and tore the air. Jagged tendrils, thick as a man’s torso, but nothing more than hairs on the belly of the great beast, stabbed downward into the wreckage of the Keep, and emerged with cargos of screaming men.
“Your holiness,” said the noblewoman, “are you certain of your Church’s immunity.”
Martus uttered an oath and released the traitors.
“Wait,” said the Hero, gaping stupidly up as the huge Power ripped its feet free of the earth and turned toward them, “that thing’s gone unseelie? It’s not obeying you? Then there’s no reason?” his voice grew louder against the rumbling buzz of Nebuchak’s wings, “why we shouldn’t just kill you.”
“I would suggest,” Martus said. “That you run instead.”
Next
June 3, 2014
Earth, Cornmeal, and Smoke
Tltatl, Tamal, Poctli
“Chimalma exploded?”
Tepin swayed on her feet. Nothing made sense any more. A crack in the earth had opened and swallowed the normal world.
She held out her hands to Pochitl as if for support. “What will we do?”
“Get the hell out of here,” said her husband, shoving a jade necklace into his sack. “Don’t we have more cornmeal than this?”
“I meant to grind more today.” Tepin shook her head. “What about little Chitlali? He’s with my sister. And Tenoch is in the fields.”
A sharp crack broke the air and Pochotl shuddered. “You want all four of us to die instead of just two?”
“They’re our children.”
Pochotl threw the bag on the floor, and it burst in a yellow cloud. “Don’t you get it? We don’t have time. I slipped away, but they’ll come looking for me.”
Tepin stared down at the spilled cornmeal. What was that smell in the air? Like the smoke from a volcano.
“Are you deaf or just stupid? The foreigners.” Pochotl shouted as if his wife had asked him a question. “The ones who exploded Chimalma.” He bent to scoop some dirty cornmeal back into his bag. “But if we steal a boat and get across the river—”
“Not” Tepin said, “without our children.”
Pochotl’s sigh raised a cloud of yellow dust. “We can make more children.”
The foreigners found Tepin and her two sons in her sister’s house. If the world was ending today, at least she could go into the afterlife in decent company.
June 1, 2014
59 Pitching with Dan Koboldt
http://www.thekingdomsofevil.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/59DanKoboldt.mp3
My buddy Dan Koboldt has a lot to say about pitching books to literary agents and publishers, especially pitching contests for super-short-form venues like twitter. Right now, it’s #PitchPerfect. How timely!
So in this episode we talk about pitching contests.
It’s an alternate channel to catch the interest of an agent by pitching your book.
The “hook” or “elevator pitch”
Dan’s three pitches for The Rogue Retrieval:
A Vegas performer brings high-tech magic illusions into a medieval world that has the real thing.
A man who spent his life studying a pristine medieval world goes rogue when he uncovers his company’s plans to invade it.
When a company loses someone in a hidden medieval world, they recruit a Vegas show magician to make him reappear.
Character, goal, what’s stopping them, and what’s at stake
You can see which pitches those agents favorited and see their taste and also what great pitches are
Stealing Paris by Diana Urban
I have this book I’m representing that’s about this
May 27, 2014
Obsidian, Blood, and Thunder
Itztli, Eztli, Tlatlatziniliztli
“Boss?”
“Yes?” snapped Chimalma. “What is it now, Pochotl?”
“The foreigners have stopped.”
The scout commander muttered an oath and turned to look up the slope of the little hill. Yes, the damn foreigners had formed a clump at the crest, the dark-skinned servants milling around the pale, gaudily-clothed superiors. In the center of the group, the old man had planted his pegleg in the sandy soil and set his stony face.
“Come on, come on!” shouted Chimalma, “Mekka!” But he knew that old bastard wasn’t going to budge.
“They come from the sea,” said Pochotl, “maybe they just don’t want to lose sight of it.”
“No,” Chimalma climbed up to meet his subordinate. “They don’t want their comrades on the big canoes to lose sight of them.”
“They know what we’re planning,” said Xilotzin.
“Maybe. Let me think.” Chimalma assumed a friendly expression and raised his voice. “So you need a break. We totally understand, but the treasure you want is just that way,” he pointed. “Mekka, Mekka! Right, you stupid savages? La la alla and all that?”
“Lā ʾilāha ʾil ʾāllāh,” corrected the thin-faced one with the bad teeth. Followed by a comment that sounded in no way friendly.
Chimalma considered. Could they kill all these men and pack up their clothes and treasures before retribution arrived from the big canoes?
The peg-legged commander was talking. “Fang,” he said, or something like it. Then, pointing to himself and the other pale, mustachioed men. “Han,” he said. “Hanzu.” He pointed at the darker-skinned, mustachioed men. “Tai. Malai.” And the very dark, smooth-faced men. “Mauli.” He held out a hand to them.
Yes, they could probably do it. “Get ready,” said Chimalma. “Why, friendly idiot from over the sea, we are Mexica people.”
“Meshika?”
“Yes, yes, your pronunciation is lovely. Are you ready?”
“Ready, boss,” said Pochotl and Xilotzin.
And none too soon. The wooden-legged Hanzu spoke and half the foreigners turned around as if to return to the beach.
“Now!” The commander would die first. Chimelma raised his sword-club.
And a terrible noise threw him to the ground.
May 25, 2014
58 Narrative Technology with Turbofanatic
http://www.thekingdomsofevil.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/58Sarah.mp3
Yes it’s the illustrious Turbofanatic with us once again! The author of Aphelion and Deltavengers is talking with me about some of the themes of Wheel in the Sky (our collaborative project alongside Michael Silva ). That theme, of course, is Narrative Technology, or how we use technology to turn our lives into a fairy-tale.
Magic Mirror by Orson Scott Card
Ramez Naam (not “Raam” as I say in the podcast—sorry), author of Nexus, and his article on the Singularity (which is further than it appears)
Technology isn’t converging on a god, it’s converging on a genie
Jared Diamond’s “Invention is the mother of necessity”
Perhaps I’m the only real person
Scooby-Doo and the Problem of Conciousness
Thomas Nagel’s What is it like to be a bat? (thanks to Katy Bensen for recommending that essay)
And Fullmetal Alchemist! Why NOT talk about Fullmetal Alchemist? More Goddamn Alchemy!
Um. Spoilers for the first series.
