Eric T. Knight's Blog, page 35

Watching the End of the World – Nate gets captured 1

Nate sat down in the bed of the pickup beside Tony. No matter how tightly he gripped his rifle, he couldn���t seem to stop his hands from shaking. ���I feel like pissing myself,��� he confided to Tony. ���I just went like two minutes ago and it feels like my bladder���s going to burst.���

Akila was sitting in the passenger seat, the rear window of the cab open and she overheard him. Over her shoulder she said, ���Don���t sweat it. That���s normal. I always feel that way before action. Just breathe. You���ll be all right.��� She raised her voice to address everyone. ���No talking once we leave the base.��� Jenna was driving and to her she said, ���No lights. Turn the instrument lights off too. Just take it slow.���

���But I can���t see.���

���In a couple minutes your night vision will kick in.���

The night was warm, the moon bright in the sky. They crept along the road for what seemed like a long time as a sense of unreality gradually stole over Nate. Was he really here, doing this? He was just some kid from North Carolina. Growing up he���d never even known anybody with a gun, though it was rumored that old man Harrison down the street had some Civil War-era rifles. Now here he was with an AK-47 in his hands, driving to shoot some people he���d never met. It was surreal, like something happening to someone else.

At one point they came to an intersection, dirt roads running off in three directions. Akila pointed left and Jenna drove that way. Finally Akila whispered to Jenna and she brought the truck to a halt. It took a number of tries on the narrow road, but she was finally able to turn the truck around and then she shut off the engine. The ticking as the engine cooled sounded unnaturally loud.

Akila climbed out of the truck and the rest followed. Akila pulled them in close and whispered, ���Follow me in single file. When I hold up my hand, stop. I���ll go on alone from there. You cover me.���

They crept along the dirt road, trying to be as quiet as they could, but the smallest sounds ��� Caleb���s breathing, the clink of metal on metal ��� were amplified and to Nate it sounded like they were making as much noise as a marching band. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting at any moment to see dark figures creeping up behind them in the moonlight. He was fourth in line, behind Caleb and Santiago. His hands were so sweaty and shaky he was afraid he would drop the rifle.

A weird, ululating cry came from the black undergrowth to their right, scaring Nate so badly he almost squeezed the trigger by accident. His heart rate, already high, soared to new heights. He began to think this was a very bad idea. Was he really sneaking up on a camp of armed men? Why didn���t he offer to stay back at the warehouse?

A glow appeared ahead of them on the road and grew brighter. Abruptly Caleb stopped. Nate almost ran into him. Caleb went to one knee and raised his rifle. Nate saw that Santiago had done the same. Akila was creeping on ahead, crouched low. Feeling very exposed, Nate knelt, putting one knee on the ground. He tried to remember if the safety on his gun was on or off.

Through the trees he could see a clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a fire that had died down most of the way. Scattered around the clearing were a number of military-style canvas tents and several vehicles. A number of figures were sleeping on the ground around the fire. Akila picked her way along the edge of the clearing and slipped into the nearest tent like a ghost.

The longest minute of Nate���s life passed. There was a rock jabbing into his knee but he was afraid to move. The rifle grew very heavy and he was having trouble holding it. He had to fight the urge to break and run.

Suddenly there was a shout and a gunshot. Akila came running out of the tent. Nate tried to aim at the men around the fire, who were waking up and grabbing at weapons, but Akila was too close to them and he was afraid he would hit her.

Santiago fired once, twice. A cry and one of the men fell.

Then something about the size of a man���s fist arced through the darkness and bounced on the ground at Nate���s feet.

Caleb uttered a curse and threw himself to the side.

There was a bang like a loud fire cracker and a brilliant white light that completely blinded Nate. More gunshots split the night.

Watching the End of the World

Landsend Plateau – Rome endures the nobility 2

Hours dragged by. Or maybe years. Rome slumped lower in his seat. This was worse than bad. Every time he dozed off Opus hissed at him. Quyloc wouldn���t say a word. He just kept staring at the FirstMother. She seemed to be unaware that he was even alive.

Finally the lights came back up and Rome stirred, thinking, thank the stars, it was finally over. But then the sermon started. At least, Rome thought it was a sermon. Since it was in some language he���d never heard before, he couldn���t be sure. But it sounded like one. Cynar droned on and on, now and then reading from a large book on a podium that had been wheeled out to him, other times seeming to recite from memory, his eyes closed, head tilted back.

I can���t take anymore, Rome thought. I���d rather assault Karthije naked and barehanded than go through any more of this. Cynar finished a page and paused while he turned to the next. Rome saw his opportunity and acted.

He jumped out of his seat and began applauding loudly, brushing off Opus���s warning hisses and ignoring the frowns of the nobility. He was the Macht and it was by god time for dinner.

���Excellent!��� he bellowed. ���Well done, Cynar, High Priest of Praxiles!��� What was that god���s name again? ���You���ve done old Praxital proud here tonight. I���m sure he���s happy with you.��� He kept clapping and when none of the nobles joined in he gave them a few murderous frowns and soon he had plenty of company. ���Let���s eat!��� he yelled after a bit, and now the applause was more enthusiastic. Not all of them were overly pious.

Cynar gave him a look that was pure outrage, then bowed his head. What could he do? Rome was already leaving the dais, heading for the doors that led to the great dining hall, not waiting to see how protocol determined that this should be done. When he entered the dining hall, the servants were frantically putting the last pieces of dining ware on the table. He grinned at them and waved them off. There was too much silver and crystal on the table already. All a man really needed to eat was a big mug, a plate and his knife. Even the plate wasn���t really that necessary, as long as the table wasn���t too dirty.

���Bring me some wine!��� he called after the last departing servant.

��������������������� ��������������������� ���

The wine seemed to take an awful long time to arrive and the wine glass was too small to hold even a decent swallow. ���Leave the bottle here,��� Rome told the server, grabbing it from the startled man.

Rome drank glass after tiny glass of the wine and watched while his guests sorted themselves out and took their seats. Judging from their expressions, he had upset the order by bolting in here ahead of everyone else. He gave them all big smiles, not letting on he noticed anything wrong. He saw several of them exchange looks that weren���t hard to decipher. Well, let them think he was an idiot. They would be more likely to underestimate him that way.

Rome muttered a curse when the food started arriving. A servant in black and white livery with a howling wolf sewn into the breast set a dainty yellow thing in front of him. It was no bigger than his thumb and looked like it had frosting on it. He poked it with his finger and it broke in half. Rome wasn���t a big one for sweets, but he ate it anyway, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger and tossing it in his mouth. Then he had to sit and wait while everyone else was served. They took tiny little forks and carved off miniscule pieces of it, whatever it was, and daintily nibbled at them, exclaiming at how good it was. Made his stomach hurt to watch.

The next round was a little bigger ��� some kind of egg from a small bird, with a powdery dusting of some brown stuff and some green sprigs on the side ��� but no more satisfying. By then Rome didn���t feel much like laughing. Was this a dining room or what? When the server came with the third round ��� some fluffy, leafy thing ��� Rome growled at him. ���The next thing you bring me will be meat and it will be large or tomorrow morning you���ll be mucking the soldiers��� latrines.��� The man blanched and left at a trot.

When Rome saw the huge silver platters enter the room, his good humor returned. Now they were getting somewhere. There were covers on the platters so he couldn���t see what they held. Suckling pigs maybe. Or sides of shatren. Whole turkeys.

When they set one down on the table in front of him he yanked the cover off, his knife already in his hand ���

And nearly drove his knife through the table in frustration. It looked like flowers. Some kind of meat sure enough, but it had been sliced so thinly that he could see through it, and then it had been folded into flower shapes.

Rome grabbed the closest server, nearly lifting the poor man off his feet. Lord Atalafes��� wife stared at him openmouthed. Other nobles nearby paled and turned their eyes away. ���Bring me the haunch of something,��� he snarled. ���I don���t even care if it���s cooked, but it better have a bone sticking out of it and I better be able to tell what it is. And send Opus in here.���

Rome was on Opus before he could even speak. Everyone was watching by now, most openly, but Rome didn���t care. He���d never tried to be anything he was not. ���I don���t like this,��� he growled, grabbing a handful of Opus���s shirt and jerking the man forward. He held up a fistful of the flowery meat. ���I don���t ever want to see food like this put down before me again. Am I clear?���

For once he got through the man���s cultured facade. Opus swallowed and nodded and Rome let him go. Shaky hands patted his shirt back into place as he bowed and whispered, ���My Lord.���

Rome grinned at Lord Atalafes and winked at his daughter. ���Sometimes you just have to be firm with the help,��� he boomed. ���Don���t you think so?���

Landsend Plateau

The power of hurt

I used to believe that hurts just go away. I used to believe that if I push them down, put a smile on my face and just move on, that they just kind of dissolve. I���d feel better eventually. Everything would be fine.

I know now that���s not true.

Old hurts don���t ���just go away.��� No, what they do is fester. And, at least for me, as they fester, they get worse. They get infected. They spread to other areas of my life.

I grew up pretty isolated. Home was a painful place. Dad was angry, critical and abusive. When he was angry it was best to scatter and get out of his way. When he was in a good mood he teased and the teasing hurt as much as the angry criticism. Taking our cue from him, my siblings and I pretty much did the same things to each other that he did to us. Mom loved us but didn���t have the strength to stand up to him and he abused her as well.

School really wasn���t any better. I learned early on that the world was full of wolves and that the first second I showed any kind of weakness or vulnerability, they���d be on me. I was always pretty much the smallest, skinniest kid in school. Dad forced me to wear a crewcut when crewcuts were far from cool (this was the ���70s). We lived on a ranch far from town so I never got to hang out with the other kids after school or on the weekends. I was always different and never fit in.

In 8th grade a new kid moved to town and for a very brief time I had a friend I could really connect with. That ended early on in high school when he betrayed me. I never trusted him again.

I never trusted anyone. I kept everything hidden. Inside I was freaking out, torn by emotions I couldn���t completely control and had no understanding of. I was alone and lost and frightened. I lived in fear of the next mistake at school, when the wolf pack would attack and shred me with their teasing. (I had a nickname that filled me with shame. There were kids who thought it was the height of humor to suddenly shout it out in the middle of class for no reason so that everyone could have a good laugh at my expense. I never showed that it hurt or bothered me. I believed what they told me, that if you don���t let them know they���re getting to you, they���ll eventually stop. That���s a goddamned lie.)

Except for angry outbursts at home when the pressure became too much, no one ever knew what I was going through. I was very good at hiding.

I went away to college and things were better. People were kinder. I had friends and felt accepted for the first time in my life. When I came near suicide after my freshman year I realized I had to change or it was going to kill me and I set out on a lifelong quest for some kind of inner peace. That quest has been the defining feature of my life.

Along the way I learned the importance of forgiveness. I forgave my father and others who had hurt me. I made amends for the hurtful things I had done. (And there were plenty. I turned on others whenever I could if it meant they didn���t get the chance to turn on me first.)

I learned to trust people more. I remade my life and it is a good one by all measures. Although I grew up in a painful, angry, broken home, I have broken the cycle. This fall my wife and I will have 20 years of marriage. I have two sons, both teenagers, and we have a very good relationship. Their childhoods are nothing like mine and I feel good about that.

But I have never been able to get completely over my past. I control it so that it doesn���t hurt those around me, but I still have a deep rage just below the surface. I still feel haunted by fear, mostly fear that people won���t like me. I haven���t let this fear control my life���I���ve traveled extensively, I���ve taught high school, I���ve worked with kids���but it has never gone away. I���ve faced it as much as I can, but I���ve also hidden from it a lot when I couldn���t take it anymore, mostly by drinking. I���ve done a lot of drinking. It makes the fear go away for a while.

I���ve also battled depression. My depression has gotten better. It doesn���t get me for days or weeks like it used to, but it���s always there waiting for me, a cliff edge I can never get very far away from.

Recently, while researching rejection for curriculum I am writing for adolescent male support groups, I came upon some interesting information. I learned that the emotional pain of rejection uses the same neural pathways as physical pain does. However, unlike physical pain, which recedes over time, emotional pain doesn���t. Try it. Close your eyes and try to remember how it felt when you really hurt yourself physically. Can���t do it, can you? Now, try and recall the most humiliating, shameful moment of your life, when you just wanted to sink through the floor. It���s still there, right?

Emotional pain doesn���t just go away.

According to the research I found, the pain of rejection is pretty much the greatest pain we humans can endure. Perhaps this is due to our distant, tribal past, when being rejected by the group meant getting eaten by a saber-toothed tiger. Perhaps it���s because all life is connected on a deeper, spiritual level. Whatever the reason, the need to belong, to be accepted, is, after food and water and air, the most fundamental need every human being has.

I also learned that when we humans are rejected, we will go to great lengths to gain reacceptance. But what happens when we can���t get that acceptance? Depending on the person, we fall into depression, self-harm, escapism, anger and violence. Or all of the above. Males, especially, are prone to violence in our society, probably due to the fact that societal norms dictate that males have no feelings. To have feelings, to admit that our feelings are hurt, is to be called a ���girl��� or a baby or worse. Anger is often the only real outlet left.

So, what is an abusive, or absent, or emotionally unavailable parent to a child but the ultimate form of rejection? The earliest, most fundamental social circle for a child is the parents. When they reject the child it creates a deep hurt. When the child can���t gain that acceptance at home, the next step is to look further afield. School. Peers. Teachers. If the acceptance can be found there, it helps a lot. Doesn���t fix the fundamental hurt, but it does help.

But if the child can���t find it there either, what then? Maybe a lifelong battle with depression. Maybe an unquenchable anger.

Maybe a deep, irrational fear that the acceptance I have found as an adult is only an illusion. At any moment I could be found out and then I will go back to being isolated and alone. Only this time it would kill me.

That���s what I mean when I say that old hurts don���t just go away. I���m coming to see that this kind of sustained emotional trauma leaves a deep pain that affects my life decades later.

I���m not quite sure what I���m going to do with this deep well of pain inside me that I am finally, fearfully acknowledging. I know I have to feel it, that I can no longer minimize it, pretend it isn���t all that bad. I have to move through it to get to the other side.

Whatever it takes, I���ll do it. I���ll do anything to finally be free.

Landsend Plateau – Rome endures the nobility 1

���There you are, Your Grace,��� Opus exclaimed as soon as he saw Rome. Rome started to correct him ��� he hated all that Grace stuff ��� but then gave it up. The best thing for tonight was to simply endure.

���They���re all waiting for you. They���re terribly annoyed.���

Rome gave him a stiff glare that Opus ignored.

���This way, this way.��� Opus fluttered on ahead and Rome followed. The floors seemed terribly slippery in these shoes. The soles were definitely too narrow. One wrong move and he���d topple right over on his side.

They came into what Rome thought of as the Torture Room by a side door. This was where he had to sit when he was greeting any official delegation or presiding over any royal function. It was also where he heard petitions from the wealthy and powerful ��� the common folk had to petition in a much smaller chamber ��� and he hated it. At one end of the long room sat his throne on a raised dais. It was carved from the same kind of stone the tower was built of, dark green limestone laced with veins of quartz. It was the only thing Rome liked in the whole room, mostly because he���d designed it himself. It was strong, simple, and plain. Strong enough to prop up the palace wall in a pinch. That was the sort of thing he liked. He���d like to redo the whole palace the same way except that it would be such a nuisance and Opus would probably torment him so badly he���d end up having to kill the man. It had been enough of a fight just getting his new throne in here and getting the servants who carried the old fancy throne to ���accidentally��� drop it and break it on the stairs.

The rest of the throne room was way out of hand. Carvings and bas-relief filigreed with gold covered every inch of ceiling and wall space that didn���t have either a tapestry or a niche with some statue in it. A massive, deep pile rug of rich purple covered the floor and more statues stood on pedestals around the room. A chandelier with about a thousand candles and twice that many cut stones hung from the ceiling. Rome thought it was too gaudy, like a bad whorehouse, but without any women.

Quyloc was already at his place beside Rome���s throne, dressed all in the green that he favored, his head lowered, apparently lost in thought. His white-blond hair gleamed in the light. In contrast to Rome, his clothes were fairly simple, though there were ruffles all down his sleeves and some sort of headpiece jutted up from behind his head and spread out like a fan. Rome lit up with a wicked grin when he saw the fan. Even Quyloc hadn���t escaped completely.

Other than Quyloc, some guards standing at attention around the walls, and a scattering of servants, the room was empty. Opus was nearly hyperventilating. ���Please hurry. They are all waiting in the hall, my Lord. You must be seated before we can begin announcing them.���

���Whatever you say, Steward,��� Rome said, taking his time getting there. Let them wait. Who was in charge here anyway? He sat down on the throne, brushing aside the cloth-of-gold that Opus had clearly laid over it in an attempt to cover it up as much as possible. He leaned towards Quyloc as the doors opened and the herald announced the first guests. ���I like the fan. What���re you supposed to be, some kind of peacock?��� He chuckled.

Quyloc looked up, his eyes distant, unfamiliar. What was he seeing? Rome wondered. Did he look on other worlds even at this moment? Then Quyloc���s thin lips lifted in the old sardonic grin Rome had seen so many times. ���You���ve a lot of room for talk, puffed out like a starling rooster. I believe the heart-shaped ruby is the perfect touch.���

���I know,��� Rome groaned. ���How long do you think this thing will last?���

���Hours and hours,��� Quyloc said cruelly. ���Most of the night anyway.���

���I can���t breathe in this collar.���

���You should try my fan. Something pokes me in the back of my head every time I move.���

Then the first guests were mounting the dais and Rome had no choice but to look at them. These people he knew, at least by name, from the affairs he had attended while still a commander. Lord Atalafes and his wife. They knelt before Rome, their expressions unreadable, though Rome felt what it cost them to kneel to him and he rejoiced in it. Maybe the night wouldn���t be a total loss after all. Atalafes was a stout man, what had been heavy muscles giving way to fat in his old age. There was a sharpness to his gaze and a suppleness in his movements that made Rome think he might have been a fierce opponent once. Might still be, despite his years. ���Macht Rome,��� they intoned in unison, bowing their heads. Rome grinned down at them. He was enjoying this.

���Good of you to make it,��� he said cheerfully. ���We���ve missed you around here.��� From the corner of his eye he saw Quyloc���s lips twitch in a smile. Lady Atalafes murmured something in return, while whatever Lord Atalafes said was lost in gritted teeth.

Then a third person ascended the dais and knelt beside them.

���Macht Rome, my daughter, Marilene,��� Lord Atalafes said. She wasn���t bad looking, Rome thought, with that raven dark hair and those doe eyes, but her chin and her nose were too sharp and her real face was lost under mounds of rouge and blush, her body impossible to see inside a dress that seemed to be all bows and ribbons. He wondered how many bows he���d have to pull to get that thing off her. She gave him a long look at her cleavage as she bent over, watching him from underneath her eyelashes. He didn���t miss the coldness in her eyes. She didn���t like him any better than her parents did. She was only flirting with him because they told her to, because a marriage to the macht would help their fortunes considerably, maybe even put them back in the palace. He gave her a leer and a wink and she paled slightly.

The next couple approached the dais with not one but two daughters, though from the sharpness of the taller one���s features Rome had a feeling she was a shrew in the making, if not already fully accomplished, and the shorter one was as big around as she was tall.

He recognized the next noble too, fat, sweating Lord Ulin Tropon with his child bride, a girl too young to show any curves yet. Tropon had made more than one joke at Rome���s expense when he was still a commander fumbling his way through state dinners. He was all politeness now, and careful to avoid Rome���s eyes.

It was surprising how many of the nobility had daughters of marriageable age. Some of the daughters favored him with sly, seductive smiles, others blushed and turned away, but every parent watched with the same wolf eyes. Clearly they hoped to take back by marriage what they could not take by force.

The last person to approach the throne was not someone Rome had expected to see. He gave her a big grin as she reached the top step. ���So when did you become a follower of Protaxes, FirstMother?���

Nalene FirstMother drew herself up haughtily and folded her hands within the voluminous sleeves of her white robe. Her only adornment was a heavy gold Reminder. Her bald pate gleamed as if oiled. ���I am here that they may see me,��� she replied, her heavy jaw clenched tight. ���That they may know it is not too late to change their ways.���

A few days back Nalene and several of her Tenders had stood on a makeshift podium beside the fountain at Heaven���s Edge Square at dawn and preached to the people about Xochitl and the dark days to come. After what the FirstMother had done to that man in the street no one bothered them, though few took them seriously. He hadn���t either, until Quyloc came to him and told him in no uncertain terms that he was a fool if he didn���t keep an eye on the woman. Since then he���d had a man attend every morning and report what he saw and heard. What he saw was that the crowds were growing. People were starting to listen.

Then Quyloc stepped forward. ���Kneel, woman,��� he hissed. ���You are in the presence of your macht.���

She gave him a heavy-lidded look but did not respond, which seemed to make Quyloc even madder. Rome said nothing, only watched. This one was going to be trouble someday. He wondered if he should rid himself of her now. Normally he did not much go in for all the bowing and scraping that kings and nobles and such required, but when it came to the nobility of Qarath he was a stickler. They needed to remember what their places were. Would the FirstMother require the same?

Slowly, grudgingly, the FirstMother knelt, and he saw one hand come out of her sleeve to touch something on her chest, hidden under her robe. That would be her sulbit, though he had heard through his men that she and her sisters were calling them the Mother���s Claws, and spoke of them openly at the dawn worship. He wouldn���t mind getting a close look at it. When he���d asked Quyloc what they were, Quyloc got mad. Said he���d like to know the same thing. Quyloc was staring hard at her, as if trying to see through the heavy fabric. The FirstMother lowered her head and Rome saw her lips moving in prayer. Then she stood and moved away without giving him another look, as if she���d already forgotten he was there.

She drew a number of hostile looks as she moved across the room to take her place against one wall, but none was as malevolent as that thrown by Cynar, chief priest of Protaxes. He positively hated the Tenders and the FirstMother most of all. Twice already he had come to see Rome to complain about them, furious that they had official sanction. But he said nothing to Nalene himself. It was clear he was afraid of her.

Quyloc was still glowering at her, though she paid him no more mind than she did the rest of them, her look one of someone who is lost inside herself. One hand still lay over her sulbit protectively. Rome knew how much Quyloc hated the Tenders, but he seemed to really have it in for the FirstMother and he wondered why. What had she done to make him hate her so much? Had they met before? He���d have to ask Quyloc about it sometime.

Then Rome realized that no one else was approaching the throne and he stood up and rubbed his hands together. Finally. Time to eat. He was starving. And he���d been poking around at the back of his collar and he thought he might know how it was hooked on. With a little luck he might be able to get it to come free and look like it just fell off by accident. If he stepped on it, also accidentally, it would probably be ruined. He didn���t really think he could swallow with the thing on anyway. Opus materialized at his side hissing.

���What now?��� Rome grumbled.

���First the ritual.���

���How do you talk out the side of your mouth like that?���

���Do sit down, Macht. You mustn���t embarrass yourself.���

With another grumble Rome sat. He was going to find a way to make Opus pay for this. Maybe announce that he���d decided to have the entire palace painted orange, inside and out. The man���s heart would probably give out.

Silence fell suddenly, the subdued babble of voices dying out as Cynar strode to the center of the chamber and raised his arms into the air. His robes were slashed yellow velvet with orange silk under sleeves. Around his neck hung a double strand of carved beads and a gold medallion. He had a long, gloomy face and lips that were too small to cover his horse teeth. The hollows of his eyes had been blackened. For a long minute he simply stood and glared at the crowd. From somewhere an unseen player started up on a drum. The drumming grew louder and stronger, reverberating off the walls of the chamber. Slowly Cynar lowered his arms and the ritual began.

Rome leaned back in the throne, crossed his ankles and closed his eyes. Somehow he just knew this was going to be a long show.

Landsend Plateau

Landsend Plateau – Netra meets Shorn 4

She pressed her hands to the largest of his wounds and let Selfsong flow from her. The wound began to close. But she was too weak, too exhausted from the past few days. She could sense him slipping from her. She needed more Song.

Desperately she cast around her. There were several flows of LifeSong nearby, but if she directed one into him, as she had done with the monster, she was afraid she might kill him. Raw Song was too chaotic, too uncontrolled for what she needed to do. She needed Song from something living. Once raw LifeSong passed into a living creature it changed, becoming slower and more manageable.

All at once her questing senses landed on a herd of small deer that were making their way across the barren rock a short distance away, just beyond the rise. Within them was what she needed, but the problem was they were too far away. She needed to bring one closer, but she had no idea how.

Netra closed her hand around her sonkrill, whispering a brief prayer as she did so. For a long moment there was nothing, then it seemed as if a door opened between her and the talisman. That other presence she had sensed at Treeside, when Tharn was coming for her, was back.

It whispered to her, not with words, but all at once she understood.

She acted immediately, without thinking, not entirely sure what she was doing. Somehow she reached out to one of the animals and touched it. An electric shiver passed through her, pleasant and painful at the same time. The animal stiffened and tried to flee, but she embraced it with her will, calming and soothing it.

Then she drew it towards her. It was not so different from what she had been doing her whole life. Always her connection with animals had been strong. Always they had trusted her, come when she beckoned. She was merely using beyond to speak to the animal in a different way.

She watched it walk over the crest of the rise and down towards her. Its eyes were luminous, trusting. The fear which drove it to flee the plateau was temporarily quelled. In a few moments it stood beside her, its head down, sniffing the strange being she knelt over.

���Only a little. I promise,��� she whispered.

��������������������� ��������������������� ���

When she stood up a short while later, her rescuer���s breathing was steady. His chest rose and fell with reassuring regularity and his wounds had mostly closed. The smile was gone, replaced by the hint of a frown. The danger was passed.

Then her eyes fell on the small deer. It lay on its side, head thrown back. The eyes were wide and still.

Netra sank to her knees, the breath driven from her. She put her hands on the deer���s lifeless form and her shoulders began to shake.

The wind howled and the ground shook beneath her. But they had no answers.

Movement in her peripheral vision drew Netra out of her misery. It was her rescuer, struggling to roll onto his side. ��He was fearsome to look at, and the reddish blotches of newly healed skin made him look even worse. She hurried to him and put her hands on his chest to push him back down. As she did so, a jolt went through her.

Shorn.

His name was Shorn. And with that knowledge came so much more, a confusing barrage of images and pain. A pain that went through to the core of his being, that defined all he had become. That made him seek death, the only release he could see.

Landsend Plateau

Landsend Plateau – Netra meets Shorn 3

Quickly stilling herself, Netra went beyond, surprised at how easy it was, not just to get there, but to dive past the cloaking mists, down to where she could see the flickering golden glow of his akirma, spiked with red. It was sputtering, beginning to rupture along one side. He would not live much longer.

Over him towered the nebulous whitish glow, streaked through with gray and black ��� the thing���s akirma. The black things were swarming over it in a frenzy and it would not be long before they forced their way in, but it would not be in time for her savior. If only they could get inside the thing faster, if there was some way she could redirect a flow of Song, use its energy ���

A flash of memory. The eloti touching her, sharing with her its past. A lesser Shaper of the Circle of Life, it had once molded the flows of LifeSong the way a master potter molds clay. Shaping LifeSong was not so much a matter of strength, but of will. The will came first, the LifeSong flowed through, and then it was redirected, pushed this way and that.

She stared at her hands and focused her concentration, ignoring the chaos and gathering her will. Selfsong rose within her. Her hands began to glow. She poured more and more of her Selfsong into her hands and the glow increased. Dizziness rose in her and blackness crowded the edges of her vision. She had been too weakened by her flight. She couldn���t do this.

Netra gritted her teeth and forced the dizziness back. She could do this. She would do this.

Near her was a flow of Song. It was a feeder line, as big around as her arm, with smaller, finger-sized flows branching off it. She grabbed it���

And cried out. The surge of energy that burst through her knocked her back several steps. It felt like fire raced through her veins. She wouldn���t be able to hold it long. It would tear her apart.

Somehow, Netra fought through it. She regained her balance and fought her way toward the thing.

In the instant before she lost control of the feeder line she jammed it up against the thing and released it.

The power contained in the flow surged forward, spearing into and tearing a rent in the thing���s akirma. It screamed in pain and slapped Netra backwards.

Netra rolled over onto her side. The black shapes were clustered around the rent she had made. The monster screamed and staggered backwards, beating uselessly at itself. It screamed again and again as it toppled over onto the ground, half into the pool from which it had come. Great, jagged wounds appeared on its skin and it flailed its huge arms. It gave a final cry and went still.

Breathing hard, her pulse racing, Netra stared at it, sick at what she had done. Again she had killed. And while this thing was an alien creature, still it had clearly been alive and it had been terribly old.

What frightened her though, was that mixed with her sickness was a savage exultation. She had been attacked, and she had destroyed her attacker. She wanted to stand over its body and scream her own battle cry.

Then she turned and saw her erstwhile savior lying motionless on his side. It looked like he had been trying to crawl back into the battle. On his face was still the same savage smile.

���Oh, no, you don���t,��� Netra growled, suddenly furious with him. ���You���re not going to die on me too.��� Still tingling all over from her contact with the feeder line, she walked over to him. She stood over him and looked down on him. Briefly she considered just letting him die. He clearly did not want to live. But her old stubbornness reasserted itself and she dropped to her knees beside him.

���Why didn���t you run away?��� she whispered. ���What���s wrong with you?���

His wounds were grievous. Blood poured from a dozen different cuts and leaked from his mouth. When she laid her hands on him she gasped, for it was the wounds inside that were truly frightening. She could see the Life-energy pouring from the cracks in his akirma. He did not have long. But he was not the only one too stubborn, too driven, to give up.

Netra reached down inside herself and gathered the faint remains of her Selfsong. Once again her hands began to glow. But the glow was fitful and weak.

Landsend Plateau

Landsend Plateau – Netra meets Shorn 2

Then it rolled and one huge hand like a dead tree limb closed around her savior���s torso. Unsteadily, because of the shattered limb, it came to its feet, while he fought to get free, to strike at the thing���s face again. But its grip was as implacable as a mountain. It raised him over its head, then began to pound him on the ground.

Netra cried out but her voice was drowned by a distant, much louder noise. From the north came an explosion so massive she lost her footing. A cloud of dust and debris rose into the air far in the distance, swelling like a growing storm. The explosion caught the creature���s attention and it stopped banging her rescuer on the ground as it stared north. A strange, keening sound came from it and it dropped his still form as if it had forgotten he existed. Then it began to shamble away to the north, lurching on its shattered limb.

She caught movement from the corner of her eye and turned, stunned at what she saw. Covered in blood, his body a mass of wounds, her rescuer was climbing back to his feet, leaving a smear of blood on the rock behind him. For a moment he tottered there, then a harsh smile cracked his rough features. He held up his hands and she saw short, heavy claws extend from his fingertips. With a low growl, he charged after it.

He drove his shoulder into the thing, knocking it almost onto its face, then struck it again and again with his mighty fists, yelling as each blow landed, the words clearly challenges.

And all at once Netra knew.

He wanted to die.

The monster howled and struck at its tormentor wildly. Another blow landed and Netra gasped as she clearly heard the sound of breaking bone and her savior was knocked sprawling. He was slower getting to his feet this time, but the smile was still there and there was blood in it.

���Don���t!��� Netra yelled, as he threw himself at the monster yet again. She spun, looking for something, anything, she could use to help him. But there were only stones too heavy for her to lift and no weapon would have made any difference anyway. It may have looked like wood, but the thing seemed to be made of stone, and if her savior with his great strength could not wound it, neither could she.

Unless…

Landsend Plateau, book 2 of��The Devastation Wars

Landsend Plateau – Netra meets Shorn 1

Something burst up out of the pool. It might once have been a tree. It was the gray of old, weathered wood. It tottered on the edge of the pool for a moment, clawing and slapping at itself. Its body was a broad, seamed trunk, gashed here and there as if struck by lightning, bent by unimaginable eons of life. It screamed, a terrible, lost sound that shook Netra to her core. Then it seemed to notice her for the first time and turned towards her. Its eyes were deep holes that burned red, its mouth a long, vertical slit.

���You!��� it howled. ���Deceiver! She lied! She lied and now He takes his revenge on us. Now we pay for her crime!���

It screamed again and clawed at itself, scoring its body with long gouges. Netra felt a jolt and then she was beyond, just for a moment, shoved there by the waves of strange Song that roiled from the creature. And from that otherworldly place she saw what was driving it mad. She could see the black things swarming over it, chewing at its akirma, trying to force their way in.

Then it came at her. Netra tried to run but it was too fast. A limb snapped out and wrapped around her throat and she was lifted into the air. Futilely she clawed at it, her vision fast going black.

All at once there was a roar and from the corner of her vision she saw a copper blur. There was an impact, and then she was falling. She landed hard on her side and rolled free. Choking, she crawled to her knees in time to see a huge, copper-skinned creature deliver a mighty, two-handed blow to the thing. It was a blow that could have cracked rock, and it staggered the thing so that it fell backwards a couple of steps. Instantly, the creature launched himself at it again, grunting with exertion as he landed each blow.

Her savior was huge, shaped like a man, but head and shoulders taller than the tallest man, and twice as wide. He wore a brown cloak over tanned leather clothing, and under the cloak she saw flashes of weapons, probably swords, though they looked small next to him. For some reason he had chosen to attack the thing with his fists rather than a weapon.

The thing howled its rage and frustration and swung at its tormentor. But he was fast and he ducked the first, then dodged the second blow. But the thing had too many limbs and he couldn���t avoid the third and it struck him in the ribcage, hard enough that he was thrown through the air and slammed into the pile of boulders.

Almost instantly her savior was back on his feet, flinging himself at the monster with savage determination, landing a new flurry of blows. But, though the blows rocked the creature and even made it cry out, Netra could see that it was not harmed. No wounds appeared on its weathered hide and its movements did not slow.

Once again it caught her savior with a wild strike and he was thrown down on his back, the air coming from him in a grunt. Now there was blood running down his face and Netra felt his pain and knew he had been wounded internally. Before he could come to his feet the thing lurched over to him and bent to pick him up.

As the thing bent over him, he suddenly moved. One foot shot out, catching the monster low on one warped leg. There was a loud cracking noise, like old dead wood shattering, and the thing fell heavily on top of him. Before it hit, he was already moving, rolling to the side.

Screaming in some strange tongue, he leapt on the thing and began to pummel it in the face was, striking it over and over between the deep-set eyes. The thing shivered and cried out in a strange tongue and for a moment Netra thought she had been wrong. Perhaps he could kill this thing after all.

Then it rolled and one huge hand like a dead tree limb closed around her savior���s torso. Unsteadily, because of the shattered limb, it came to its feet, while he fought to get free, to strike at the thing���s face again. But its grip was as implacable as a mountain. It raised him over its head, then began to pound him on the ground.

Landsend Plateau, book 2 of��The Devastation Wars

Watching the End of the World – 21

Santiago shook her off. ���I can���t believe you idiots are falling for this. Can���t you see she���s trying to lead us into a trap? Armagin���s men are outside right now, just waiting for us to step outside so they can shoot us.���

���Just shoot her now,��� Tamara said, ���before she has a chance to shoot one of us.��� She looked at Santiago and when he didn���t immediately respond she picked up her rifle and raised it. ���Or just let me shoot her.���

���Put it down,��� Jenna said.

���Shut up. You���re not in charge here.���

���I think she���s telling the truth.���

���Well, goody for you.��� Tamara flicked the safety off.

���Stop,��� Santiago said. ���No one gets shot until I say so.���

Tamara sullenly lowered the rifle, but she kept it pointed in the general direction of Akila.

���Toss me the radio,��� Santiago said, holding out his hand. Akila did. He pushed the transmit button and spoke into it. ���Is anybody there? Can you hear me?��� He released the transmit button. Silence. He looked at her suspiciously.

���It was an emergency code that I received,��� Akila said. ���Which means Rick couldn���t call me, maybe because he���s been captured. That���s why he doesn���t answer you.���

���You have an answer for everything, don���t you? How long have you and Armagin been planning this? Did you betray us the night we tried to rescue Nate and Kelly? Is that when it started?���

���You have to believe me. Please. I���m trying to save you.���

���If all this is fake, then I assume the bullets in this gun are fake too. I can shoot you and nothing will happen.��� Santiago cocked his pistol and sighted down it.

Watching the End of the World

It’s time for schools to buy their own politicians

I’m angry. The Arizona Legislature just passed the new budget and, as expected, education got gutted. Why does this keep happening? The answer is simple: money in elections. As in, it costs a lot of money to win an election. Where does that money come from mostly? Special interests (like the private prison industry). You take their money, you better vote the way they want or when the next election rolls around they will give it to someone else and you’ll be out of a job.

The answer? Schools need to buy their own politicians. That’s the only way they’ll ever get listened to. What if every school in this state, every kindergarten, every university, announced that on an upcoming Saturday they’re all going to hold bake sales. When asked why, every one of them answers the same: We need the money to buy our own politicians.

You think that would make the national news? You think anyone would pay any attention? Does anyone have any better ideas?