Rival Gates's Blog, page 28
January 13, 2016
Glass Full of Memories
You wouldn’t think a glass would mean so much, but it can. Yesterday was bagel day in our house when bagels at Panera were on sale. After purchasing some I drove home and immediately prepared one with cream cheese. Then I decided to have a glass of apple juice along with it. I opened the cupboard and I saw a very familiar glass staring at me. It was narrow at the top and particularly at the base. The sides were wide and rounded. The color was smoked glass and there were a Detroit Lions insignia on it. I chose the glass and filled it up. Then I just stared at it. It had been in my family for as long as I could remember and with rambunctious children who broke everything, it seemed, somehow this was never smashed or even cracked. It was my father’s main glass. He gave up drinking when I was 3 but was still addicted to his Diet Pepsi every day. It was a ritual. When my father would come home, my job was to get the glass, fill it with cold Diet Pepsi (he didn’t like ice in his drink or to have it warm so we always had to have it refrigerated,) and take it to him once he reached his chair. Then he would watch the nightly news. After dinner and a quick nap, Dad would use his short wave radio to see what countries he could tune in. He was always excited when he found a new station out there he could barely hear. It gave him such pleasure but made it so difficult to do homework with the BBC Home Service blaring through the house. Then Dad would call me downstairs to refill his glass. We had giant ceramic ashtrays we used as coasters. No one in the house smoked and so we never thought of them as anything but coasters. I would clank the glass down hard but nothing ever happened even in the hard ashtrays. If Dad was out of town on business I would use the glass. My oldest brother is Type 1 diabetic and has been since childhood. As a result, my mother would make Kool-Aid with Sweet and Low. No matter the recipe, she could never make it taste good. So I would take the glass and fill it ¾ of the way with Kool-Aid and the rest of the way with Diet Pepsi. Then I would stir it. The end result was not bad. I would watch my cartoons and drink but never broke it. Years and years went by and still that glass was used, even by my children, but it never broke. Without even realizing it I took the glass as one of the few items I kept from my Father’s house after he died. So there I stood with my apple juice, holding the glass that had survived everything and I thought of my Father. I finished my drink and put it safely in the sink. One day my children might want it. What a long life for a fragile glass.
January 12, 2016
Tuesday Excerpt, "Revenge"
The Courtroom or Throne Room as Mandrean sometimes called
it was in the center of the second floor of the palace. It was a grand
hall. The floors and walls were polished marble with gold and
silver ornaments. There was a gallery in the back. It was along
either side of two colossal doors with brass handles. They served
as the main entrance and exit for everyone except the most
important members of the empire.
Precisely etched in the main floor was a map of the continent,
which reached from one wall to the next. It was complete and
detailed. The only odd thing of note was there were no political
boundaries anywhere.
Lord Mandrean was true to his heritage in believing that it was
his duty if not his right to expand the empire and let none stand
against its might. He saw no reason to chisel borders into the stone
when he would frequently be moving them.
The map faced the front of the room. Behind the map sat the
centerpiece of the hall. It was his magnificent golden throne with
jewels encrusted in its sides and arms. Silken pillows cushioned
the already padded seat and a golden stool was stationed along
side.
Still, the most intriguing part of the hall was the ceiling. It was
a crystal dome. Though the view was not clear through the frosted
glass, it allowed for sunlight to enter and illuminate the marble.
With the room shaped as a rectangle, pillars along the perimeter
supported the circular dome. A lantern hung from each pillar for
additional light. Torches had previously been used, but the format
was changed due to secondary fires they started two years before
during the room’s destruction at Linvin’s hands. Each column
stationed a goblin guard. The number of soldiers present seemed
exorbitant, but it was used more for effect than protection.
The gallery was full as it always was when court was to be held.
No commoners found a seat there, however. Rather, noblemen,
businessmen and foreign dignitaries filled the seats. They were
becoming restless waiting for the session to begin and openly
quarreled.
Four Chairs of Honor were placed before the mob. In each sat a
general. Though their uniforms were identically colored in
mandrean green, they each displayed their individuality through
the decorations that adorned them. The display went from modest
to extraordinary.
At last Necromancer entered the room and took his place
hovering next to the throne. He was melancholy as ever.
A trumpeter emerged from a side entrance and called for
attention. “Good people, please rise as I present to you the
emperor, Lord Mandrean the Thirteenth.” He followed his
statement with a chorus of the national anthem. The gallery took to
their feet and began to applaud as the emperor carefully walked to
his throne in an effort to not step on the sorest parts of his feet.
Mandrean was covered in the finest silks with military honors
sewn into the cloth. Gold lace brought an illuminating luster to the
navy attire. A modest crown highlighted his head. If it had been a
prestigious occasion, he would have decked himself in his full
ornamental dress. With the routine nature of the agenda, Mandrean
dressed the part and saved his neck the weight of his enormous
crown.
He sat and called a servant to bring a pillow to be placed on his
footstool to cushion his feet. He proceeded to rest them with
obvious pain.
it was in the center of the second floor of the palace. It was a grand
hall. The floors and walls were polished marble with gold and
silver ornaments. There was a gallery in the back. It was along
either side of two colossal doors with brass handles. They served
as the main entrance and exit for everyone except the most
important members of the empire.
Precisely etched in the main floor was a map of the continent,
which reached from one wall to the next. It was complete and
detailed. The only odd thing of note was there were no political
boundaries anywhere.
Lord Mandrean was true to his heritage in believing that it was
his duty if not his right to expand the empire and let none stand
against its might. He saw no reason to chisel borders into the stone
when he would frequently be moving them.
The map faced the front of the room. Behind the map sat the
centerpiece of the hall. It was his magnificent golden throne with
jewels encrusted in its sides and arms. Silken pillows cushioned
the already padded seat and a golden stool was stationed along
side.
Still, the most intriguing part of the hall was the ceiling. It was
a crystal dome. Though the view was not clear through the frosted
glass, it allowed for sunlight to enter and illuminate the marble.
With the room shaped as a rectangle, pillars along the perimeter
supported the circular dome. A lantern hung from each pillar for
additional light. Torches had previously been used, but the format
was changed due to secondary fires they started two years before
during the room’s destruction at Linvin’s hands. Each column
stationed a goblin guard. The number of soldiers present seemed
exorbitant, but it was used more for effect than protection.
The gallery was full as it always was when court was to be held.
No commoners found a seat there, however. Rather, noblemen,
businessmen and foreign dignitaries filled the seats. They were
becoming restless waiting for the session to begin and openly
quarreled.
Four Chairs of Honor were placed before the mob. In each sat a
general. Though their uniforms were identically colored in
mandrean green, they each displayed their individuality through
the decorations that adorned them. The display went from modest
to extraordinary.
At last Necromancer entered the room and took his place
hovering next to the throne. He was melancholy as ever.
A trumpeter emerged from a side entrance and called for
attention. “Good people, please rise as I present to you the
emperor, Lord Mandrean the Thirteenth.” He followed his
statement with a chorus of the national anthem. The gallery took to
their feet and began to applaud as the emperor carefully walked to
his throne in an effort to not step on the sorest parts of his feet.
Mandrean was covered in the finest silks with military honors
sewn into the cloth. Gold lace brought an illuminating luster to the
navy attire. A modest crown highlighted his head. If it had been a
prestigious occasion, he would have decked himself in his full
ornamental dress. With the routine nature of the agenda, Mandrean
dressed the part and saved his neck the weight of his enormous
crown.
He sat and called a servant to bring a pillow to be placed on his
footstool to cushion his feet. He proceeded to rest them with
obvious pain.
January 6, 2016
What is Good Music?
As an artist I have a built in level of tolerance for artistic expression that others might find offensive. Even that layer of understanding, however, has limits. Before Christmas It put together a playlist of Christmas songs I had on the computer. I had the classics but also favorites like Bruce Springsteen playing “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” and “Merry Christmas Baby.’ I can’t get enough Clarence Clemens on the sax. There was U2 and Bon Jovi playing “Please Come Home for Christmas.” The list goes on. As I was listening in bliss a rap song came on. I have nothing against rap as an art form until it gets nasty. This song went there fast. It was by a group my daughter and son like called “Hollywood Undead.” Being an artist I tried to have an open mind and listened to the whole song before passing judgement. When it was done I was sickened. Then I stopped and thought about a conversation my father had with me as a young boy. I was heavily into progressive rock. On this particular day I was listening to Genesis and imagining myself behind the drums playing like Phil Collins. Then my father came in and told what I was listening to was not real music. It was garbage. He took me downstairs and made me watch Looney Toons cartoons. He explained the background music was real music. Then he played the 1812 Overture and used it as another example. I actually liked that piece and respected orchestra music but felt in no way did it make my music garbage. As I aged and went to college I admit I listened to less cerebral music like Guns N Roses, AC/DC and all sorts of alternative rock (which would now be mainstream.) When I came home freshman year and played “Eruption” by Van Halen I thought my father was going to blow a circuit; and there weren’t even words in the song. As I sat in my room I remembered my mother telling me about her parents’ reaction to Elvis and the Beatles. They were so tame compared to what I listened to. Music continues to push the boundaries of what they can get away with. On Christmas I mentioned to my daughter that her song ended up on my playlist. She begged me not to play it for her mother. Then I looked at my granddaughter opening a present and said, “I wonder what the music will be like that she enjoys and you find offensive one day?” I can’t imagine how crude it will be but I think I will be one of those people listening to the Oldies station by then.
January 5, 2016
Tuesday Excerpt, "Revenge"
Unlike the rest of its lavish surroundings, the room was dull and
dismal with sparse decor. A straw bed sat in the corner by a table
with a wash basin. The rest of the walls were completely covered
in bookshelves. Upon them were ancient texts and scrolls on
parchment so frail one was afraid to disturb their solemnity. A
grand table of questionable sturdiness stood prominently in the
center of the room. Open books and papers littered its surface save
for a lone, four-wicked candle at the table’s center providing the
only light in the dungeon-like quarters.
In a rickety wooden chair at the table, toiled a diminutive man
adorned in a white robe with scarlet trim. He wore no jewelry. In
fact, there were only two features of distinction about the man. His
hair was a stunning shade of white. The other characteristic of note
was his eyes. They were a radiant shade of red only seen deep in
the heart of a raging inferno. No pupil was evident in them. The
light in them burned steadily like coals in a furnace.
The man was using a quill and ink to copy information from a
tattered paper onto a scroll. His calligraphy was perfect with good
reason. He only moved his eyes and hand while writing. His
concentration was complete.
The books surrounding him were a mix of older texts on
legends and newer ones on geography or various cultures. Without
warning he would snatch one and flip frantically through the
pages. When he found the desired page, he ran his fingers along
the words until he reached the quote of interest. Then he would
carefully transfer the information to his compilation paper.
His work came to a crashing halt when the door to the room
flew open and made a loud thump against the wall. The albino was
startled and knocked over the inkwell. The black liquid soaked the
scroll destroying his work.
He was furious. His eyes became searing white-hot in color.
Nearly invisible rays of magic fired from them and struck with a
concussion against the intruder. An imperial page was shot out into
the hallway where he came to a sudden stop upon reaching the
wall.
A moment later the page stumbled back into the room. He held
the frame of the door while trying to keep his feet. “Great, all powerful,
Necromancer, I have been sent to bring you to Lord
Mandrean.”
Necromancer’s eyes returned to their normal frightening
appearance. “Never enter my chambers without permission again,
Vermin! Do you have any idea of what you have just ruined, you
putrid sack of flesh? I would burn you down right now if we
weren’t running short of ignorant pages to invoke my wrath. Count
yourself lucky and get out of my sight before I change my mind.”
“Please accept my apology for disturbing you but our lord
awaits your presence.”
“Then he will wait,” Necromancer yelled as he struck the books
and cleared the desk in one angry swipe. “Tell your emperor that I
will be there when I have time.”
Necromancer crumpled the paper he had so painstakingly
prepared and threw it at the wall. He stood silently for a moment
and then reluctantly began to search for the bit of paper he had
referenced. During his search, his eyes caught sight of a narrow
shadow in the doorway.
“Are you still here, page? Your life must mean less to you than
it does to me.”
“I beg thee, great Necromancer, I have orders from Lord
Mandrean himself to escort you to his chambers. He seems
dissatisfied with the speed you display when answering his orders.
Those are his words, not mine.”
Necromancer rolled his eyes and then hung his head. He
replaced the objects on the table with a snap of his fingers and
approached the trembling page. “Well then,” he said in a calm,
monotone voice, “let us not keep his worship waiting.” He
gestured politely to the door. The confused servant led him out of
the room and down the hall.
dismal with sparse decor. A straw bed sat in the corner by a table
with a wash basin. The rest of the walls were completely covered
in bookshelves. Upon them were ancient texts and scrolls on
parchment so frail one was afraid to disturb their solemnity. A
grand table of questionable sturdiness stood prominently in the
center of the room. Open books and papers littered its surface save
for a lone, four-wicked candle at the table’s center providing the
only light in the dungeon-like quarters.
In a rickety wooden chair at the table, toiled a diminutive man
adorned in a white robe with scarlet trim. He wore no jewelry. In
fact, there were only two features of distinction about the man. His
hair was a stunning shade of white. The other characteristic of note
was his eyes. They were a radiant shade of red only seen deep in
the heart of a raging inferno. No pupil was evident in them. The
light in them burned steadily like coals in a furnace.
The man was using a quill and ink to copy information from a
tattered paper onto a scroll. His calligraphy was perfect with good
reason. He only moved his eyes and hand while writing. His
concentration was complete.
The books surrounding him were a mix of older texts on
legends and newer ones on geography or various cultures. Without
warning he would snatch one and flip frantically through the
pages. When he found the desired page, he ran his fingers along
the words until he reached the quote of interest. Then he would
carefully transfer the information to his compilation paper.
His work came to a crashing halt when the door to the room
flew open and made a loud thump against the wall. The albino was
startled and knocked over the inkwell. The black liquid soaked the
scroll destroying his work.
He was furious. His eyes became searing white-hot in color.
Nearly invisible rays of magic fired from them and struck with a
concussion against the intruder. An imperial page was shot out into
the hallway where he came to a sudden stop upon reaching the
wall.
A moment later the page stumbled back into the room. He held
the frame of the door while trying to keep his feet. “Great, all powerful,
Necromancer, I have been sent to bring you to Lord
Mandrean.”
Necromancer’s eyes returned to their normal frightening
appearance. “Never enter my chambers without permission again,
Vermin! Do you have any idea of what you have just ruined, you
putrid sack of flesh? I would burn you down right now if we
weren’t running short of ignorant pages to invoke my wrath. Count
yourself lucky and get out of my sight before I change my mind.”
“Please accept my apology for disturbing you but our lord
awaits your presence.”
“Then he will wait,” Necromancer yelled as he struck the books
and cleared the desk in one angry swipe. “Tell your emperor that I
will be there when I have time.”
Necromancer crumpled the paper he had so painstakingly
prepared and threw it at the wall. He stood silently for a moment
and then reluctantly began to search for the bit of paper he had
referenced. During his search, his eyes caught sight of a narrow
shadow in the doorway.
“Are you still here, page? Your life must mean less to you than
it does to me.”
“I beg thee, great Necromancer, I have orders from Lord
Mandrean himself to escort you to his chambers. He seems
dissatisfied with the speed you display when answering his orders.
Those are his words, not mine.”
Necromancer rolled his eyes and then hung his head. He
replaced the objects on the table with a snap of his fingers and
approached the trembling page. “Well then,” he said in a calm,
monotone voice, “let us not keep his worship waiting.” He
gestured politely to the door. The confused servant led him out of
the room and down the hall.
January 3, 2016
Sunday Excerpt, "Crucible"
Their level of the tower had been vacant and silent other than them. As jails went it was rather well maintained. Such cleanliness could not disguise the sound of screams and cries filtering into the chamber from above and below. It was clear their level was the most desirable in the building.
The dreadful noise was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. Two human guards carrying an obscured prisoner thundered down the steps. Stopping at their floor, the guards could each be seen holding one arm of a young human woman. Her head hung down with a tangled mass of blond hair hiding her face. The woman’s feet dragged trenches in the straw on the floor as they carried her down the hall. Her clothing was tattered and shredded. Opening the cell next to the elves’ they tossed her in like a bale of hay.
“You’ll give us answers,” one yelled as he locked the door. “If you don’t I’m sure Hugon would be happy to interrogate you himself.” They laughed and then descended the stairs.
Between the cells were thick stonewalls that prevented prisoners from seeing each other. They did not, however, deafen sound. The girl cried as she lay on the floor. It was a painful, sorrowful sound.
Linvin sat on the other side of the wall trying to think of something to say. His usual greetings seemed wrong at that moment. At last he managed, “Are you hurt?” The sobbing continued. “Miss,” he called out louder, “Are you injured?”
The crying reduced and was interrupted occasionally by a sniffle. “It’s nothing that won’t heal,” she said meekly. “But it doesn’t matter. I will never leave these walls alive.”
Linvin moved closer to the bars by the wall. “My name is Linvin. What is yours?”
There was silence for a few moments and then one soft, beautiful word was spoken in return. “Mirianna,” she replied.
“You seem a little out of place here,” Linvin said.
“Everyone in this tower is out of place,” she answered indignantly. “I suspect that was their purpose in building it. You don’t sound like the usual criminals they bring in here. There must be a different reason you have checked in to this establishment.”
“I have no idea why we are here.” Linvin answered.
“Sure you do,” Mirianna said. “Everyone knows why they’re here. Some people just don’t want to admit the answer.”
Linvin was caught off guard by her banter. He tried to refocus on her. “Well then, why are you here?” he asked.
Her tone immediately changed. “So that’s your game, is it? They bring me down here and think I will tell you everything just by asking? Nice try Spy. I am wise to you. You can tell that red-eyed sorcerer you work for I have no knowledge of my country’s defenses. You can also tell him if I did know anything, I would never tell him or any of his agents.”
Linvin was stunned by the accusation. “Mirianna, you are mistaken. I am no spy. My kin and I are prisoners just like you.”
Mirianna snapped back. “That is just what a spy would say.”
Linvin sighed. “If I were a spy then why would they put three other people in here with me? Would it not be wiser to have a single person here to whom you could confess?”
The dreadful noise was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. Two human guards carrying an obscured prisoner thundered down the steps. Stopping at their floor, the guards could each be seen holding one arm of a young human woman. Her head hung down with a tangled mass of blond hair hiding her face. The woman’s feet dragged trenches in the straw on the floor as they carried her down the hall. Her clothing was tattered and shredded. Opening the cell next to the elves’ they tossed her in like a bale of hay.
“You’ll give us answers,” one yelled as he locked the door. “If you don’t I’m sure Hugon would be happy to interrogate you himself.” They laughed and then descended the stairs.
Between the cells were thick stonewalls that prevented prisoners from seeing each other. They did not, however, deafen sound. The girl cried as she lay on the floor. It was a painful, sorrowful sound.
Linvin sat on the other side of the wall trying to think of something to say. His usual greetings seemed wrong at that moment. At last he managed, “Are you hurt?” The sobbing continued. “Miss,” he called out louder, “Are you injured?”
The crying reduced and was interrupted occasionally by a sniffle. “It’s nothing that won’t heal,” she said meekly. “But it doesn’t matter. I will never leave these walls alive.”
Linvin moved closer to the bars by the wall. “My name is Linvin. What is yours?”
There was silence for a few moments and then one soft, beautiful word was spoken in return. “Mirianna,” she replied.
“You seem a little out of place here,” Linvin said.
“Everyone in this tower is out of place,” she answered indignantly. “I suspect that was their purpose in building it. You don’t sound like the usual criminals they bring in here. There must be a different reason you have checked in to this establishment.”
“I have no idea why we are here.” Linvin answered.
“Sure you do,” Mirianna said. “Everyone knows why they’re here. Some people just don’t want to admit the answer.”
Linvin was caught off guard by her banter. He tried to refocus on her. “Well then, why are you here?” he asked.
Her tone immediately changed. “So that’s your game, is it? They bring me down here and think I will tell you everything just by asking? Nice try Spy. I am wise to you. You can tell that red-eyed sorcerer you work for I have no knowledge of my country’s defenses. You can also tell him if I did know anything, I would never tell him or any of his agents.”
Linvin was stunned by the accusation. “Mirianna, you are mistaken. I am no spy. My kin and I are prisoners just like you.”
Mirianna snapped back. “That is just what a spy would say.”
Linvin sighed. “If I were a spy then why would they put three other people in here with me? Would it not be wiser to have a single person here to whom you could confess?”
January 2, 2016
Saturday Excerpt, "Quest"
Linvin and the others passed many open fires with fresh beef and pork roasting, continuing on to his command tent. Upon entering the tent and leaving view, they collapsed. Squires attended each of them. They removed all their masters’ armor and soiled clothing. Linvin passed out wine from his private stock to celebrate.
Fardar was attended as well. He was shocked as the squire disrobed him and washed his body of the vile, pungent goblin blood that had stained his clothes black. “These will have to be discarded,” the squire told him. “Goblin blood does not wash out of clothing.”
Fardar observed the others in the room. Linvin’s arm was being stitched and dressed. It was a far more severe blow than he had acknowledged.
Sculla had been stabbed in the thigh and sliced on his arm. He, too, was receiving treatment.
Victolin appeared unharmed and healthy until his armor was removed and he held his ribs. His right side was deeply bruised and bleeding.
Only Githara looked to have escaped without a scratch. She looked at Victolin and asked, “Was it an ax that hit you?”
He winced in pain, while lifting his arm to allow a bandage to be applied. “A heavy mace. I cut down one of their War Chief’s bodyguards and another struck my exposed side, knocking me off my horse. Fortunately, one of my men cut him down immediately thereafter.”
“What happened to you, Sculla?” Linvin asked.
“Stupid, really,” he replied. “When the line was advancing, this pathetic remnant of a swamp dweller reached up and stuck me in the leg with one of those cheap sickle swords. Made me furious! So I stomped his head. Wretched, filthy, disgusting little lizard!”
The squire attending him finished cleaning the wound and prepared to stitch it closed. “If you had not pulled the sword out by yourself, the wound would not be so large.”
“The blade was getting in my way!” yelled
Sculla as he shoved the attendant away. “This stable boy acts like he was the one who was stabbed.”
“Easy, Stump,” Linvin consoled his friend. “I think he is just frustrated with your disregard for your body.”
“Well, it’s my body!” Sculla snorted. “I’m here to fight, not compete in a beauty contest.”
“We’reall glad of that,” Victolin joked. “You’d make an uglier woman than Githara.”
Githara lashed out quickly at the insult and kicked Victolin on his injured side. Victolin howled in pain. “You’re mistaken for a woman far more than I am for a man,” she said.
“Enough, children,” Linvin said, gesturing downward with his hand. “We do not need another fight today.” They were in many ways like the siblings he had never known.
Once their wounds had been tended and they were all adorned in scarlet robes, the meeting broke up. Githara and Victolin left to check their units. Fardar left to prepare his report. Entering the tent as they left was a centurion.
“Pardon the intrusion, My Lords,” he said as he saluted.
“What is it?” Sculla demanded.
“We cannot bury the goblins as the general ordered. The water table is just below the surface, and whenever we start digging a hole, it fills with water.”
Sculla turned to Linvin for direction. Linvin stood and tightened his robe. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced. After a few moments, he stopped, moved his hands to his hips, sighed greatly and dropped his head.
“Pile the bodies and burn them,” he ordered. “There is enough disease in this swamp without leaving the dead to add more.”
Fardar was attended as well. He was shocked as the squire disrobed him and washed his body of the vile, pungent goblin blood that had stained his clothes black. “These will have to be discarded,” the squire told him. “Goblin blood does not wash out of clothing.”
Fardar observed the others in the room. Linvin’s arm was being stitched and dressed. It was a far more severe blow than he had acknowledged.
Sculla had been stabbed in the thigh and sliced on his arm. He, too, was receiving treatment.
Victolin appeared unharmed and healthy until his armor was removed and he held his ribs. His right side was deeply bruised and bleeding.
Only Githara looked to have escaped without a scratch. She looked at Victolin and asked, “Was it an ax that hit you?”
He winced in pain, while lifting his arm to allow a bandage to be applied. “A heavy mace. I cut down one of their War Chief’s bodyguards and another struck my exposed side, knocking me off my horse. Fortunately, one of my men cut him down immediately thereafter.”
“What happened to you, Sculla?” Linvin asked.
“Stupid, really,” he replied. “When the line was advancing, this pathetic remnant of a swamp dweller reached up and stuck me in the leg with one of those cheap sickle swords. Made me furious! So I stomped his head. Wretched, filthy, disgusting little lizard!”
The squire attending him finished cleaning the wound and prepared to stitch it closed. “If you had not pulled the sword out by yourself, the wound would not be so large.”
“The blade was getting in my way!” yelled
Sculla as he shoved the attendant away. “This stable boy acts like he was the one who was stabbed.”
“Easy, Stump,” Linvin consoled his friend. “I think he is just frustrated with your disregard for your body.”
“Well, it’s my body!” Sculla snorted. “I’m here to fight, not compete in a beauty contest.”
“We’reall glad of that,” Victolin joked. “You’d make an uglier woman than Githara.”
Githara lashed out quickly at the insult and kicked Victolin on his injured side. Victolin howled in pain. “You’re mistaken for a woman far more than I am for a man,” she said.
“Enough, children,” Linvin said, gesturing downward with his hand. “We do not need another fight today.” They were in many ways like the siblings he had never known.
Once their wounds had been tended and they were all adorned in scarlet robes, the meeting broke up. Githara and Victolin left to check their units. Fardar left to prepare his report. Entering the tent as they left was a centurion.
“Pardon the intrusion, My Lords,” he said as he saluted.
“What is it?” Sculla demanded.
“We cannot bury the goblins as the general ordered. The water table is just below the surface, and whenever we start digging a hole, it fills with water.”
Sculla turned to Linvin for direction. Linvin stood and tightened his robe. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced. After a few moments, he stopped, moved his hands to his hips, sighed greatly and dropped his head.
“Pile the bodies and burn them,” he ordered. “There is enough disease in this swamp without leaving the dead to add more.”
December 30, 2015
Wednesday Excerpt, "Revenge"
He wiped his hands and lit a lamp. With the room illuminated,
he saw what was left of the would-be assassin. Five’s body was
completely smashed. The blood-soaked clothes revealed nothing of
value. In the satchel Linvin found the rope and hook, a money
purse and a leather folder.
He opened the folder first. There were many written pages. He
sat down with his pipe and read. It was a journal. The writings
chronicled his movements since his arrival in Missandor.
Five had been careful not to make any note referring to his
employer in the journal. Indeed, it seemed to Linvin that the
purpose of the notes was to have them read by the employer after
the assassination. It was a briefing on how the plan was carried
out.
According to the entries, Five had come to Missandor the
previous day. He spied on Linvin and recorded his movements.
Five even wore a disguise and shopped the GTC while Linvin was
working. He did not strike there because of the number of
witnesses and what he called a low probability of success.
The assassin did not stay at an inn because he wanted to be sure
he did not leave a trace of his presence. He chose the beggar
disguise because it enabled him to survey Linvin’s tree from close
range and watch his every move.
Linvin sat the journal down and gnawed on his pipe. He puffed
a few times before returning the writings to the bag and retrieving
the money purse. It was full of gold. Upon examining the coins, he
was disappointed to see that they bore no markings of any kind.
Though coinage was minted in universal denominations
throughout the civilized world, each nation branded them with
their own emblem. Even if the markings were foreign, gold was
accepted worldwide as a form of payment.
The coins in that purse were specifically made without any
identification at all. Closer inspection showed that they had been
conditioned to look as though they were old so that no one would
inquire about their lack of marking.
Linvin knew such coins would be expensive to make and would
have to have been custom-crafted for Five. Great pains were taken
to ensure the person seeking Linvin’s head remained anonymous.
That person was obviously more concerned with Linvin’s death
than what it would cost.
Five was a professional assassin. He was not attempting murder
for the first time. It seemed to Linvin that he had killed before for
profit.
Linvin set the purse down and walked over to the body. At his
feet, he saw the crossbow. He retrieved it and examined it like a
merchant inspecting a possible purchase. Once again, he found no
revealing details.
So who wants me dead? he thought. Each of those killers was
connected. Their numbers were sequential, and they all carried
these. He tossed the bow into his closet. It came to rest in a pile of
similar crossbows. The great elf paced until he grew weary. There
was not enough information for him to reach a rational decision.
Who would want me dead this badly? he thought. A rival
company? No. They would not go to such extreme lengths. What
enemies do I have? The only people I know of who hate me that
badly would be the Mandreans. But I killed Lord Mandrean over
two years ago. What would a successor gain by killing me in this
way? Knowing the nature of the Mandreans I would think he
would be thankful that I made room on the throne for him. And
even if he sought to win support in the empire by hunting me down,
killing me quietly would not advance his goal.
It could be another nation trying to gain favor with the
Mandreans. That would open the door to just about everyone.
Or it might be someone I know nothing about. There is the
possibility that someone new has entered the mix. Perhaps they
seek the Red Sapphire for themselves? It would do them no good.
The stone only obeys me. For someone else to even touch the staff
would bring a swift demise. Still, no one would be aware of that. It
might seem that they could kill me and possess the gem. If that is
the case, I am dealing with fools. But this man did not play the
part of a fool and would have been too expensive to be hired by
one.
he saw what was left of the would-be assassin. Five’s body was
completely smashed. The blood-soaked clothes revealed nothing of
value. In the satchel Linvin found the rope and hook, a money
purse and a leather folder.
He opened the folder first. There were many written pages. He
sat down with his pipe and read. It was a journal. The writings
chronicled his movements since his arrival in Missandor.
Five had been careful not to make any note referring to his
employer in the journal. Indeed, it seemed to Linvin that the
purpose of the notes was to have them read by the employer after
the assassination. It was a briefing on how the plan was carried
out.
According to the entries, Five had come to Missandor the
previous day. He spied on Linvin and recorded his movements.
Five even wore a disguise and shopped the GTC while Linvin was
working. He did not strike there because of the number of
witnesses and what he called a low probability of success.
The assassin did not stay at an inn because he wanted to be sure
he did not leave a trace of his presence. He chose the beggar
disguise because it enabled him to survey Linvin’s tree from close
range and watch his every move.
Linvin sat the journal down and gnawed on his pipe. He puffed
a few times before returning the writings to the bag and retrieving
the money purse. It was full of gold. Upon examining the coins, he
was disappointed to see that they bore no markings of any kind.
Though coinage was minted in universal denominations
throughout the civilized world, each nation branded them with
their own emblem. Even if the markings were foreign, gold was
accepted worldwide as a form of payment.
The coins in that purse were specifically made without any
identification at all. Closer inspection showed that they had been
conditioned to look as though they were old so that no one would
inquire about their lack of marking.
Linvin knew such coins would be expensive to make and would
have to have been custom-crafted for Five. Great pains were taken
to ensure the person seeking Linvin’s head remained anonymous.
That person was obviously more concerned with Linvin’s death
than what it would cost.
Five was a professional assassin. He was not attempting murder
for the first time. It seemed to Linvin that he had killed before for
profit.
Linvin set the purse down and walked over to the body. At his
feet, he saw the crossbow. He retrieved it and examined it like a
merchant inspecting a possible purchase. Once again, he found no
revealing details.
So who wants me dead? he thought. Each of those killers was
connected. Their numbers were sequential, and they all carried
these. He tossed the bow into his closet. It came to rest in a pile of
similar crossbows. The great elf paced until he grew weary. There
was not enough information for him to reach a rational decision.
Who would want me dead this badly? he thought. A rival
company? No. They would not go to such extreme lengths. What
enemies do I have? The only people I know of who hate me that
badly would be the Mandreans. But I killed Lord Mandrean over
two years ago. What would a successor gain by killing me in this
way? Knowing the nature of the Mandreans I would think he
would be thankful that I made room on the throne for him. And
even if he sought to win support in the empire by hunting me down,
killing me quietly would not advance his goal.
It could be another nation trying to gain favor with the
Mandreans. That would open the door to just about everyone.
Or it might be someone I know nothing about. There is the
possibility that someone new has entered the mix. Perhaps they
seek the Red Sapphire for themselves? It would do them no good.
The stone only obeys me. For someone else to even touch the staff
would bring a swift demise. Still, no one would be aware of that. It
might seem that they could kill me and possess the gem. If that is
the case, I am dealing with fools. But this man did not play the
part of a fool and would have been too expensive to be hired by
one.
December 27, 2015
Sunday Excerpt, "Crucible"
Linvin closed his eyes and concentrated. He thought silently, Can you hear me?
The deep resounding voice from earlier had taken a softer tone. I am here, Master. Any time you are in contact with me I hear your thoughts.
Why do I not hear yours? Linvin inquired.
You hear me now, the Red Sapphire answered. Remember, you are my Master. It is not my place to tell you what to do unless you veer from your mandate. The rest of the time I merely follow your commands.
So you did not have a problem with the theft that I just committed? Linvin thought with surprise.
You were in a life and death situation with Miri. Anyone seeing you would have attacked you as an enemy. To take from one’s enemy to save a life is no crime. Had you stolen for material gain, I would have taken offense. You took only what was needed. I even helped you. It was I who implanted the idea in your mind to use my power to open the lock. I would not have done so if I thought your intentions to be unworthy.
I recall no message from you, Linvin thought. The idea just came into my mind.
Yes, Master, the Red Sapphire noted. It was I who gave you the idea. I knew you wanted to enter the building unnoticed and so I implanted the concept.
Then you can control my mind? Linvin asked in distress.
Not at all, Master. I can only give suggestions. Remember, I serve you. Once you have learned the full breadth of your power, you will need no advice from me.” Well then, Linvin thought. Tell me everything about you and how to use your power.
The expanse of knowledge you will receive may be too much for you to comprehend at one time. For that reason I will tell you what you need to know for now. I see from reading your mind that you have bits and pieces of history, which do not all fit into place. Let me start there.
What your Uncle said was true about the Maker giving too much magic to too few people. The world fell into chaos in its infancy. It was then the Maker crafted the Prism of the Cosmos. He used it to disperse magic into its various colors and among a variety of people. In order to prevent any one magician from becoming too powerful he made his or her bodies the channeling device for magic. That power we call magic is in nature all around us. To harness that power a magician must channel it through his body and release it from his hands. Doing so is very taxing of frail humanoid bodies. Thus, the more power the magician channels, the more fatigued he or she becomes. The limits of the magician’s mortality are the limits of their power. It is also the reason a magician with his hands bound is powerless. They cannot disperse the magic they channel without free use of their hands.
The deep resounding voice from earlier had taken a softer tone. I am here, Master. Any time you are in contact with me I hear your thoughts.
Why do I not hear yours? Linvin inquired.
You hear me now, the Red Sapphire answered. Remember, you are my Master. It is not my place to tell you what to do unless you veer from your mandate. The rest of the time I merely follow your commands.
So you did not have a problem with the theft that I just committed? Linvin thought with surprise.
You were in a life and death situation with Miri. Anyone seeing you would have attacked you as an enemy. To take from one’s enemy to save a life is no crime. Had you stolen for material gain, I would have taken offense. You took only what was needed. I even helped you. It was I who implanted the idea in your mind to use my power to open the lock. I would not have done so if I thought your intentions to be unworthy.
I recall no message from you, Linvin thought. The idea just came into my mind.
Yes, Master, the Red Sapphire noted. It was I who gave you the idea. I knew you wanted to enter the building unnoticed and so I implanted the concept.
Then you can control my mind? Linvin asked in distress.
Not at all, Master. I can only give suggestions. Remember, I serve you. Once you have learned the full breadth of your power, you will need no advice from me.” Well then, Linvin thought. Tell me everything about you and how to use your power.
The expanse of knowledge you will receive may be too much for you to comprehend at one time. For that reason I will tell you what you need to know for now. I see from reading your mind that you have bits and pieces of history, which do not all fit into place. Let me start there.
What your Uncle said was true about the Maker giving too much magic to too few people. The world fell into chaos in its infancy. It was then the Maker crafted the Prism of the Cosmos. He used it to disperse magic into its various colors and among a variety of people. In order to prevent any one magician from becoming too powerful he made his or her bodies the channeling device for magic. That power we call magic is in nature all around us. To harness that power a magician must channel it through his body and release it from his hands. Doing so is very taxing of frail humanoid bodies. Thus, the more power the magician channels, the more fatigued he or she becomes. The limits of the magician’s mortality are the limits of their power. It is also the reason a magician with his hands bound is powerless. They cannot disperse the magic they channel without free use of their hands.
December 26, 2015
Saturday Excerpt, "Quest"
Even at their distance from the battle, Linvin and Fardar could hear Sculla yell, “Advance.” Before the Goblins could fill the gaps in their lines, the Valian infantry marched steadily forward. Goblins hurried to fill the breaks in their line, but it was too late. Once Sculla’s men were past the pike-heads, they had a clear run at their enemy. There was no room for the goblins to maneuver their long spears. With their adversary in their faces, the goblins dropped their pikes and drew their close-quarter weapons.
“Wall!” cried Sculla upon noticing the change. His troops interlocked their full-length shields, reforming the shield wall.
The Valians maintained their formation and stopped their advance once the pikes were discarded. They were sure where to move from their current position. Their enemy crashed upon the shield wall with the ferocity of an ocean wave against a rocky coast.
The goblins wielded a vast array of weapons. With everything from sickle swords to clubs, they assaulted the wall. With all their might, they struck at the Valians. Yet, for all their blows, not one penetrated the defense.
Seizing the initiative, Sculla’s men struck from behind their great shields with short stabbing swords. Though the blade’s range was limited, it could be thrust with great power through or underneath most armor. The weapon also weighed enough to bludgeon an opponent when called upon. It was brutally effective when used properly and feared by the goblins above all else.
The goblins pressed the advance from the rear, but there was nowhere to go against the wall. So dense were their lines that it was nearly impossible for the Valians to miss. Their upward slashes found their targets again and again. Goblin loses began to mount. Still they pressed the attack.
“Why do they rush headlong toward death?” Fardar asked.
“Goblins normally outnumber their opponents. It is a simple strategy,” Linvin explained. “They throw themselves at you until they wear down your defenses. It is crude but can be highly effective if you cannot counter it.”
“It’s suicide,” Fardar surmised.
“No,” corrected Linvin, “It is a measured cost to achieve victory. You almost have to admire their devotion to duty. Nevertheless, we must persevere.”
“How?” asked Fardar “Sculla’s line cannot hold indefinitely. Those men will tire.”
“We have trained for this, Lord Fardar. Observe the line closely.” Fardar looked through the spectacle at the point of conflict. “I see the two sides fighting.”
“Keep watching,” Linvin said.
To Fardar’s amazement, the centurion directly behind the one at the front line rotated to the conflict, sending the exhausted centurion to the back of the rank. Instantly a fresh warrior was in the fray. Not more than a dozen sword strokes later, he moved to the rear and was replaced immediately. With ranks seven men deep, they constantly kept well-rested troops on the line.
Moment by moment, goblins’ blood spilled while drawing precious little from their adversary. Through it all, the heavy Valian infantry stood their ground, despite now being fully visible with the disappearance of the fog.
“Wall!” cried Sculla upon noticing the change. His troops interlocked their full-length shields, reforming the shield wall.
The Valians maintained their formation and stopped their advance once the pikes were discarded. They were sure where to move from their current position. Their enemy crashed upon the shield wall with the ferocity of an ocean wave against a rocky coast.
The goblins wielded a vast array of weapons. With everything from sickle swords to clubs, they assaulted the wall. With all their might, they struck at the Valians. Yet, for all their blows, not one penetrated the defense.
Seizing the initiative, Sculla’s men struck from behind their great shields with short stabbing swords. Though the blade’s range was limited, it could be thrust with great power through or underneath most armor. The weapon also weighed enough to bludgeon an opponent when called upon. It was brutally effective when used properly and feared by the goblins above all else.
The goblins pressed the advance from the rear, but there was nowhere to go against the wall. So dense were their lines that it was nearly impossible for the Valians to miss. Their upward slashes found their targets again and again. Goblin loses began to mount. Still they pressed the attack.
“Why do they rush headlong toward death?” Fardar asked.
“Goblins normally outnumber their opponents. It is a simple strategy,” Linvin explained. “They throw themselves at you until they wear down your defenses. It is crude but can be highly effective if you cannot counter it.”
“It’s suicide,” Fardar surmised.
“No,” corrected Linvin, “It is a measured cost to achieve victory. You almost have to admire their devotion to duty. Nevertheless, we must persevere.”
“How?” asked Fardar “Sculla’s line cannot hold indefinitely. Those men will tire.”
“We have trained for this, Lord Fardar. Observe the line closely.” Fardar looked through the spectacle at the point of conflict. “I see the two sides fighting.”
“Keep watching,” Linvin said.
To Fardar’s amazement, the centurion directly behind the one at the front line rotated to the conflict, sending the exhausted centurion to the back of the rank. Instantly a fresh warrior was in the fray. Not more than a dozen sword strokes later, he moved to the rear and was replaced immediately. With ranks seven men deep, they constantly kept well-rested troops on the line.
Moment by moment, goblins’ blood spilled while drawing precious little from their adversary. Through it all, the heavy Valian infantry stood their ground, despite now being fully visible with the disappearance of the fog.
December 23, 2015
Last Minute Christmas
Well, the madness is almost over for another year. The magical day is nearly upon us. If you are struggling to find those last minute gifts consider a Kindle book like “Quest for the Red Sapphire.” It is relatively inexpensive and easy to buy on Amazon and you don’t have to wait for shipping. A book can be a wonderful gift as it carries the reader away from their everyday life into someplace new where you don’t have to worry about bills or screaming kids or jobs. This world is created in your mind and will carry you for a while. Such transport at such a low price is a bargain any day. This first book in the series will carry the reader to the world of Lavacia where danger waits around every bend for our hero, Linvin Grithinshield. He must seek out the powerful Red Sapphire and find it before the people who murdered his parents do. Guided by his wise Uncle Anvar and distracted by his annoying cousins Bander and Rander Linvin must overcome the odds stacked against him if he has any hope of winning the race. You can buy it here: http://amzn.to/1npYd0S Merry Christmas
