A look at Emma Melville's "Balance"

One of my favorite parts of this job is giving a writer a topic and seeing that writer take said topic in a direction I hadn't thought of. Emma's done just that with her latest short, Balance.

One of the most important moments in the lives of the mysterious and ethereal Fae is the granting of a name. An individual's actions and attitudes determine his name and his lot in the strict caste system. Emma brought this process to life in a very simple but very beautiful way, making use of the existing castes to make it all happen. She also gives us a slightly different look at Old Bramble, a typically gruff, no-nonsense character that serves as a mentor to so many of our heroes. She shows us his compassionate side, and she gives us just a taste of the events that made him who he is.

Here's a bit of Balance:

The city shone in the bright sun, spread out before him as he descended from the heights of Vision. The soft Diun light he travelled through pushed forwards, the sharp line where sun and moon met rolling toward Maeda Criacao’s outer walls.

Bramble paused to watch Diun claim the city boundary, a wry regret catching his heart. No shades of gray here in the Dreaming Lands, no shadows of uncertainties. He missed the borders, the half lights of his valley, the times between times.

He’d probably spent too long on the edges of the Dying Lands, lit by dusks and dawns, but he’d grown to enjoy the twilights, neither one thing nor another. In a way it suited the life he’d made. The Valley of Munier hung between, neither of the Dreaming Lands nor the Dying.

Bramble shook his head and took a deep breath of Aiemer-rich air before descending, following the stark line of light into the city.

He wondered, briefly, what that made him; neither one thing nor another, perhaps. A pertinent question when on his way to a naming. His own had been somewhat unique, which he supposed fit.

Other Fae were entering the city, some no doubt also interested in the fate of the Lean’Aghan. He caught glimpses of them arriving from the circling talamhs. Some he’d already passed on his journey, exchanging greetings and news before their separate paths spun them off through the ever-changing landscape of the Dreaming Lands.

The path dropped suddenly, dipping through a gateway carved in stone, carrying Bramble forward without volition until he found himself standing still on a paved path. Behind him was the gate, the opening to the Dreaming Lands. If he looked back he knew he’d see merely a haze of multi-colored light. The path he’d entered by was there somewhere and, if he stretched out his awareness and grasped at the Aiemer strands, he would find it. Even just standing still he could feel the vague pull of the valley, of home. Content that it was where he expected and could be found at will, Bramble set off into the heart of the city.

The streets were paved in golden stone which glowed softly even after the sunlight had passed. Buildings were few and irregular, interspersed with the wide expanses of nature which were as much home to the Fae as the carved stone. An array of colors assaulted the eye, the Aiemer flows deepening and brightening everything even under Diun’s gentler light.

Bramble wandered slowly around the outer city, drinking in the familiar sights. Nothing ever changed in Maeda Criacao, a constant hub in the continual flux of the Dreaming Lands–a necessary paradox. He meandered clockwise through the golden streets and lush parks, ignoring today the impossible palaces ringing the center of the city, the sacred heart. The sky-touching spires and columns, twisted trees, and flaming waterfalls of the Nai’Oigher had never held much attraction for him, monuments to the immortal arrogance of the courts. He preferred the gentler places, the natural, still pools and elegant swoops of land left to its own devices.

The noise around Bramble gradually grew, bringing him out of his reverie. His feet had finally led him to his destination: the Delledeir market.

He stopped, letting the riot of color and noise wash over him. It brought a smile to his lips. Here you could buy or sell anything, trade even your soul if you owned one. Stalls were set up haphazardly in a giant wheel with wares of every conceivable make strewn across them. Each one had its attendant Delledeir, either buying and selling or merely observing and arbitrating, maintaining the balance so important to the Fae.

Their distinctive features–thin faces, long noses, beady eyes, twitching fingers–marked the Delledeir, the ferret caste.

Bramble nodded to a couple he recognized and headed for the market’s heart. Here was a clear central space containing a single table spread with a velvet cloth of shimmering hues. On it was placed a single set of golden scales and a giant book. Behind the table stood two Fae, ancient and unchanging. Cadwyn, First of the Delledeir, barely came to Bramble’s shoulder. His short hair was white, his eyes nearly black. His lips and fingers were never still, as if eternally counting over invisible profits and losses. His companion was much taller and upright, his face having the high, sloping forehead and faraway gaze of the Riddari. Harvlyn, Keeper of Names, rested his hand lightly on the book in front of him while his dark eyes scanned the crowd. He showed no signs of recognition, though Bramble knew those long fingers had recorded the name of every one of them.

Bramble remembered his own trip to the stall so many, many years ago, Cadwyn’s probing questions and Harvlyn’s scratching pen after their initial consternation at his singular appearance and lack of mentors.

A look at "Refrain" by Emma Melville

Emma's been with us from the beginning. She's done a great job with her signature character, a bard named Nikos, who appears in several of our stories. Here's a peak at "Refrain:"

Nikos staggered through the trees, his feet catching obscured roots and sudden hollows as he plunged along. Leafy branches snagged his tattered clothes and slapped his already bruised and battered flesh.

“Marii,” he muttered, “must get to the marii.” It had become a mantra, the only thing keeping his legs going and holding his fragile sanity together. For mile after mile he’d driven himself south, far beyond the reach of civilization and into the inner continent. He’d bypassed any place in Thila where he might be known. He wasn’t strong enough to take Aetos’s pity or face the truth of his loss. The hope that the marii, with their link to the World Song, could restore his music was all that kept him moving. He ate little and slept less; the deep void where his talent had been was present even in dreams, a hunger gnawing at his soul.

“Marii,” he said again, the words slurred, “must get-” His foot twisted out from under him, sending him sprawling. Ignoring the pain and the tears, Nikos dragged himself back to his feet. “Marii,” barely a breath.

There seemed to be a red light through the trees, a sharp contrast to Diun’s silver twilight. Nikos stumbled towards it, his twisted ankle depositing him in a heap every few paces until he resorted to crawling.

“Music...”

Dragging himself into a small clearing, he registered two forms leaping up in surprise at his arrival before he crashed onto his face beside their fire.

“What is it, Fale?” The first voice was soft and feminine.

“A man, and a badly injured one at that.” The second voice had the peculiar lilt of the marii, somehow heard inside one’s soul as well as through one’s ears. The guild taught that it was a by-product of their music and the magic in it.

“Marii!” Nikos struggled to rise, but the last of his strength had seeped away.

“It’s all right,” the woman said, misunderstanding him. She came to kneel at his side. “Can we help? Can I help?”

“Leave him, Gwyn. You don’t know him.”

“But I can help.”

Nikos shook his head as best he could. “No, marii–music. I need music!”

The marii knelt at his other side. “Do you indeed?” she asked.

The two of them helped him up and moved him to sit beside the fire. They sat opposite, side by side, staring intently at him. One was indeed a marii, its animalistic features more wolf than human, its eyes wary. The other surprised Nikos.

“Fae? You are not mortal.”

“I am Fae. My name is Gwynhaefar, and this is Fale. Who are you?”

“Nikos.”

“You said you needed music,” Fale said.

“Mine has...was...it’s gone.” Fresh anguish left him trembling.

“Gone?”

“Taken.”

“How can someone-” Gwyn began, but Fale laid a hand on her arm.

“Silenced?” the marii asked.

Nikos flinched away from the word, his hands covering his ears.

“Who would do such a thing?” Gwyn said.

“Bards,” Fale snapped, spitting the word like something distasteful and sour.

“Why would they silence someone? I thought they-”

“Why?” Fale demanded, cutting her off. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” The word was screamed from a torn soul. Nikos slumped and repeated softly. “Nothing. They said I caused disharmony in perceived futures.”

“No!”

“What is it?” Gwyn demanded. “What have they done to him?”

“Cursed him. Taken all his music from him. Silencing leaves a man devoid of all ability, all hearing, all-” The marii stood, obviously agitated. “It is evil beyond any words of mine. To sever anyone’s path to the World Song–how dare they?”

“I hoped the marii-” Nikos whispered.

Sad realization dawned in Fale’s luminous eyes. “Oh, child, I am sorry. Our music has not such power to heal.”

Nikos’s last hope crumbled, and he felt his tenuous grip on sanity slip. “Please, you’ve got to help me!”

“Truly, I cannot. I wish I could.”

“I can,” Gwyn said firmly. “This is something I can do.”

“This is a destiny you came here to escape,” Fale said. “You turned your back on your own kin because they asked-”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Semantics. What difference-”

“You cannot take what someone is away from them like this. It’s killing him.” Gwyn came around the fire to kneel in front of him. She was taller than Nikos and very slim. He noticed that her long chestnut curls were flecked with green and marred by a single black streak. “I can take this curse from you,” she said. “It is what I am.”

“How?” He looked to the marii, who was obviously unhappy with Gwyn’s offer.

“You were right: she is Fae, but she is more than that. She is Ainghad Fas, one of those who takes in the darkness of others in order to maintain the paths of light upon which the world rests. She can take your curse upon herself.”

"Cordellon" by Scott Colby

Here's a quick look at the story that tells us the fate of the man responsible for the death of Emperor Pileaus:

The alley was a dead end, a lidless tomb of towering limestone walls. Cordellon risked a glance over his shoulder, back in the direction of the yapping hounds hot on his trail. The Imperial guards would be on him soon, despite the rain. If they caught him, he'd be strung up before a million snarling fanatics who'd like nothing better than to tear the mastermind of their god's murder limb from limb.

And so he dashed down the alley, his old joints creaking in protest against the speed, the hems of his billowing black robes growing heavy as they soaked up the puddles between the cobblestones. He let the far wall stop his flight, pressing himself as close to the slick white stone as he could. Craning his neck to the left so he could eye the reed-thin seam between buildings, Cordellon began to shuffle sideways toward the tiny gap.

There's no possible way I can fit through there. Cordellon banished the thought from his mind, knowing that doubt would slam shut his only escape route. He took a deep breath and shuffled on. Plenty of room, plenty of room, plenty of room...

The fabric of his sleeve distorted as it pressed into the gap, flattened like light through a prism. He pushed onward, the barks of the hounds loud in his ears now, ignoring the strange tingle as his body passed into the space between realms. The other side was warm and dry and inviting. He closed his eyes as Fuiligh had told him. The view of one's form passing between could drive a man mad, she had said.

Cordellon stumbled as the gap released him, and his eyes snapped open. The alley was gone, replaced by a lush meadow, the skies above clear and blue, the dirt path at his feet slicing through the lush green grass in dozens of directions. He glanced back at the gap, now nothing more than a narrow slit between a twisting tree with a split trunk. A set of canine teeth snapped at him uselessly on the other side. He waved and smiled at the hound and sauntered away arrogantly, impressed with his escape.

To his right, a stand of purple lilies as tall as a small child swiveled their blossoms to examine him.

“Did you see that!” he crooned, squeezing the rain out of his long gray hair. Most mortals would've feared such creatures, but he, Cordellon, was at home among the Fae. “Stupid Pileans will never find me here!”

"Swallowed by a God" by Daniel Gooden

Here's a sneak peek at another one from Content Editor Daniel Gooden, Swallowed by a God. This short story is a great example of how our short fiction integrates with and enhances the tale presented in our web comic, The Torn God. In the comic, we see Polorun taking possession of Reverie; here in this short story, we find out what it was really like for the poor man.

Here you go:

“Aiemer stream shift in five, four, three, two, one,” counted down the navigator of the airship, Brailee.

In his shade form, all appendages and trailers of smoke like some malevolent fog, Polorun drove into Reverie—bashing in through his mouth and nose, squirming past his eyes and eardrums, prying up under his fingernails, shoving past his anus, and soaking into his pores. Like the gossamer worm sliding silken threads into the brain of a cow, the dead god eased into the Uddani’s mind, seeking out his new friend. He began with the corporal’s last thought, a memory he’d opened a moment before Polorun had struck.

“My mother taught me to fish,” Reverie’s father said. The older man put his foot on the rail of the small skiff and pulled in the cast net. Reverie stalled a moment, still puzzled at the darkness swirling through the water. His father’s words rolled about in his ears a moment before they caught.

“Your mother?” he questioned. His grandfather had been the fisher. Reverie looked around at the salt marsh, Naahm hazy to the north, then closer at the man standing on the bow. This was a memory of his father, but this man was not him. He looked Uddani, could have been his brother or cousin…except for those bright blue eyes.

“Where’s my father?” the Uddani asked, forgetting for a moment that this was his memory—a picture in his own mind. “What are you doing on my boat?”

Polorun laughed, pulled the cast net into the boat, and then laughed again as the silver fish spilled struggling across the bottom. In his confusion Reverie grinned too, but it was fleeting. The darkness in the water was spilling out of the fish’s mouths, bleeding out their gills and running up the man’s pant legs. Where are his feet? The Uddani squinted and squeezed his brow with his hands, like a man out too long in the sun.

“The thing I like about fishing is the wait,” said the dead god, his voice much more now like Reverie's father’s.

“Get out of our boat—out of our head,” Reverie muttered. He beat a fist against his nose and let the pain set his mind straight. “My boat! My head!” he managed to yell. He dropped his pole and tackled Polorun. The soldier meant to drive him down onto the deck of the Brailee—because that’s where he was, standing on the deck of the airship, not in his father’s boat on the salt marsh above Naahm.

"The Engineer's Prayer" by Daniel Tyler Gooden

This week we've got a sneak peek at the first short story by our very own Content Editor, Dan Gooden. The Engineer's Prayer gives us a look at the Brailee (Losa's airship) and the men and women who keep her up and running:

Atop the Brailee, with only sky above and wind everywhere else, the young engineer lifted his feet and carefully pushed his body up until he rested on his index finger. Wrapped in leather, cold-weather gear, he looked like a sausage.

Torman was barely heard over the roaring wind. “Brun, this is amazing!”

“Any second the captain will order full burn, and then you’ll feel some weight in your shoes,” the old mechanic shouted back. Torman was nearly floating because the Brailee was almost in freefall.

The old man grinned at his companion's enjoyment but turned back to look at the sea with a sour face. They were still thousands of feet up, but the lady was a heavy bitch and her mass was hard to stop.

The Brailee was the first of the great steam-driven airships. Her iron skeleton was surrounded by the taishu culmerant, a viscous soup found somewhere in the creature’s stinking innards. Some genius engineer had boiled it down, and now the blue gel served as flesh and soul to the Brailee. When warmed by her hundred-odd Aiemer engines the culmerant could carry the Brailee—her bombs, her iron skeleton, the propellers and steam equipment that drove them, the thick shielding across her long belly all her--massive tonnage as high above Baeg Tobar as one could go and still breathe.

Brun took his eyes off the rising sea and tried to peer through the deep blue culmerant. The wind was too loud to hear the captain’s order through the relay tubes, but he would see it. Buried under the blue were the Aiemer engines; when fired they would be like stars exploding in the night sky. An engine's hard dunnum steel petals would create a small pocket of Aiemer; its light would be brilliant, and its massive outpouring of heat would arrest the ship’s stone-like plummet. If it didn’t, they would spear right through the taishu below them, taking the Brailee, its crew, and the hundred thousand Yuin-damned shuen that lived on it right to the bottom of the Yan Po ocean.

“Tools buckled down?” Brun shouted over his shoulder.

Torman dropped back to the deck and shouted into his ear. “I’m ready. You got your burn glasses?” The kid was green; he’d come straight from Deos and the Pilean Engineering Academy, but he was full of good details. Those engines would be blinding at a full burn, even outside the shell. He pulled on his goggles over his fur-lined hood. They couldn’t repair what they couldn't see.

Brun felt the engines before he saw them. It was like some drunkard had leaned on his shoulders. The burn rose then out of the blue guts of the Brailee. The Aiemer engines blossomed like suns and the light exploded up at them. The weight doubled, then tripled, and he let it push him flat on the deck. Now the drunk sat on his chest and Brun fought to breath. He counted, concentrating on the numbers.

The captain was attacking out of the sun, falling in its light to surprise the floating shuen city. With their weight and speed, Torman had calculated the full burn needed to level the Brailee would last twenty seconds. Any number past that and they’d be a drowning ship rather than a flying one.

Torman figured right. At 18, when the wind quit roaring, the drunk climbed off Brun’s chest. The sea and taishu were still lost behind the wash of blinding light. The engines would burn at full until they got positive lift. Only then would the captain throttle them back.

“What a ride,” Torman shouted. The wind had stilled, and from somewhere below the Brailee Brun heard the familiar sound of bombs crashing into their targets at close range. He cupped his hands around his eyes, trying to see through the brilliance. He found Torman, faint as a ghost in the wash of light.

“When we get the all-clear, grab your tools and get back to amidships,” the mechanic ordered.

“I know. A full burn should put out 27,000 Vuls of heat on just one engine,” said Torman, fading out as he started calculating the number of engines in the upper nose and shoulder of the Brailee. Brun didn’t care how many Vuls. All he knew was that the heat was incredible. It moved through the culmerant slowly, but when it reached the outside deck it could take a frozen pot of water and boil it off in under a minute. There was no excuse not to be safely amidships on the observation deck by then.

“Cinching down,” came the call over the order-relay tube. The light dimmed, and they could see the whitecaps of the sea around them. The towers of the taishu shrunk as the Brailee climbed back up. Brun said a quick prayer and thanked Yuin Losa had been aboard. To attempt timing the mechanics of turning from freefall to positive climb just before sea level was stupid. The Black Queen, the God-King’s own flesh and blood, had no doubt saved them from crashing into the sea with her divine presence.

Torman rubbed his eyes and took down his hood. “I don’t think my goggles worked,” he said. “I still see an after-image.”

Brun turned to find the young engineer looking down at the deck, rubbing the lens of his glasses. He followed his gaze and found one burning sun still shining deep under the deck. He dropped to his knees, pulled the whistle over the relay tube, and blew two loud blasts. “Cinch down failure!” he shouted, squinting to take another look at the spear of light. “Secondary level…engine 48, or 68.”

“Grab your bag,” he started to shout to Torman, but the boy already had the access hatch open and was switching over to his safety line.

The heat was already beginning to build. It rose out of the shaft as hot breath from some waking beast. The two engineers slide down the rail, Torman ahead and watching the bright star.

“It’s 68 all right!” the boy hollered as they stopped their descent at the junction. The small room seemed an underwater observatory, its wide walls the semi-transparent culmerant in which the banks of engines floated. The light from the engines bathed the engineers, the dials and gauges all in a rippled blue.

Engine 68 burned all out. Brun had slapped his shaded goggles back over his eyes, but still the engine was an eye-tearing blaze. Its heat was moving aft quick, too—he couldn’t feel it yet, but he’d learned to watch the culmerant. Something about the way the light pierced the gel—a crisp sparkling—could tell you it was getting hot.

“The intake wheel is jammed,” Brun grunted. He braced his feet against the pipe and pulled again. The wheel would not budge.

“What about the steam return?” Torman asked as he lent his weight to the wheel. When it still failed to move, Brun agreed. Closing off the steam pipe would freeze up the engine like a dam below a waterwheel.

That valve turned, and the petals on Engine 68 started to collapse. As they fell the Aiemer fled its hollow, but only for a moment. When the fire renewed, Torman dropped to his knees, trying to get below the burn to see.

“Yuin-damned,” he muttered. “The return pipe cracked. It's spilling out into the culmerant!”

Brun saw it too. The steam had punched a hole in the blue gel. It shoveled its way through the material, pressing out toward the surface skin. Somewhere it would blow out, hopefully not under some important station, and the culmerant would collapse back onto itself—if they could get the pipe shut down.

"Fae Song" by Mark Adams

Mark's second story, Fae Song, tells the story of the Emperor's death. This is a huge event in the world of Baeg Tobar, one that really needed a great story - and boy, did it get one! Mark totally knocked this one out of the park.

Here's a quick peek:

I watch her, as ever, the bastion of light in the darkness, as Lani and Pileaus have a small meal brought to them and dine. I know that my brother, Baelic, the Shadivengen bound to Pileaus, is undoubtedly in the room as well, but I can only guess where he has stationed himself. Not a true brother, of course, but in some ways the few Shadivengen that remain are tied together by bonds far greater than those created by blood.

“Sing for me, Lani,” comes Pileaus’ tired voice. “Something to ease my thoughts.”

“I would be happy to,” she replies with a smile. I watch as she takes a long drink from her water, clearly sorting through her repertoire. She rises, her voice rising in a clear, strong tone. I follow behind her, never far from her side. The song she has chosen is familiar to me, one of the songs she sings to her unborn. I grimace, for it is one of the songs Cordellon taught her. The man grates at me, far too knowledgeable in illicit Fae material. How did he come by so many Fae songs? I cannot bring myself to trust him, despite Lani’s vain attempts to bring her two closest confidants together. Lani forbids me to take any action against Cordellon, however, and I abide by her wishes. For now. To his credit, Cordellon does appear to have Lani’s best interest in mind, so it is easier for me to tolerate him.

Lani moves behind Pileaus, running her hand across his head as she sings. She rubs his shoulders, easing the tension out of him with her voice and hands, and the Emperor’s face relaxes. She ends the song, continuing to massage his shoulders, and starts another.

“I have heard these,” he says, stopping her. “Sing me something new. Something I have not heard before. Something that you don’t sing to my son.”

She smiles and kisses the top of his head. “Alright. I have one that was taught to me not all that long ago. I have not tried to sing it for you.” She retrieves her water and drinks again before facing him. “It is an old song, taught to me by Cordellon last summer,” she explains. I notice that Pileaus’s face pinches slightly at the eyes upon the mention of the teacher, but it quickly smoothes away. That bothers me, and my hackles rise in warning.

I reach up and loosen my blades in their sheaths as she begins again, her voice strong and clear, the tone unwavering. The words are beyond my understanding, but I have never been able to grasp the old languages, despite Lani’s attempts to educate me. My ears do not hear the words, just a string of melodic sounds that run together in a pleasant fashion. It does seem to have a calming effect, however, and I realize with a start that I have closed my eyes.

Suddenly alert, I shake my head to clear it of the drowsiness. The bond I share with Lani suddenly tightens, and I know instinctively that she is coming under duress. A quick look at her face tells me that my fears are correct. Her lips, still moving with the words of the song, have drained of blood, and her eyes have gone wide, the pupils dilating. I start to take a step to her side when the floor tiles of the chamber begin to vibrate with the growing power of the song.

Baelic shifts into view, dressed very much like myself, and kneels next to Pileaus. A quick glance at the Emperor confirms that the man is definitely feeling some ill effects as well.

“What is happening?” Baelic shouts at Pileaus, but the emperor makes no sound, a trickle of blood beginning to run from his nose. Baelic looks up, staring directly at Lani. “What are you doing!” he shouts at her.

Lani does not answer, her eyes flicking wildly about the room. Her hands have risen to her throat, but the song continues to issue forth, her pure voice straining against the words but unable to stop. Baelic stands, reaching up to draw his matched blades in a single, smooth motion. The firelight turns the edge of one of his blades crimson as he points it at her. Like me, Baelic seems to feel the force of the song, but its power fails to keep him rooted in place.

“End this, Lani, or you give me no choice.”

"Discord" by Emma Melville

Emma's done a great job developing Nikos, former member of the shadowy Bards' Guild and a close friend of Aetos, King of Thila. Here's a peak at "Discord," a story which delves into Nikos's history:

“Nikos!” The man who confronted him was a singer of exceptional skill. He’d been one of Nikos’s teachers, a master of harmony and resonance. His voice rang through the hall, carrying its rich timbre to every corner.

Nikos relaxed his firm clasp on the harp and tried a smile. “Master Karos, how good to see you again.” He was ignored.

Karos resolutely fixed his gaze on a point two inches to the left of Nikos’s head in a most disconcerting manner. “Welcome,” he said, his voice lacking any warmth or sincerity. “Do come with me.”

The tall singer strode off across the marble floor without a backward glance. Nikos briefly considered staying where he was or even leaving, but it wasn’t every day a bard was summoned – however rudely – to the guild. Failure to respond to such a summons was simply unacceptable.

With a heavy heart, he hurried to catch Karos and fell into step beside him.

“I wondered why-”

“You’ll be told.” Karos still refused to look straight at him.

“You’re obviously not happy about it,” Nikos said. “Can’t you tell me something?”

“No.”

They walked a few steps further. Nikos hoped there would be more, but Karos continued in silence.

“How about if I leave now?” Nikos suggested.

Karos finally look him in the eye. “Don’t be an idiot, Nikos. You’re right; I don’t like this one bit, but we’re saving the guild, so...“ He turned away and walked on.

“Saving the guild?”

“Enough. You’ll be told. Through here.” He led the way into the testing chamber at the back of the Great Hall.

Nikos remembered the room from his very first visit. Here was where all musicians were judged by their skills. The small chamber was perfectly round, its acoustics faultless. The floor tiles with their central circle of pale green were occupied by a single chair, placed in the very center. Here the applicant would sit to play while those assessing could view him from every angle.
Two guild members stood in the room today. They turned to face the door as Karos pushed it open. Nikos recognized both of them. Thera had tutored him on the harp and assured Nikos on graduation that his playing would one day surpass even her’s. It had been the greatest compliment he had ever received. Today, like Karos, she couldn’t meet his gaze. The third bard, standing perfectly still and watching Nikos with hard eyes, was the head of the guild. Gylmyn Mor was as grim faced as ever, forbidding lines etched in each side of his long, thin nose. Karos stepped away from Nikos and joined his colleagues, indicating as he did that Nikos should take the chair.

Judgment-the word ran circles round Nikos’s head. This was a place of judgment, of testing. But he was already a member of the guild, and he knew he had done nothing wrong.

Such a thought made the cold room, with its silent judges, even worse. “I’m a Thilan,” he thought. “It must be that. I’m going to pay for Pileaus’s failures.”

“We have heard the paths of the future,” Gylmyn announced, disregarding all introductory courtesies. “They are strident with discord, and the tunes of some we love will be silenced forever.”

Nikos blinked in surprise. This was nothing like he’d expected.

“It is clear,” Gylmyn continued, glancing at his companions who stood either side of him. “Is it not?”

“Clear,” Karos agreed, staring again at the wall beyond Nikos.

“It saddens me that it is so,” Thera said.

“It is clear,” Gylmyn repeated, “that all disharmony to the guild spreads from your tune in the world.”

"Dreams and Nightmares"

Here's a snippet from Dreams and Nightmares by yours truly, which continues the story of Darin and gives us a look at the noble Nai'Oigher.


“May I present to you Mistress Obata, the Lady Dream, ruler and conduit of fantasy and desire.”

Dream stormed haughtily into her brother’s throne room. His terse summons the day before had infuriated her and sent her attendants diving for cover. Just who did he think he was, demanding her attendance like that? Sometimes his lack of gratitude for all she’d done for him was absolutely disgusting.

And why did he choose to live in such a dreary pit of a palace? Dream’s bare feet prickled against the hard stone floor, and she fought the urge to shiver. Her sheer gown, woven from the strands of joyous visions and carefree daydreams, wasn’t much help against the chill, and its lustrous shimmer was lost without a light source to reflect, but she refused to give her brother the satisfaction of causing her to change her wardrobe. She supposed it was better that she couldn’t see much of anything, if only because the darkness hid whatever vile, twisted things lurked in the corners of her brother’s lair.

Like Dream, her brother was Nai’Oigher, the elite of the Braegheayn nobles. Anything he’d asked for could’ve been his: the richest clothing, the finest foods, the most luxurious home. And yet he chose to live in a hole, far from the Dreaming Lands’ sole city, Maeda Criacao, indulging in whatever despicable desire struck his fancy. He could’ve been someone worth her time, rather than being a no one she barely tolerated.

Then again, she supposed such abhorrent behavior was likely just part of a day’s work for anyone named Nightmare.

Dream waited impatiently for a response to her herald’s announcement. Just as she was about to clear her throat in annoyance, a quick scale from a violin wafted through the dank air and sent a tingle through her bones. She shook off the feeling before it could take hold of her.

“It is typically considered good form to return a guest’s greeting with respect and courtesy,” she snarled to the surrounding darkness. “It is also common practice to light a torch or two when one knows company is on its way.”

Another quick scale screeched across the violin, and the sconces lining the walls exploded to life. Dream held her composure and didn’t so much as blink.

Nightmare’s throne room was a massive space, larger even than her own, Dream noticed with dismay. The walls were all sharp, abrupt angles. In the flickering firelight, they seemed alive and in motion – and slightly frightening.

Far across the throne room, a young man sat sprawled in a dilapidated chair perched across a crooked dais. His hair was long and unkempt, his clothing little more than tattered rags hanging loosely from his spare frame. He was dirty and exceptionally pale, as if he hadn’t seen the world beyond Nightmare’s catacombs in quite a while.

His violin, on the other hand, looked good as new. Oiled to a lustrous shine, it glistened softly in the strange shadows cast across the room.

Dream clicked her tongue and put her hands on her hips. “My idiot brother had best have a good reason to leave a mortal to greet me.”

“That he does,” the young man crooned as he swung himself down to the floor and strode toward her. She could tell by the slight twitch in his leg that he was doing well to hide his dread. It was shameful how her brother always felt the need to frighten people into doing his bidding. Dream herself was above such tactics, as well as such persuasions. “He knew it would make your blood boil.”

She just smiled and sauntered forward. “My brother has always known how to get a rise out of me. A singular talent, that.”

The man sneered arrogantly and played a sharp set of chords on his violin. In spite of herself, Dream shivered a bit. His parlor tricks were becoming annoying.

“Perhaps not so much,” he said tauntingly. He stopped ten paces away, trying to leave a careful separation between them.

But Dream kept on walking. “If it’s talent you want...”

"Debt" by Scott Colby

Here's a snippet from my first short story, "Debt:"

“You’re going to run, aren’t you?” Grastow asked. “It’s great sport when your kind tries to get away.”

At that point, Darin decided his best chance would be to catch his opponent off guard. He stood silent and still, pretending to brood as he waited for Old Man Grastow to continue his verbal assault. Just as Grastow opened his mouth to speak, Darin lunged forward, intending to tackle the old man and beat him down. But all he caught was air and a mouthful of grass, and a sharp blow across his lower back from Grastow’s cane.

“Runners usually try that first,” Grastow said casually as Darin spat out a wad of soil and pulled himself back to his feet. “Apparently I’m quicker than I look.”

And with that, Darin was off. It wasn’t far to the dense northern Easlinder forest that surrounded his property, and he’d soon torn through the first layer of brush and into the woods proper. He knew the area well, and he was willing to try to confuse Grastow in the dark forest and try to take him from behind.

When not plying his trade as a musician, Darin made a living as a trapper, and thus he was a more than competent woodsman. After his initial haste had put enough distance between himself and his enemy, he slowed to a more deliberate pace. He slipped in between the hulking trees as silently and stealthily as any predator on the hunt, leaving little evidence of his passing. He’d given Grastow an initial trail to follow; the Old Man would be well within Darin’s domain when that trail suddenly ended.

He swung to the east and down a sharp gulley, his heart beating in his throat as he tried to keep himself calm. The dry riverbed made travel easy, and the walls of the gulley would hide him from any onlookers. He quickly reached the game path that would take him back into the forest almost directly behind the point he’d started hiding his trail – and with any luck, directly behind Old Man Grastow. He paused at the start of the trail, knowing better than to rush things. He wanted to give his enemy ample time to reach the ambush point

“He’s going to get you, you know,” hissed a low, squeaky voice from behind Darin. “He’s a clever one.”

Darin whirled, wishing he’d thought to grab a weapon of some sort. A scrawny man half Darin’s height sat on the opposite bank, smiling down at him benevolently. The fine silver buttons of his expensive-looking vest and pants glittered in Diun’s waning light. Bright green eyes stared back at Darin from under a fine black hat trimmed with a long green feather.

“What do you know of our business?” Darin whispered sharply.

“Of the specifics? Nothing,” the little man replied confidently. “But I’ve seen this plot play out before. The master gives his student a few tidbits of the power that could be his. Just a taste, mind you. The student takes advantage of what he’s been taught, building his own personal empire, however large or small. Then the master comes for his due...and the student refuses to pay up. The inevitable conflict ensues...”

“Enough!” Darin snarled in annoyance. The little man had hit too close to home. “What exactly do you want?”

“In such situations, I’ve yet to see said student get the better of said master. And because of that, certain economic opportunities present themselves...”

“No more deals!” Darin said a little louder than he’d intended. He turned and stalked up the game trail.

“As if you’ll have a choice,” the little man called after him. “Huffnaggle will be waiting for you! Just call my name!”

First three weeks of short stories scheduled!

We want you to find something new on Baeg Tobar every day of the week. Some days it'll be a new half-page of The Torn God; some days it'll be an encyclopedia entry about a person, place, or thing relevant to the world; some days it'll be a new chapter from a novel deeply exploring the ins and outs of the world; and on others it'll be a new short story that relates to something happening in The Torn God.

We'll be releasing one short story every week. Our first three are written, edited, and ready to go:

"No Matter How You Hide Her..." by Alana Joli Abbott describes the local reaction to the appearance of The Torn God's and The Unmade Man's Boruin, Wraethe, and Pile just before the historic confrontation that sets them on their journey.

"Shadevengen" by Mark Adams introduces readers to the Black Queen and an ancient order of Royal Shadows dedicated to the protection of the Imperial family.

"The Black Queen" by Scott Colby (yours truly) expands upon the story of the Black Queen and offers a glimpse at politics in Deos following the death of Emperor Pileaus.

I've got to say, I'm damn proud to be three weeks ahead of the game already. Holes in the early schedule are quickly becoming few and far between. If all works out as planned, we'll soon be an entire two months ahead on short fiction!

Many thanks to all of our hardworking authors. 2009 should be a great year for Baeg Tobar!

Short Story Sneak Peek

Here's an excerpt from "Gaius's Tale" by Jeff Limke, a story about what happens to those who cross Emperor Pileaus:

Gaius gripped his stone axe, keeping his knees bent and his back to the wall of the hut as he waited for the command to pounce. He could see his father in the shadows a building away, armed identically. Gaius tried to slow his breathing, but it moved in and out like a winded sprinter’s. His heart pounded so hard he felt it in his head.

Having wiped his clammy palms on his jerkin, Gaius re-gripped his axe. It was deathly sharp but brittle. The weight would compensate if the blade blunted. He had never swung it at a person, but he had killed enough wild deer and feral dogs to know what it could do.

Footsteps skritched the pebbled ground louder with each moment. Gaius’ knuckles whitened on the axe handle. He held his breath. They would not take him easily.

He heard the voice clearly. “Hold!”

Gaius pivoted on one foot. Arms extended, he let the weight of the axe carry his momentum. The blade bit. Blood spattered. Before him, a wide-mouthed soldier screamed.

The soldier fell, still screaming. Armor plates had protected his biceps, but only leather covered his elbow. Gaius pulled the axe free. Half of its edge glistened with blood, the other half clean but chipped. The soldier clutched his spurting wound as two others stepped over him, spears forward.

“I’ve killed him,” Gaius whispered. Ringing filled his ears. Colors faded. He felt weak. The world began to spin. He dropped to his knees and puked. Finally looking up, he found himself face-to-face with a spear point.

“No, he’s just a boy!” His father thrust himself at the spear holder, knocking him aside. “This is his first time with a weapon.” More villagers moved in around Gaius.
Soldiers ran forward, barking orders at the villagers to move or die.

No one moved. Eyes locked on eyes, weapons remained at ready.

Beyond the soldiers, a sharp command cut the air. “Aside.”

Gaius felt soft arms surround him and he recognized the scent of his mother. “He only wanted to protect us.” Gaius relaxed a bit, feeling safer. The world became more vibrant. His mother gripped him tighter. “Please, leave him to us,” she pleaded.

The soldiers parted to make way for a commander in polished bronze armor. “Take Vitus to the physician. Bring this one.”

Soldiers tore Gaius’s mother away. She said nothing, but her eyes glistened.

Heavy hands jerked Gaius upward. Two soldiers grabbed his wrists and lifted so that he straightened his arms. When they let go, he swung his arms forward, but his elbows stopped hard. A spear pole across his lower back prevented them from moving further. Next they bound his wrists in front. A shove and he marched forward. In the distance he saw a litter carried by eight slaves.

Another shove stopped Gaius. The litter rested perhaps twenty paces away. “Give the emperor your respect,” said the soldier to his left.

Gaius shook his head. Had he heard correctly? The emperor? Here? He buckled as a scabbard slapped the back of his knees.

“That means down, fool.”

Gaius lifted his head, but a cuff to the back of it brought a white flash of pain. He kept his gaze on the ground.

“And this boy, he did what again?” The voice, deep and full, commanded attention.
Gaius fought the temptation to look. His head swam in enough pain already.

"He injured Vitus when we arrived. The physician doesn't know if he can save the arm," said the soldier to Gaius's right.

No one spoke. I’ve attacked a member of the Imperial Guard, Gaius thought. The punishment had to be — no.

“Strap him to the post for the night, but do not flog him yet. I would like to think on this before passing judgment.” The deep voice paused. “In the meantime, bring me any heretics who survived the whipping.”

Gaius pressed his eyes together and grimaced as the guards lifted the spear. When he opened them, the litter had passed.

A Bit of Fiction

Here's a quick snippet of "Shadivengen" by Mark Adams, a peek into the life of Losa, Emperor Pileaus' eldest daughter and top general, and her top bodyguard, the Shadivengen named Calib:

Her vest has been refastened – the only indication that she has moved at all. Calib leads Ayet and his officers, all of who insisted on attending the general, up the hill. Hearing them approach, Losa turns to face the small group of men. She alone notices Calib shift out of view.

“I see you have brought your council,” she says, fixing Ayet with her crystal blue eyes. “Good, this will be educational for all.”

The general nods his head to Losa. “Why have I been summoned?”

Catching everyone by surprise, Losa steps forward and strikes the general across the face. “You will address me as ‘my lady,’” she snaps.

Ayet takes a step back, the force of the slap far less than the sting of shock and humiliation. “As you wish, my lady.” He straightens, rising to his full height. “Now, my lady, for what have I been summoned?”

She looks at him for a long moment, then turns away, again looking out on the valley below. She motions for Ayet to step beside her. A hint of nervousness settles in his eyes as he joins her.

“I have to wonder,” she begins, motioning towards the valley, “just why there is so much activity here.”

Calib, now closer to his charge, sees the look of poorly feigned puzzlement on Ayet’s face. “There was a battle here, my lady. What else would you expect?”

Her eyes flash dangerously. “Do not be dense, Ayet. Why is there activity here?” She again indicates the valley below with her hand.

Ayet clears his throat, his anxiety clearly building. “This area represented a credible threat, Losa.” He points to the far end of the valley, perhaps a mile distant. “The Oran reserves were camped there, awaiting orders to join the front. This was a flanking maneuver.”

She rounds on him, her voice trembling, an iceberg of anger. “Three thousand men, Ayet. Three thousand of my men died here, for no reason!”

“No reason?” he barks back at her. “We destroyed more than twice that many Orani! How can that be ‘no reason?’”

“I gave you a direct order to bring those men to support the shield wall on the north flank! These reserves were nothing but green boys. No threat! Oran would have never brought them up, as supporting the north flank would have routed the Oran army. You wasted these men!”

“You are but a girl, Losa, not even twenty. I have three decades of–” Losa moves so quickly that only Calib sees. In a single motion, she pivots, draws her sword, and strikes Ayet. The blade catches his throat, and his words die in a choking gurgle. Her sword is sheathed before the other men even realize Ayet has been attacked. Ayet’s hands fly to his neck in a vain attempt to check the flow. He stares at Losa blankly as the crimson cravat grows on his white tunic. Slowly, he drops to his knees, then pitches forward onto his face.

“Ayet!” shouts Rogen, his shock quickly turning to fury. He pulls his dagger, his eyes burning. “Die, witch!” He springs forward with reckless abandon.
With speed honed by a lifetime of training for no other purpose, Calib draws his matched set of single-edged swords from across his back and steps between the crazed officer and his ward. Suddenly aware of the Shadivengen, Rogen tries to correct his approach, but too late. One of Calib’s blades hits high, the man’s momentum driving it through his chest. The other hangs at the ready. Watching impassively, Calib holds him upright as the life leaves his eyes. With a tug, he frees his weapon, letting the man collapse over Ayet.

“No one,” he says, watching the others, “touches the Mardente.”

“Enough, Calib,” comes Losa’s voice, surprisingly soft. “It is over. They understand.”

“Aye, my lady,” agrees Higalen. His throat is tight. “We are yours.”

Mark has done a great job creating the Shadivengen mythos and working it into our plans for the world. Can't wait to see even more!