17597-- Bloody Ala

Hurry, scurry!  Get to bed!

Bloody Ala wants your head!

Tuck in the covers;

Quick, hide your neck!

Cover your heart,

Then, be still...

Silence hides you from white fang's flash.

Swiftness protects against steel's cold slash.

Hurry, scurry!  Do what you must!

Your veins she seeks for her only lust.

-- bedtime tales of Clan Isharien

"Child of Fire and Blood"

17157--SNICKER SNACK!

Through fire is the will of the maker enforced, shaping the metal into a blade of dangerous intent.  Rhythmic hammer blows may be accompanied by chant or incantation or blessing to infuse the newly crafted weapon with specific magic or other supernatural purpose, especially if hands beyond those of mortals are involved.  Air is breathed into the forge, fueling the flame and infusing the weapon with spirit.

And make no mistake, it is a weapon.  Call it nothing less.  It is no mere tool, brought into being for myriad function and adapted to combat.  The sword is a weapon, decisive and fearsome, edged for cutting and pointed for stabbing.  It is the one and only thing it was created to be.  The metal of the blade is chosen for its strength so that it may easily destroy tender, yielding flesh.  For thousands of years, man has been resigned to fighting his own kind.

Water is introduced to the fusion of elements, tempering the blade against stress with the fluid's cooling stability.  In its own ways, water is as mystical as fire and it is a special strength it shares with the sword.

Feared or hated by goblin, demon, shade and beast, whether supernatural or mundane, spawn of the dark or the light, none crave the blade's keen bite.  Inscribed with arcane symbols, imbued with the spirit of its wielder or ornamented with rarest gems, magic will only make the weapon more formidable.  In fact, the most ready counter to any sword, enchanted or otherwise, seems ever to be another sword.

Was your weapon custom-made or forged by means beyond mortal ken, perhaps an immortal's gift from another realm, fat with the weight of its destiny.  Draw forth your terrible blade, polish it bright and let others cringe before its shining menace and feel its awesome power.

Off the top of my head, of the many exotic personal weapons appearing in character hands throughout CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD, more than half of them are enchanted swords.  Face it, they're tough to get away from.  Do you have a favorite sword, magic or not, that holds a special place in your psyche?

17152--Should You Choose to Accept It

The time is here.  So I'm calling upon you.  Why?  Because you love to read.  Coincidentally, I've been writing.  You're smart, so I know you're getting this.

I've been posting chapters on this site for a while and now the book they're from is ready for you.  The series is THEOBROMA and the first book CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD.  It's an epic fantasy/sci-fi adventure.  Because of its length, it's going to be released in four parts.  Part One is 406 pages/80,000+ words.  Part Two is about 550 pages/107,000+ words.  The first is what's available to you now, PART ONE: A RISING STORM.  Since you've been enjoying it so much, I'm giving you the opportunity to get your hands on it from the source before the release goes live.

Sure, you can go through Amazon if you like.  Don't think I won't appreciate it.  Buy copies for everyone you know and tell them to do the same.  Magic, dragons, swordplay, immortals and super science await.  Conspiracies, lost cities and sprawling warfare will ensnare with their intrigues.

Here's the thing, though, at Amazon a copy will cost you cash.  From me, you guessed it, you're trading for a review.  Put it on Goodreads, Amazon, tell your Facebook friends, put it on a blog of your own...hmmmm....I suppose I could do with a copy, too.  I really would like the feedback, good or bad.  I'm just asking for a review.  What you write is up to you.

I had a calculus professor who worked like that back in college.  Granted, at his best he was a self-important *ahem*, but he maintained that he didn't care if we turned in a sheet of paper with a chapter from "Moby Dick" on it for our homework as long as it had the student's name at the top.  He said he had only been tested on it by one student.  Instead of differential equations, he got "Call me Ishmael."  He gave the student credit for doing his homework.  And people dare question the sincerity of our educators.  Granted, I did have occasion to prove that he didn't pay attention to a lot of things he said in class, but that's another story.

I promise you it'll be easier to handle than either calculus or anything Melville ever put to paper.

Now, if we're going to do this, I'll need your email address.  Contact me with a reply here and I can set you up with a PDF.  At the end of October, some call it Halloween, I'll have a drawing from the names of those who've done reviews.  That's right, do your homework and you may win a prize.  It's worth it to me because, like most authors, I'd like to get some reviews posted about my book.  Sorry for stating the obvious.

Right now, I'm thinking two winners with a choice of an autographed copy of Part One or a free copy of Part Two.  Winners get to choose.  Victory has its privileges.

When sales go well, though, I'll work up something more grand for the release of Part Two.  As always, your support is appreciated.  Thanks.

17129--Pursuit of Happiness? Priceless.

Can you make change for me? 
This isn't a philosophical question or an enlightened social challenge.  I'm talking economics, specifically monetary trade.  I've heard that Alban is about to replace all the gold and silver crowns in circulation with a fresh mint issue of gold and silver imperials.  I don't want to get stuck with the old ones because they're about to be outlawed, but I'm concerned his Highness is going to short the new coins on their precious metal content.  It's most likely that the Fourth Tribe is going to handle the actual administration of the exchange for the Crimson Throne and it's always a good idea to keep an eye on that bunch of sneaky bankers.  You didn't hear that from me, though.

Personally, I think the gold and silver royals from Tazhir are a far more ornately crafted collection of coins.  The Sapphire Throne has also been pretty trustworthy regarding the quality of their money.  They're very proud of their coins, but it's no wonder if you see them.  Queen Valinae is quite the beauty and the engravers got the likenesses spot on.  They're not as widely or commonly used as the coins from Alban and Zadiasam, but probably because they haven't circulated as many.  Alban has a much larger population and an unrivaled wealth of precious gems to bolster their economy and trade.  I'm fairly certain that whichever nation can get their coin to take popular hold among the independent city-states of Bentrci will earn considerable influence on the global economy of Tarakk.  It's just a theory, if you care about such things.

The different nations keeping their coins distinct helps with exchanges.  Tazhir uses octagonal discs.  Albani crowns are hexagonal, but the rumors about the imperials that are going to replace them Is that they're round.  Brilliant, huh?  Who wants to have to chase coins when you drop them and they're rolling away?  Nobody, that's who.  His Majesty didn't ask for opinions, though.  They're his coins, after all.  That's right, they're going to have his face on them.  They're making me take an interest in Zadiasam's coins.  No faces, just words and numbers etched into silver or electrum.  They're rectangular.  Those practical little blocks aren't rolling anywhere.  I guess one should expect nothing less from people so in love with their sciences.

Long before pondering these particular monetary and economic concerns, it occurred to me that the United Federation of Planets had really gotten their act together.  Yes, the Star Trek gang.  I know that most of what we see of the Federation is through military eyes (for those of you who hadn't made the connection, Starfleet is military even though they stress exploration), and I've often wondered what their designers must have against pockets, but they certainly don't have money problems.

Now, Kirk has said that they don't have money, though there has been reference made to credits.  Picard has pontificated that the pursuit of material things doesn't consume their minds.  Some have called them communist.  Technically, Earth and probably much of the UFP is socialist.  There is governmental structure (which communism would lack) and the means of production and industry are chiefly under control of that structure.  Why don't the people seem to mind chafing under such a system?  Well, the people of the UFP enjoy a great deal of freedom and abundance.  How is this possible?  The Federation has grown beyond our meager constraints and achieved the capacity to create more energy than the people need for anything they conceive of doing.  Coupled with that is also the technology to employ that energy in the creation of virtually anything an individual needs or wants.  With all that taken care of, the Pursuit of Happiness is all that remains and people seem to be encouraged to find that bliss.  With a sweet setup like that, who gives a damn about the accumulation of wealth besides people who want to master their Scrooge McDuck swimming techniques or collect antique pieces of culture?  There's certainly no need for taxation and no need for money concerns at all unless you want to trade with someone who has something you want that can't be replicated.

There's just no pleasing some people.

Well, thus begins the writing.  What macguffin are you after?  Who has it and what's it going to take to get it?  Good luck on your bestseller.

17078--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 2)

The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal. Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.
 

CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD

TWO

Deep within the Sun Islands archipelago, a group of ten light combat ships cleaved the cool waters as the first fingers of dawn began to reach over the eastern horizon. With tactical maneuvers coordinated by their command ship, the Albani expeditionary force closed in on Varga, hidden stronghold of the eastern pirate lords. From Varga, the seafaring traffic of more than a score of nations had been prey to the unpredictable methods the outlaws had developed across nearly two centuries of widespread activity.

The pirates of Tarakk had grown from operating in small groups looting small civilian vessels for whatever random valuables they had aboard, to acting as ordered fleets of small, swift attack boats under an organized command structure. The pirate fleets had become capable of harassing, boarding and capturing non-military vessels of any size.

The uncivilized men and women who had dedicated themselves to lives of crime on the open ocean gradually became technologically obsessed to the point of modifying their bodies with cybernetic additions and mechanical prosthetics to achieve greater efficiency in their endeavors. Their observed process was believed to involve holding captive vessels, their passengers and materials for sale, use or ransom. Profits were largely believed to fund continued operations and illicit surgeries.

The Albani military action, converging ships on Varga, was the latest and most significant tactical maneuver against the pirate forces in the last two decades. Years of undermining the fearsome reputations the cyborg pirates had established was seen by most as owing to the driving efforts of one man. It was at his command that missiles carrying payloads of irritant gas were unleashed upon Varga’s interior.

Though the gas-laden missiles appeared to be the first stage of the Albani surprise attack, it was actually the second. Before the sun’s first light, the expeditionary force’s command ship had engaged what the crew had come to call the Voice of Doom, a low frequency sound resonator that induced powerful disorientation and nausea in its targets. As a result, the pirate community’s response to the gas attack was minor.

The pirates of Varga woke to bursting gas bombs and stumbled toward their haven’s sheltered harbor. At the docks, their light attack craft, each capable of carrying twelve to twenty action-ready raiders, were blockaded by military vessels up to five times their size. Even with many of their attack craft captured over the past month, the scores that remained might still use their superior aquatic agility to threaten the military force.

Squads of riflemen and infantry in powered armor leaped over the side of the Albani frigate Hammer of Justice to pour across the decks of the pirate skiffs Hell’s Rage, The Scream of Demons and Goddess of War. Ready for action, the soldiers took up position on the boats and established a firing line on the dock. The pirates who had managed to gather at the docks, a majority of them still queasy and shaking, held fast to their swords and guns as they cybernetically selected combat targets through sonic and thermal imaging devices.

“Soldiers,” a somber officer with a dragon skull helmet cloaked in gray, called out from Hammer of Justice’s deck, “stand ready.”

“You’ve come to talk then?” one of the pirates called out.

“You are among the leadership of this rabble?” the bearded officer responded, spreading his cloak enough to display his ornate dark armor.

“Vopho Varin Sala,” the brown-haired man said, standing tall within his armored coat, his cybernetic eye glowing green. “Rorian Broadax to my left. You must be the Lost Prince.”

Within the beard, beneath the dragon skull helmet, there was a smile. The veteran commander tightened his grip on his long, bladed lance and lifted it skyward. Lightning flashed above him, rolling thunder behind it. As eyes turned to the clouds, the dirigible command ship Destiny appeared, moving slowly groundward. Descending faster than the larger craft, a hover platform approached the standoff bearing a white-haired man in black and gold armor flanked by two soldiers. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, flowing in the breeze as they flew.

“Pirates of Varga,” the white-haired man called out, his voice magically amplified to awe-inspiring resonance, “you stand before the Army of Light, prepared to dominate any resistance on this island. For numerous counts of violating international law, Alban’s Army of Light has come to bring you all to justice. The control codes on your boats have been overridden and their systems temporarily disabled. We have no wish to harm you. You are advised to surrender.”

The hover platform set down behind the Albani firing line almost silently. With absolute confidence, the commanding noble walked forward. His soldiers parted, allowing him to pass as the pirate leader also came forth to meet him.

“You’re the one they call the Lost Prince?” the pirate asked.

“Lar Kwa, prince of Alban,” he said, “leader of the Army of Light. You lead these people?”

“Vopho Varin Sala and my brother, Rorian Broadax,” the pirate replied, “last pirate lords of the eastern faction and commanders of Varga.”

“Then you are authorized to present the surrender of your people and transfer control of Varga without challenge?” Lar Kwa asked.

“We are,” Sala confirmed, looking about at his own people and the military standing against them. “The day is early yet, though. We’ve gone to the trouble of warming up our hardware, so we would not be averse to some killing before breakfast.”

“I do offer terms,” the prince said, “if you are of a mind to hear them.”

“What do you have to offer that we should not fight to take?” Broadax asked, his gleaming bionic arms brandishing a heavy combat axe menacingly.

“Redemption. To that end, your people will have safe passage under the royal authority of Alban,” Lar Kwa said, the fist beneath his cloak grasping the pommel of his blade as a faint golden halo enveloped him, “If your honor code demands, as lords of this land, nobility dictates that I may offer you a duel. I will try my best to leave at least one of you unharmed and then we can be on our way.”

Vopho Varin Sala seemed to consider the prince’s offer, perhaps even silently communicating with his brother through their matching artificial eyes. Even without the passing nausea as a factor, something overwhelming in the prince’s winning smile and gleaming eyes drained from them the urge to fight. As they looked back to Lar Kwa, Sala and Broadax seemed almost entranced by his presence. Then, trembling, they each fell to their knees. Taking the prince’s gloved hand, the pirate lords gently bowed their foreheads to the royal presence. Following the example of their leaders, the assemblage of pirates down to every last man, woman and child quietly sank to their knees and bowed their heads.

“And at once, you recognize the divine power you face,” Lar Kwa said, “reaching into your core.”

“Tales of you and your mighty army have spread far, my great lord,” the pirate leader said. “It is you alone, though, to whom we attribute the losses we have suffered for over a decade in many battles. We have often discussed the coming of this storm and choose not to oppose you now.”

“You honor me,” the prince said with a cautious smile. “Perhaps our great gods will yet show you their mercy.”

“If it is your will,” Sala said. “We’ll all do our best in your service to earn that mercy.”

“Perhaps we can duel later,” Lar Kwa laughed, “to entertain our people and the cameras.”

“As your highness wishes,” Sala said humbly.

“As all of these people are yielding to the authority of the Crimson Throne and the power of Alban,” Lar Kwa said, employing his amplified voice again and holding his golden sword overhead to make a sweeping gesture, “I know they will begin happily earning our favor by joining my Army of Light in freeing any captives still held here. Once we have finished here, we will begin our journey home to Alban.”

“Master?” General Karra queried from the deck of the ship, marking the only time anyone gathered could note hearing uncertainty in the stalwart veteran’s voice. “Is it time already?”

“Absolutely, old friend,” Prince Lar Kwa said. “Those who sit above have shown me that Alban has dire need of us, so we must return with all haste. Land the troops. Varga must be made secure and then our homeland must be saved from the horrors that beset the people even now. We have prepared for years to face this and now the Lost Prince will go home. It will be our greatest challenge yet, though only the first of many should we succeed.”

“Yes, my lord,” the general responded, bowing sharply before he withdrew.

Releasing the unseen grip on his weapon, Lar Kwa activated a radio in his collar and called, “Arcane, is Destiny ready to travel?”

“The command ship is fully prepared, lord,” came the atonal reply from his most efficient servant. “Is there anything else to which you need me to attend?”

“Move the remainder of the fleet,” the prince commanded, looking up at the hovering dirigible. “Any that still have available space for transport, send here. Have the rest wait to the southwest of the islands where we can meet them for the journey back to Alban.”

“Affirmative,” Arcane replied. “Movements will begin at once.”

“Excellent,” the prince said. “I already know the perfect room for you to set-up in when we reach the palace. We have a lot of work ahead of us if we are indeed to change the world.”  

17049--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 5)

The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal. Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.

   

CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD

FIVE

Alone, King Tural ascended the hidden stairway that carried him from the den behind the throne dais up to a stone wall inscribed with ancient sigils. Putting thoughts of the festivities behind him, he raised a unique obsidian dagger and steeled himself before slicing open his left palm. Taking a final step forward, the monarch pressed his hand to the wall, moving it from one arcane symbol to the next. He solemnly recited each symbol’s name as he anointed it with his blood. Then, with the ninth, the wall faded and vanished.

Before the king, the Celestial Temple and the Circle of Nine stood revealed. King Tural felt a fluttering in his belly as he stepped into the presence of the wizard-priests. He noted that the air was cooler than he expected, then noticed the precipitation of tiny hailstones falling from one of the glowing clouds wafting across the room. Each hailstone burst as it tapped to the stone floor, exploding in a spray of colored light. Setting his awe of the temple aside, the monarch realized the magic users were oblivious to his arrival.

“I bring you salutations of the Crimson Throne,” King Tural said, looking about for any sign of acknowledgement. “Your regular Speaker, Chief Minister Araka, has died as a result of illness. A new Speaker has yet to be chosen, but we must converse. By the Blood Rite of Malechis, I bid you hear me.

“Tshan’casai, long-thought dormant and locked away, is loose in the world,” Tural explained. “It is in the hands of my son and I feel that he is in the thrall of its powers. You know the sword’s potential for danger is beyond measure. You must tell me some way in which it can be stopped. I am a warrior and king, but I am also a father and I do not wish to seek Lar Kwa’s end. Tell me there is some way to save us all from--”

“You demand much of minds so strained as theirs,” a familiar voice greeted the king from the doorway to his rear. “That is the way of a ruler, I suppose, always insistent upon having things work just the way you want them to. You have always sought to rule with the strength of your fathers.”

The troubled ruler faced his polished prince as he glided into the chamber with a comfortable pride. King Tural saw the persuasiveness of the charismatic image that draped his son as elegantly as the black silk cloak hanging from his shoulders. His shining gray eyes and practiced smile were crowned by neatly trimmed golden locks. The king was nearly entranced by the radiant confidence and winning beauty he projected. He struggled to resist the magic’s cloying influence, fighting to perceive his son beneath his persuasive aura.

“You know nothing of either the strength or the sacrifice,” Tural snarled, “needed to maintain crown, throne and kingdom.”

“My strength has come to me,” Lar Kwa said, stepping forward, “through other struggles beyond your experience.”

“What are you doing?” the monarch asked of his son as he entered. “You do not belong in this sacred space.”

“Belong? Of course, I belong,” Lar Kwa insisted, his unyielding smile clearly disturbing to his father. “You would know better if you could only hear the call as I do. I know, father, how loathsome you find the burden of sharing with me, but I won’t begrudge you that. I’m sure it comes from your warrior’s heart, so determined never to surrender anything.”

“You have drawn a bloody red line in the snow,” Tural said, his ire building, “and it is a challenge that will not go unmet.”

“Ultimately, you are a wise man. You will come to see that this is what must be. I am the divine instrument of inevitable change.”

“I will not allow you to have this kingdom,” Tural told his son. “You have fallen under an unnatural influence.”

“Certainly, father,” the younger man said. “I have opened myself to its glory. When I told you I could hear the call, what did you think I meant?”

“That you were losing your mind, of course,” King Tural replied.

“You have more of a sense of humor than I remembered, father,” Lar Kwa said. “You have grown weary, though, from your valiant struggles against the crises that have beset these lands. Like a pilot too long at the ship’s helm in a raging storm, it is your time to rest and let another see us to safe harbor. I am home now.”

“You are toying with forces beyond your understanding. I have entered this temple, come into the presence of the Nine, that I might seek their counsel. Your entry here--”

“Dear father,” Lar Kwa chuckled, “if you do get these ancient treasures to speak, I imagine I shall have a far better understanding of their words than you. There are things that happen to one’s mind when expanded by magic’s touch…” the prince said, tapping a finger to his own temple.

“Yes, the maddening that affects the human mind is well known,” King Tural said. “Relinquish that weapon and leave this temple. Tshan’casai gathers more magical power into itself than mortal hands should ever know. It will consume you and twist all the works you would achieve into ruin.”

“Those who would name this sublime beauty madness,” Lar Kwa said, drawing the golden, chisel-tip long sword, “are unable to comprehend what is seen beyond the shadows when others dare open themselves to realms beyond mundane experience. I understand so much more than ever before and have come to commune with the Nine, not in fear but to join with them in changing this world for the better. Their magics and mine will unite and you will see the beginning of a new age.”

With casual swiftness, the prince raised the golden two-handed sword overhead. The thick blade moved with near-weightless ease as Lar Kwa held it aloft and felt himself buoyed by the rush of its power. Beyond the brilliance of its golden, mirror-finish, the sword began to shine, bathing the gathered men in its dazzling light.

“Tshan’casai,” King Tural whispered, recoiling as he shielded his eyes.

“You see, remnants of your past are not to be carelessly discarded,” Lar Kwa said. “Observe.”

Without even a gesture, the wizard-priests began to move toward the prince, shuffling forward as though sleepwalking.

“See how they flock to me, father,” Lar Kwa said. “Thus will the masses of Alban gather. Those who embrace wisdom will pray to me and the salvation I offer. They will have the curse of plague lifted from them. My light will--”

“They are not all ill,” Tural reminded him. “Those loyal to the crown--”

“Will still be weak from hunger,” Lar Kwa said, his voice changing to one Tural did not recognize, powerful and daunting. “They will be weak and afraid, some may even hate you for it. Those souls, too, will I then claim, wherever the golden light finds purchase. You denied this power out of fear, deafened yourself to the sword’s call.”

“It lures you to destruction!” Tural lashed out, the back of his hand finding the prince’s cheek with a reflex that rekindled memories thought buried. “I command you to quit this path of folly!”

“I yield to it. It shares its power with me,” the prince countered, his voice once again his own, “parenting me in ways you never could. The embrace must not be denied. Your time is done and you must withdraw now, father. It is I who will lead us into the light. It is I who will guide us to the future that awaits.”

Almost involuntarily, Tural found himself awash in a strange calm as he backed toward the door of the Celestial Temple. Lar Kwa’s aura grew brighter, the light hurting Tural’s eyes. As he drew near the doorway, a line of hooded, robed men filed in past the king. Two of them carried a litter with a large golden orb supported between them.

“Who? What?” the baffled king wondered aloud.

Through the intense glow, Tural could see the newly arriving men gathering about Lar Kwa with the wizards of the Nine. In his confusion, he felt a strange tremor in his chest as the men of magic began to chant in a hypnotic rhythm.

Tural saw Lar Kwa raise his free hand as the chanting degenerated to a swirling soup of words in his mind. As the king felt his stomach and head attempting to trade places, he realized that he should have heeded his son’s urging to withdraw. Golden light obscured his vision. His ears were flooded with a chorus of voices, first from the Nine, then by additional tones that he both knew and did not know but all bringing him an unexpected level of peace. The voices chattered at him all at once, confusing him more and more as he tried to make any sense of them. How long his sensory miasma continued, he could not tell, but one voice finally broke through his fog and overpowered the din of all the others.

RUN! came the sharply intelligible intonation.

“Relinquish your burdens to me, father. I will take your mantle upon my shoulders and carry us forward in ways you could not,” Lar Kwa said. “I feel your uncertainty, but the embrace of the light will burn it all away and you will thank me later for this gift. Cry to the world that the gods bring a new day from above!”

King Tural’s gold silk cloak fell from his shoulders as he ran from the Celestial Temple. In confusion, he stumbled down the hidden stairs. Panic and adrenaline drove his pounding heart. His mind clouded, he could barely think, acting primarily on instinct.

Lar Kwa stood on the ring of onyx and gold as he looked down upon the assemblage gathered in the throne room. His eyes searched the edges of the crowd, making sure that his photojournalist Mischa had recorders trained upon him as he had ordered. With his father’s golden cloak replacing his own black one, the prince held an open hand out to the people below.

“Hear me, Alban! Plague has ravaged our people,” Lar Kwa called out, drawing the attention of the full assemblage at once, “defying medicine, magic and science, with utter disregard for quarantine or contact, geography, age or status. Fear has taken hold of hearts and minds, but no longer. Join with me and be free!”

He tightened his grip on Tshan’casai and thrust it overhead. The polished golden blade gleamed in the Celestial Temple’s unnatural light, adding to the magical glow that surrounded it. Much of the crowd gasped at the sight of the legendary weapon being openly brandished for the first time in decades. Most had never before seen Tshan’casai, having heard its name whispered only as legend. Hushed murmurs raced through the crowd.

With the ancient blade in hand, Lar Kwa stood above his people as a giant. In that transcendent moment, the shining prince held a pose that ignited memories of Mighty King Mokwa, taught to every Albani school child as the founder of the empire to which their proud nation once belonged. The surreal image reminiscent of the Father of Alban looking down upon them stirred hearts beyond reason, pushing an emotional swell of reverence through the crowd.

Many, including King Tural, could do nothing more than fall silent. Still regaining his senses, Tural was certain that he felt his heart skip a beat as a bizarre chill clawed at it fiercely. The monarch felt an unwelcome desperation as he took the hand of his queen and quickly led her away from the dais of the Crimson Throne.

“During my long journeys, I have awakened to the truth of my power! As I have returned to you with feasts in the face of famine,” Lar Kwa continued, “so too do I bring you the power to break the deadly grip of this plague! If your faith is strong, through me, the dawn shall see our people restored! Through the sword of my fathers, we shall be free of foreign oppression! No longer will we tolerate attempts to starve and control us! With the light of truth, we will drive them back to their homeland!”

The sword glowed like a sunbeam in his hand and Lar Kwa willed a shaft of golden light to shoot upward from Tshan’casai and through the faceted crystalline dome that topped the Celestial Temple. Almost instantly, black storm clouds gathered, swirling ominously about the golden beacon. Lightning flashed repeatedly above the palace, bringing the roar of thunder chasing the blinding bolts. More gasps and tense mumblings were drowned out by the building storm, but a chaotic shift of moods clearly swept the room.

“Blessings of the divine have showered upon me! Add me to your evening prayers this joyous Father’s Day,” Lar Kwa commanded, “for I come before you as the herald of ancient gods! Here will my hand draw down their matchless power! Pledge yourselves to our cause that your faith will see our people made whole! First Alban will heal and then march into the future, renewed! Follow me and our enemies will be swept before our might! The raging storm will warn all Tarakk to let none stand against us!”

A validating surge of applause swept the gala as the assembled guests felt themselves overwhelmed with irresistible emotion. For the first time in weeks, the Charis’colia had been given something more to sustain them than vague hope. His display of power and his confident promise brought Prince Lar Kwa the adulation he had longed for and, at that moment, the assurance that he was done with exile. His magical radiance buoyed his spirit as it shone down on the thousand eyes Lar Kwa felt upon him. He was unable to repress the laughter bubbling from within as he bathed the palace guests in his dazzling light. Spiraling ceaselessly, the storm began to warp around an increasingly calm eye centered upon Crown City even as its fury continued to build both beyond the city’s walls and in Lar Kwa’s soul.

 

16908--Child of Fire and Blood (Ch. 3)

The trouble starts over on the Theobroma page. I've decided to continue it out here with a few chapters for your perusal.  Enjoy a taste of Tarakk prior to indulging in the whole novel. Feedback or questions on the world, its people, their gods or whatever are equally welcome.

CHILD OF FIRE AND BLOOD 

THREE

As tall as the king’s arm and half as wide, the polished oval moonstone was mounted on its wall in the palace’s master suite less than a month after the royal wedding. Enchanted specifically for the royal couple, the shimmering blue-gray gem was capable of showing them the images they most wished to see. There were times, though, surrounding certain subjects, when it did not.

No matter how many times King Tural looked into the moonstone and no matter how fiercely he focused on the desire of his heart, the images remained the same. Over and over, stone’s magic showed a lean figure, cloaked in flowing black over a light armor. The snow-haired man crouched beside a trio of trembling children, wan from malnutrition. Conversely, the man was all but radiant with compassion and nobility as he tenderly touched the face of each child. Then, as they all smiled at each other, he directed his men to give the hungry peasants rations of food. Sending the children on their way, the slender man stood and the widening image showed more rations being distributed to grateful masses before fading into a luminous haze.

The monarch growled and lunged at the huge moonstone.

“Beloved, please,” Queen Kalaa entreated her liege, “do spare the gem your rage. It was a gift from my family, remember.”

“It refuses to show me what I wish to see,” Tural argued.

“You want to see what our son is doing,” the queen said. “It is showing you.”

“No, he has done something,” Tural insisted. “I want to see what he is doing because, now that he has returned after years at sea, he delays meeting with us. This is part of his evasion, the stone showing only what he wants seen, over and over. I am sure of it. These are the same sort of images he sent from overseas.”

“These have snow, beloved,” Kalaa said from across the receiving room. “Those are our people.”

“Yes, obviously,” the king agreed, “but he continues to use the same style of images now that he has influenced his way back into Alban. They are the same people each time, though. He has powerful magics in his employ, ensuring that the gem is blocked from anything current and shows only what he would have seen.”

“Magic would indeed be required to do as you say, my king,” she said. “That is, however, one thing for which he never showed ability.”

“I know,” King Tural told her. “That is what troubles me. He dabbles in it to gain control over others, but magic will control him far more readily than he will ever control it. People may respond to him the way he wishes, but you have seen as well as I how severely he has aged. Every feeling within me carries but one warning.”

“You believe he has the sword,” she said.

“To achieve all he has, I do,” he said softly, the color draining from his aged face. “Somehow, he was able to liberate it from its hidden vault.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, his face tensing as he focused his gaze once more on the moonstone. Silent for several seconds, he turned his back on the gem and began pacing about the receiving room.

“How long? How long? How long?” King Tural fretted as he paced. “How long has it had to influence him? What will this mean for the Crimson Throne?”

“Tural, please,” Queen Kalaa implored her agitated husband once more as he stormed about their elegant suite. “You must calm your mind. You’ll be no good to anyone by obsessing in this manner. Alban needs its king, now more than ever before. Remember your warrior’s mind.”

She followed him with her eyes and subtle shifts of her head, struggling to be both rigid and relaxed as a trio of dressers worked to fit their queen’s opulent new gown. Having served the royal family since childhood, the skillful women were sworn to both silence and secrecy. They also knew that even a minor violation of trust, spreading some rumor overheard behind palace doors, would result in no less than half their guild being rendered deaf and the other half being banished to the deadly embrace of Alban’s near-perpetual snowstorms. In three generations, there had never been a breach of their vows.

“We did not see. How could we have been so blind?” the king continued passionately. “We must face that he was able to hide the sword’s theft for twenty years. Certainly, he has hidden the truth of himself from us for longer still. Who knows how much we have yet to learn.”

“He was ever a secretive child, my king,” the queen reminded him, “even deceptive. We had that reality thrust upon us in no subtle fashion and we have had more than enough time to manage the consequences. With it hidden here in the palace for so many decades and then for him to take it with him when he left, he has possibly been under the sword’s influence his entire life.”

“It accounts for much,” he replied. “We have come late to this conflict.”

“When his evils were revealed, we chose to send him away from Alban,” she said. “We did what we could. What other choice did we have?”

“We had other options,” he said. “What we chose was expedient and…tolerable and perhaps even too civilized.”

“You would have preferred…?”

“Whether he found that damned sword or it found him, it has to have changed him,” Tural insisted. “Unfortunately, while distance protected this house for a time, it also enabled our son to deceive us with what our hearts longed to see and so we sought nothing else. He showed us a man grown into peace and compassion, charity and maturity. It seems now that it was a very convincing set of lies designed to manipulate any who might see it.”

“You’re seething again, beloved. I would normally encourage you to vent your frustrations, but we need to determine how to separate him from the sword of your fathers…and sooner rather than later, I would think,” Kalaa reminded him.

“My greatest ire may come in knowing that I have aided him,” Tural told his queen, “by wanting to believe that he had risen above the indiscretions of his youth, but--”

“Indiscretions?” Queen Kalaa scoffed. “As long as my king is being so diplomatic, do tell us what he thinks of this dress.”

Despite the façade of his resplendent garb, the agitated monarch’s weariness showed plainly. The king released a heavy sigh.

“Keep in mind,” she added, “it is unique and terribly expensive.”

“Oh. It looks beautiful on you, of course, beloved.”

The queen snapped her fingers at a valet who stood in a corner beside a serving cart stocked with both locally distilled and imported northern liquors. The valet reached for a pale northern wine, but she waved him away from it with a frown and a waggling finger, guiding him instead to a domestic vitarae.

“Our son was, at best, troubled to begin with. He never displayed the discipline or strength suited to either arcane craft or the leadership of Alban’s warrior people,” the queen said as she was brought a chilled glass of vitarae. “By now, based upon the tales you have told me, there’s no telling what manner of son the sword has returned to us.”

“That damned sword has been a blight upon the royal house,” King Tural lamented. “When will it have done enough damage to this family and everyone it touches?”

“When we find a way to rid the world of it, one supposes,” the queen said, swirling her glass to listen to the ice clink as it tumbled against the heavy crystal.

“If we can,” King Tural said. “It was forged by my family generations ago. Deepest knowledge of its powers died with my great grand uncle, who left no heir.”

“Perhaps consigning us all to icy damnation, if true,” she said. “Jarkadin, where is the princess?”

“Mistress was last seen in her chambers, majesty,” the aged manservant reported as he quickly appeared from the next room, “though she has likely repaired to her horror *ahem* hobby room.”

“Of course. Extend our invitation that she join us in a bottle of vitarae, Jarkadin,” Queen Kalaa instructed him politely. “Oh, and we will need another bottle of vitarae.”

“Yes, of course, majesty,” he said, the frail figure bowing deeply before turning to fulfill his queen’s wishes. “I shall send for the staff’s swiftest steward. It will be here in minutes.”

“There is little reason for either of us to drink alone when separated by just a few hundred feet,” Queen Kalaa told her husband. “Maybe I should have gone to her, instead.”

“A mother would,” King Tural responded, “but queens, even as mothers, have others come to them. You did exactly the right thing, of course, my dear. Good form.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said with a soft smile. “If only we might reach out to our son so easily.”

“Is that not a part of the dilemma, though? We have never been able to reach him,” King Tural admitted. “Have we truly ever even understood him? I fear he was lost to us long ago, long before he…he…” The monarch hung his head as his shoulders drooped and he let out a sigh before weakly mumbling, “I can not even bring myself to say it.”

“You need not. It was burden enough years ago. I, too, would banish it from my thoughts if I were able.”

“The point is a moot one, I fear. I believe we understood him best when we decided to send him into quiet exile,” the king said. “Now, since his return, he has kept himself skillfully occupied, showing himself to the Colia and the people as a returning savior. He basks in their adoration.”

“They have been wallowing in fear and despair, husband. Is there a corner of Alban that has escaped the pains of plague and famine these past weeks? Even Mother Keemu has withheld her bounties. Our son has given the people the first, best hope for a reprieve from Death’s touch their lives have seen, backed with ample food.”

“He brings promises of magic that will succeed where all else has failed,” the king said. “It must be a lie.”

“If it is, they will turn on him,” Queen Kalaa said, “but with their bellies full, his credibility will certainly be strong enough for people to give him a chance to fulfill his promise to dispel the plague.”

“And as our people continue to die from a sickness beyond even the power of the Nine,” King Tural said, “none will be able to oppose him without being branded a villain. Narrowing our options to execution or the mercies of a hastily arranged contract killer.”

“He has timed his return well,” the queen said, pausing to drain her glass. “Do you think the sword can be used to do as he claims? Can he take advantage of our troubles to solidify his standing?”

“That sword can offer much, I know,” King Tural said angrily. “I had no reason to think it before his return, but…perhaps with access to such magic, he could have even created the sickness.”

“But…so many have died…”

“We have to consider no lengths too great for him to attempt,” King Tural said. “Look at how he compelled his way back into this city. Our own once-loyal officers, defying the royal orders of quarantine, have committed treason with the ease of drawing breath and it fails to register with them at all that anything is amiss.”

“I see your point,” Queen Kalaa said. “The youth our son was would have been little match against such an insidious influence.”

“By now, he is likely little more than a puppet whose soul is being fed upon as he delivers even more to its endless appetite. In order to confirm the sword’s location and to fight its power, we will need to gather the strongest magics available. I will go with Araka to the Nine and--”

“Chief Minister Araka fell to the pale pox this morning, husband,” the queen said. “It will take time to replace him.”

“On the very day of Lar Kwa’s return. That can be no coincidence,” Tural insisted. “All this maneuvering must be part of a larger plan.”

“We will deal with it together. If nothing else, my king,” Queen Kalaa said, “married life has seldom approached boredom.”

King Tural forced a slight smile in response.

“With Araka’s demise, we will have to go to the Circle of Nine ourselves,” Kalaa said. “We have to communicate with them somehow.”

“I will go,” the king said, stroking his thick beard. “I have spoken with Araka on the practice before. I may be able to draw on that to get through to them, though it has been many years since I have been in their presence.”

“And it will have to be done with subtlety,” she warned him, “lest it be seen that their position as religious and spiritual figures is having too direct an influence on the Crimson Throne.”

“I will be lucky to communicate with them at all,” he said. “However they may seem, foremost, the Nine are so immersed in magical ways as to be nearly unfathomable, especially in regard to common doings.”

“Is that not why it was originally decided to keep them isolated?” Kalaa asked. “As I understand, anything they have to say is so strange that it can be freely interpreted and used for manipulation.”

“Especially when people are desperate. They will seek signs where there are none,” Tural said.

“I’ve heard that Lar Kwa’s arrival between storm fronts is a sign,” the queen shared, “as is his arrival from the east.”

“And that it was on an odd-numbered day. I do not want the Nine to become a part of such nonsense. They have been used as political tools before,” Tural said. “Thus, their words are kept guarded. I will be careful.”

“At the reception,” the queen said, “we will have to keep a very close eye on Lar Kwa.”

“And any of the Charis’colia he has contacted since his return,” King Tural said. “We need to determine who is still loyal to the Crimson Throne and move against him quickly once we focus the Nine on…any of this. Whether or not we can engage their involvement--”

“Majesties,” Jarkadin probed, bringing another bottle from the palace’s spirit cellar, “should I have brought an additional glass for his highness?”

“And more ice, thank you, Jarkadin,” Princess Treutelaar said softly as the lithe beauty entered behind the valet and approached her parents. “What are we drinking this evening, mother?”

“Jarkadin’s choice, dear,” Queen Kalaa said, watching the stressed and wearied younger version of herself through the sympathy of a mother’s loving eyes.

“Jarkadin?” Treutelaar probed.

“A forty-year-old vitarae, mistress,” their aged manservant reported, “locally produced.”

“Ah, liquid bliss,” Treutelaar said, anticipating the rich flavor. “Your talents never fail us.”

“Shall I pour?” he asked.

“Just leave the bottle,” Queen Kalaa said, dismissing him. “Go attend to final preparations. Let us know when the guests begin to gather so we can make an entrance.”

“Of course, majesty,” Jarkadin said, bowing deeply.

“Daughter, overlooking your choice to forego the beautiful gown I had prepared for you in favor of…what is that you’re wearing?” Queen Kalaa asked.

“A drab, gray, utterly unflattering bodysuit, mother,” the princess replied. “It is far more durable than delicate and you know full well it’s what I normally wear.”

“Holding out hope for the resurgence of your fashion sense, dear child,” the queen said, raising her glass to her lips.

“Of course. Don’t think me too crass in pointing out that commenting on my attire is the very opposite of overlooking it.”

“Certainly not, daughter, we have many drinks ahead,” the queen said, focusing on her daughter’s tightly bound platinum locks, “which will also give us time to discuss suggestions for your hair. The Light of the People must look her best.”

“First,” the princess said, hoisting her glass to Tural, “Happy Father’s Day.”

“Thank you, daughter,” the king said, “though I believe this day will be used to commemorate the deepening of Alban’s desperation more than anything else.”

“On that subject, majesties, I’ve certainly no argument with the drinking, but the only thing I came to discuss,” the princess said, setting down her glass as Jarkadin left them alone in the sprawling suite, “is what we’re doing about the return of your son. Quite frankly, if you’re not ready to have him executed, we all know that I need to leave.” 

16829--But Is It Art?

Derrien walked with his hand squeezing Kyrian’s, their fingers entwined. Derrien had been struggling for weeks to impress her. His latest attempt had them taking an after-dinner stroll through North Park, the largest in the city. The northernmost city in Zadiasam, Bakar enjoyed the cooling effect of the North Sea’s temperate southern breezes. Given the time of evening, they only passed three other people as they made their way past the deliberately placed trees and bushes. At the park’s center, the winding paths led them through lush greenery to open on a large plaza.

“Here it is,” he told her as they came upon the ten-foot-tall marble sculpture, presenting it as though it were a gift. “I still can’t believe you’ve never been here before.”

“No, I really haven’t,” Kyrian assured him. “Stop laughing at me.”

“And you’re sure you’ve lived in Bakar your whole life?” he asked.

“You know how it is,” she said. “It’s one of those sightseeing things. You only go see it if you’re a tourist.”

“Well, yeah, for some things,” he agreed, “but this is art and one of the landmarks the city’s famous for. I mean, if nothing else, Bakar‘s famous for its art. We have more renowned museums than even down in Azirta, the glorious capital city.”

“I get it,” she said. “Some people come from the far ends of Tarakk for things like this and I‘ve only ever seen it in pictures before. It looks like a couple of blobs…hugging.”

“They’re the lovers, silly,” he said, laughing again. “The whole thing’s sculpted from a single block of marble.”

“It‘s more red in person than I would’ve thought. I‘ve never seen red marble before. It really makes the curves stand out. Lovers‘ Rock in Lovers‘ Plaza…”

“Yeah, but you know that’s just what it’s called,” he said. “That’s not its real name.”

“This isn’t Lovers’ Plaza?” she asked as they walked around the towering red and black marble.

“No, it’s Lover’s Plaza,” he said. “It’s not the Lovers’ Rock.”

“So the whole country, everyone in Zadiasam, and all around Tarakk, calls it by the wrong name. Alright, so what’s its name?” she asked.

He smiled knowingly, certain he had her full interest, before responding, “For that, there’s a story. This was back in ancient times and the artist, Rasbel, wasn’t famous yet. Anyway, he lived around here and found this block of marble in the hills. He spent days admiring it and trying to imagine what true shape was trapped inside it. He spent another week with hired workers moving it to his home. It was over three tons and a chore even for six men and a team of horses to move through the hills and forest. When he got it home, he was as frustrated by it as he was enthralled by its beauty and potential. Still, he had no idea what was waiting for him inside the stone.

“One day as he sat contemplating the patterns of the marble,” Derrien continued, “a stranger came walking through the woods. He was eight feet tall and his chest was as wide as two grown men’s. He didn’t speak at first, just walked to the stone without a sound. Rasbel watched the stranger, draped in green silk robes with mystic circles and symbols all over them. He had talismans hanging from his neck and bracelet charms around each wrist. His fingers were long and slender. Everywhere he’d touch the stone a magical symbol would appear then fade away after he moved his hand. The stranger looked down at the artist with glowing amber eyes and smiled at him, saying ‘You have no inspiration to guide this transformation.’ The artist confessed his frustration and asked who the strange giant was. He identified himself as…Valtanir.”

“The old Corican god?” Kyrian asked, smiling with polite disbelief. “Come on, really?”

“This is the story,” Derrien told her. “It’s all I’ve got. So, Valtanir said, ‘You must elevate yourself to hear vibrations higher than your own to know the essence of the stone.’ Rasbel felt a truth in Valtanir’s words and asked what he needed to do. How could he achieve such a state? ‘Walk away from the stone,’ Valtanir told him. ‘Embrace whatever you find with openness.’

“So Rasbel picked a direction and walked off into the woods. After a short time, he came upon a beautiful girl sitting beneath a tree. Her name was Tyla. She had gotten lost running from a wild animal and had twisted her ankle. He carried her back to his home and Rasbel saw the stone in the light of the setting sun. In that moment, realized that Valtanir had meant for the girl to be his inspiration and asked her to stay. He set up a comfortable bed for her near his work and attacked the stone with his artistic passion. Suddenly, he had no doubt that he could see the essence of the stone eagerly awaiting release. His heart soared to the heavens on the rapture of a song. She watched him as he worked into the night and he watched her to guide his hand even as she slept.

“As he worked on at a frenzied pace, Rasbel saw the rise of the sun and the return of Valtanir. He was excited to show Valtanir the progress he had made, but found his patron unimpressed. Again, the towering man-god caressed the stone, listening to it, maybe even looking into it, with his touch. ‘This is superficial,’ Valtanir told him. ‘You must reach deeper, beyond this juvenile effort.’ Rasbel, however, argued that the girl Valtanir had guided him to find had inspired him and that in touching his heart she had opened him to hear the stone. Valtanir laughed at Rasbel’s obvious infatuation, telling him that until he had learned to embrace all aspects of emotional experience available to him, the bitter as well as the sweet, the dark as well the bright, then he would never understand the full scope of passion and art. Fearful of Valtanir’s intensity, Rasbel recoiled from him. He staggered backward, stumbling into the half-finished sculpture. Somehow, despite the stone’s great mass, it moved. Almost certainly, it was Valtanir’s will.

“Anyway, the stone fell over, crushing Tyla as she slept and his heart as he watched, powerless stop the horror he beheld. Rasbel could still feel the thunderous tremor as he flew into a panic. He was unable to move the huge piece of marble and equally unable to move Valtanir with his pleading. ‘Now, search deeper,’ Valtanir challenged. ‘Use your anguish. Probe your pain. Let that guide you to cut the stone.’ With that Valtanir left Rasbel to his desperate work. By the time Rasbel’s brother arrived to visit him, he found his artist brother furiously cutting at the marble. He had been working it smaller, changing its shape and balance. He was nearly exhausted, his hands spreading his own blood on the marble as he worked to free a girl who was almost certainly dead. Once he had explained to his brother what was happening, the brother ran to get more help. When his brother returned, though, Rasbel had completely collapsed, later reviving only long enough to finish telling his story. Once the people were able to move the stone, they buried Rasbel and Tyla together where they had died. This sculpture was Rasbel’s last work.”

“The marble made red from both their blood,” Kyrian said, looking up at the time-worn artwork. “It’s so sad. And it’s very impressive you know all that.”

“Well, I paid attention in school a few times,” Derrien said modestly. “A couple of bits stuck with me.”

Just then, they almost walked into an impossibly tall man. They were stunned, looking up at him in his bright green jacket, almost unable to see his head past his huge chest, and wondering how they had managed not to notice him before nearly bumping right into him.

“Oh, um…excuse us,” Darrien mumbled.

“It really captures the moment of passion, don’t you think?” the tall man said in an odd, rumbling baritone.

“Oh…yeah,” the young man agreed.

“Still so evocative after so many years,” the tall man said. “I forget, what did they end up naming it?”

“Ummm…I…” Derrien fumbled, his mind reeling as he began to take note of the many talismans and charms that dangled from the giant’s wrists and neck.

He glanced down to see if magical words and symbols were scribbled on the ground at the tall man’s feet, but there was not enough light to be sure. Kyrian shook her companion’s arm, attempting to remind him that he was supposed to know the answer to this question.

“Oh, right,” Derrien said. “Rasbel’s Despair. Rasbel’s Despair.”

“Rasbel’s Despair,” the stranger echoed thoughtfully. “Perfect. I think she was some sort of an addict, if memory serves…Ahhh, no matter. Story’s better without it. Keep that one to yourself.”

With deliberate care, his long fingers plucked a golden chain from among the charms on one of his wrists. It snapped with a shower of sparkles, wriggling like a tiny snake whose mouth had just released its grip on its own tail. With a graceful toss, the shimmering strand flew to Derrien’s left wrist where it became a snug circle once again. A rush of dreamlike images flashed before the young man’s mind’s eye.

“A reward to complement your lovely gift of storytelling,” the tall one said, his amber eyes flaring. “Have a lovely evening.”

“Th-Thank you,” Derrien stuttered as Kyrian pulled him by the arm, leading him back toward the path that had brought them to the park’s center.

Derrien looked back as they walked away, but the stranger had gone, vanished into the night. Only Rasbel’s Despair remained.