Behind the Scenes: Ancient Nebe

Please see the post on Neban Religion to better understand this post.

After Azed’s sons taught the Unhallowed the ways of their father, they took wives and settled in different lands, hoping to spread the message amongst the various tribes. However, Nebe was still one land. The walls had yet to be built, and the sons and their followers shared amongst each other, despite the distance between them.

Hundreds of turns later, man forgot Azed, remembering only his sons and their differences. The sons had been fruitful and filled the land with generations of children who honored their forefathers. How could the farmer Amir be the same as the shipwright Aded? What could the priest Abiel have in common with the scribe Abrien?

Fighting broke out amongst the land as man forgot their connections, for how could a priest praise without written language or how could a ship sail without the builder? To better honor their own god, each land formed mighty walls to keep the others out. Thus, the Strongholds were formed.

According to Neban historians, an unbroken line of fathers and sons can trace their lineage back to the son-gods. Those men became the first lords of the Strongholds.

In Vustania, the Llyr dynasty began. The last Lord was Lord Willif Llyr, who was the first to fall in Shorack’s Revolution.

In Feldeen, the Lagier dynasty began. The last Lord was Lord Burl Lagier, who fell in the first turn of the Revolution.

In Rana, the Fazil dynasty began. The last Lord was Lord Valin Fazil, who fell in the second turn of the Revolution.

In Hrundl, the Zimmer dynasty began. The last Lord was Lord Padrik Zimmer, who fell in third turn of the Revolution.

In Agralax, the Pfaff dynasty began. The last Lord was Simonis Pfaff, who fell in the third turn of the Revolution.

In Goffany, the Taksony dynasty began. The last Lord was Lord Garret Taksony, who fell in the fourth turn of the Revolution.

While there is much more to Neban history than this simple overview, suffice it to say that the Stronghold stood for almost two millennia before Shorack’s Revolution (which happens approximately ten turns before our tale begins).

Shorack’s Revolution and the Unification will comprise the next “Behind the Scenes” post.

Van (Chapter 5, Part 2)

I’m pretty stuck with Van at the moment, so there may be no continuation of this chapter right now. I’ve already skipped ahead to writing chapters six and seven. I keep hoping something will come to me so I can finish this chapter…some kind of conflict. Sigh. But here you go…

***

The deck was buzzing with life and excitement as the soldiers made ready to put to shore. Everyone seemed to feel the same way as their commander – the sooner they got off the boat, the better. From below the decks, Van heard the telltale rattling of chains. Soon after, some of his more seasoned soldiers brought forth a haggard group of men, all chained together by at the wrists and ankles. The shirtless captives squinted and tried to block the sun from their eyes as they rose from below deck. While their unshaved faces, bare feet, and soiled clothing attested to their week in the bowels of the ship, their upright posture and muscular build hinted that they were no ordinary prisoners.

“What would you like us to do with them, Lieutenant?” asked Marshal Leuke Green, Van’s second in command.

“I’d like for you to tie weights to the chains and throw them in the ocean,” Van replied coldly. “Be done with them once and for all.”

Something akin to fear crossed one or two of the chained men’s faces, but the others gave no sign of weakness.

“However, General Walters has ordered them to be delivered in tact. He seems to think they’ll make a nice bargaining chip.”

He walked up and down the line of prisoners, eyeing each one closely. He needed to choose his next steps wisely.

Van turned his back on the prisoners, looking over the deck and the rising land in the distance. “You are now in Goffan waters and, as such, under the jurisdiction of the Stronghold’s Courts.”

The ship swelled as the beginnings of a rolling wave lifted the boat and set it down quickly. Van’s stomach turned, and he struggled to hold down his lunch. After making sure the bile was back in his stomach where it belonged, he faced the men once again. “You have been placed under the Goffan Guard, awaiting your trial.”

“On what charges?” spat a lankly man whose hair was obviously blonde under all the dirt from the brig. Van had picked him out earlier as one of the group’s leaders. His tanned and well-defined upper arms revealed his tattoos – two black diamonds, one on his right shoulder and one a little further down. The second was much darker than the first, informing Van that the man’s promotion from ensign to marshal had come recently. The shine of the kraken ink still gave the diamond the appearance of being wet when the sun hit it. Everyone else in the group displayed only one diamond or the simple cross where a diamond might one day appear.

Van still had the vestiges of his former life emblazoned on his shoulder – a single black diamond, though it was much faded. He’d attempted to remove it using every old wives’ tale in the book – Doxal flames, a bitter tonic purchased from an unhallowed tribesman in the Spine, a thrice-daily rub with gopher root. Aside from the rash the last had produced, nothing seemed to dull the seemingly indestructible ink. However, he hid the black tattoo under an intricately woven wool tunic that displayed three maroon diamonds along the arms, denoting his status in the Goffan Guard.

Van stood toe to toe with the marshal. He had to admit that, despite the man’s chains, the Neban soldier cut quite an imposing figure.

“What is your name, Marshal?” Van asked without breaking eye contact.

“Marshal Gaven Haft of the Neban Guard.”

“And where are you from, Gaven?”

A flame briefly lit in the soldier’s eyes when Van addressed him by his familiar name, but he doused the blaze with a single blink. “Nebe,” he replied flatly.

Van smiled as the man provided the answer he’d expected. “Yes, of course,” he said, turning to the right and walking causally up the line, gesticulating flippantly. “But before that. What stronghold do you hail from?”

“I belong to no stronghold. I am Neban.”

The standard Neban soldier’s answer.

“Well, Marshal Gaven Haft of the Unified Nebe and not a stronghold, let me introduce myself.” He turned back to face the line of men. “I am Lieutenant Van Ludlow of Goffany. And the lot of you are under my protection until you are safely delivered to Captain Bryce Walters and the Goffan Court on the charges of kidnapping and slavery.”

He heard some of the prisoners suck in air when he announced the indictment, but the marshal merely chuckled haughtily.

“Something funny?” asked Van, looking down his nose at the man.

“You’re in deep shit, Lieutenant.” He spoke Van’s title as if it acid on his tongue.

“You best watch your tone, Marshal, lest I add insubordination to the list of infractions.”

“You’re local militia. The lowest piss-ant private in the Neban Guard outranks the highest captain amongst you. Hell, a callow tithe outranks your captains.”

Van knew Haft was technically correct. The local stronghold militias were established as a supplement to the Neban Guard. Since the Protector couldn’t keep all his hands in all the pies around the realm, he’d consented to local militias and courts – so long as they upheld the Neban laws. And that was precisely what Van and his soldiers were doing. Both slavery and kidnapping were, according to the letter of the law, illegal and tried before the local courts at the Quarter Sessions. A bit more problematic was the legal interpretation that tithing was a form of slavery and kidnapping. Haft was well aware the charges would never hold up in a Neban court, but Van was equally secure in the knowledge that his prisoners weren’t going to a Neban court.

“I’m sure the figurative shit I’m in is nothing compared to the literal shit on your pants, Marshal. Didn’t they teach you the importance of cleanliness in your courses?”

The time below deck had not been kind on the prisoners, and Van almost felt sorry for them based on his own lackluster voyage. Haft couldn’t keep the pale pink from rising in his cheeks, though he continued to stare stonily ahead. Van had him where he wanted him.

“Well, Gaven from Nebe, judging by the lilt in your accent, you’re Vustanian. Raised on pomp and circumstance, no doubt. Mommy and Daddy fed you bedtime stories about chivalry and honor. I’m sure you enlisted as soon as you turned seventeen. Probably on your nameday. Probably got a fancy horse and bag full of coin as a reward. Probably have a sweetheart waiting back home and counting the days til you make Lieutenant. I wonder what Sweet Sally would say if she could see you now, covered in your own excrement.”

Another prisoner coughed in a feeble attempt to cover obvious laughter. Van smiled to himself, now able to pinpoint his true target.

[To be continued, but I don’t know when…]

Van (Chapter 5, Part 1)

Here, we meet Van. It is a continuation of the plot line in Chapters Two and Four. We’ll return to Makenna in the next chapter (which is still in progress…actually, so is this chapter!).

To make things easier on you, the novel has three plot lines – Makenna’s trip to Llewling, the politics of revolution (Nikolas, Tabor, and Van – as well as Makenna and Oren to a lesser extent), and Oren’s trip to Agralax. They all tie in together eventually – though I’m still working that out. The characters like to defy my plans for them as I write…and then I have to rearrange everything!

I have no background in maritime culture, so the ship and it’s layout are a bit confusing to me. I read Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea yesterday, and I learned a few things that I’m going to work in. I’ve also been reading up on medieval ships, but I’d appreciate any feedback you could give!

***

“Prepare the men immediately. We’ll be docking within the hour.”¹

“Yes, Lieutenant,” the soldier replied before saluting, turning on his heels, and exiting the cabin.

Van said a silent prayer of thanks that they would at last be on dry land once again. He’d spent the last fortnight with his head hanging over the hull, losing what little he was able to stomach when he wasn’t retching.² A fine sight he made as a commander. At least most of his men had been right alongside with him.

Goffans had never been seafaring folk, though the stronghold was bordered by the ocean to both the south and the west. The currents didn’t favor the land the way they did in the eastern strongholds of Vustania or Rana. The coasts of Goffany were rugged and rocky. A handful of Goffans lived in small villages that spotted the coast, but they were mostly immigrants from the south who’d left when the Doxa took over their homeland in a futile attempt to convert them near a hundred turns ago. While most Goffans adhered to the Doxa, they were more accepting of other walks of life than the South Islands’ other neighbors to the north.

No, most true Goffans preferred the foothills of the Pentheas to the sea any day. The Unified Guard established Vust Goffany – the only city even remotely resembling a true sea port – as far east as possible to avoid the choppy waters that increased in intensity the further west one travelled. Before converted into a Vust, the town was little more than handful of traders’ houses and a few Ranan sailors who chartered voyages to the islands or the eastern Strongholds for a hefty sum. Now, Vust Rana was nearing the size of Goffany’s capitol, Haverty, but neither came close to the size, population, or grandeur of the realm’s other major cities.

Of course, Van and his crew weren’t putting in at the Neban Guard’s major foothold in Goffany. In fact, they’d spent an extra two days in deep waters to avoid being spotted. This likely saved their lives, but did little to help the seasickness.

Van read over his letter to Captain Walters to make sure everything was in place. It contained a brief account of the mission’s progress and confirmed the rendezvous place and date in Haverty. Once satisfied, Van rolled the scroll and set his seal upon it.

He left the cabin for what he hoped would be the last time and handed the letter to the guard posted at the door. “Make sure this gets sent the moment we make land.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

[To be continued in Part 2…]

Notes
¹Is “docking” the proper term? The boat is out in the water, and the people on land send longboats out to get them.

² Would “hull” be the correct term? He’s basically throwing up over the side of the ship.

Tabor (Chapter 4, Part 2)

I’m quickly running out of chapters to showcase. I need to start writing more…

***

By the time Tabor arrived at the palace, it was well into dinnertime. He had spent the rest of the afternoon with the South Islander, seeing no reason to leave a good woman wanting. If nothing else, it was the chivalrous thing to do, and he was the son of the Protector, after all.

He sauntered into his father’s private dining room, where he found an open seat at the round table between the aging relic, Glandare, and his father’s newest acquisition, Larissa. A serving girl brought him a plate of braised pheasant over a bed of greens while another poured him a goblet of red wine. Tabor set into the plate immediately, having worked up quite a hunger from his busy afternoon.

Nikolas didn’t look up from his plate when his son entered, though he certainly noticed his presence. Aside from Tabor, the other Shorack children dined separately. Tabor had never been formally invited to his father’s table, but he had never been formally turned away either.

Tabor noticed that his mother was missing from the table, as was Wilona – neither of which surprised him. Kantessa and Wilona rarely deigned to dine with the other wives, preferring instead to take their meals with their respective children or with their own company. Tabor, as well, typically ate abroad or with his mother. Shorack’s Seraglio, as the realm derisively referred to his father’s unorthodox marital arrangements, was a sticking point with the boy. Plural marriage was not unheard of in Nebe, as it was practiced amongst the unhallowed and certain South Island immigrants, but it definitely went against the grain.

I’m an eighteenth-century scholar, so much of my novel is drawn from the English period of the Regicide of Charles I (1649) through the end of the eighteenth century. Charles II plays a major part in my characterization of both Nikolas and Tabor.

After the Unified Army’s conquest in Rana and Shorack’s appointment as the High Protector, the Doxal Eminent had issued a special dispensation allowing him to marry the wives of the three fallen Lords. Shorack deemed the marriages a political necessity. The act allowed him to avoid the appellation of a violent tyrant, as he did not have to try them for treason alongside their husbands. His scriveners wrote day and night, publicizing broadsides and chapbooks regaling Shorack’s clemency – and downplaying the unconventional consortium. Further, Shorack argued that the marriage would be a symbolic representation of a Unified Nebe. As the six strongholds would come together to form one country, the former Ladies and the Protector would come together as one family. Traditionalists could hold on to a part of the old regime while embracing the change.

Of course, it hadn’t been that simple. In addition to the outcries of many Nebans – the wasals in particular – Shorack had the difficult task of convincing the Ladies that aligning themselves with the man who essentially “murdered” their husband and children was sensible. On the eve of the ceremony, Lady Perle of Vustania leapt from her chamber’s window to her death. Tabor was not sure how his father had managed to convince Lady Becca of Feldeen and Lady Glandare of Rana to go through with the sacramental function (which had not been postponed despite the death of Lord Willif’s widow), but he had.

Two years later, when Hrundl fell, Lady Meaghan chose to follow Lady Perle’s example and sliced her wrists while her husband awaited beheading. Steps were then taken when the fifth stronghold, Agralax, fell and Lady Mallary was to wed the Protector, though they were unnecessary. Lord Simonis effectively sold his bride to Shorack in return for a life of exile in the South Islands. Mallary seemed unconcerned at the shift in husbands, as she had previously been sold to Simonis before her first blooding. Rumors abounded regarding the Lord’s harsh treatment of his wife – his third in a line of Ladies who had all succumbed to untimely deaths. Mallary became even more endeared to Shorack when she was allowed to issue the orders to the executioner upon Simonis’ assassination, a wedding present from the Protector to his newest bride.

But it was Wilona Taksony’s marriage to his father that puzzled Tabor the most. The Goffans fiercely outlasted the other strongholds’ unification, and Wilona had fought alongside her husband the entire way. Of all the former Ladies, Wilona was the only one whose marriage had not been arranged. She and Lord Taksony had been childhood friends whose relationship blossomed over the years, or at least that is what Tabor had heard. Why she had married his father was a mystery to the entire realm, who assumed she would rather die alongside her first husband than marry another. Rumor suggested that it had something to do with her daughter, Makenna, but other rumors suggested something more nefarious. As Wilona only had a tiny threshold for Tabor’s presence, she had never confided in him.

James Gillray is one of my favorite artists of the eighteenth century. This is a depiction of the French Revolution, based on Edmund Burke’s interpretation.

Of course, there was no love lost between Tabor and any of his father’s wives. He had been five when his father took the first two of his new wives, and he always took the action as a slight against his own mother, the original Mrs. Shorack. Kantessa never complained in public against her husband’s proclivity for taking on new wives (or even in private for all Tabor knew), but her eldest son was sure that his father’s marriages had to be a source of pain for his mother, especially when the Protector continued to take on additional wives after all the former Ladies had been incorporated into the “family.”

Endia was a South Island native, whom Shorack wed in a failed attempt to expand his reach across the sea, and Nance was a merchant’s daughter, whom his father had no good political excuse to wed. His newest marriage to Larissa Sem, the bastard daughter of the Doxal Eminent – the very man who had signed the original marriage dispensation – was just folly in Tabor’s opinion. However, he did hope it was a kick in the teeth to the old wasal. With each new wife, Shorack made himself a target for public satire and hatred. He just couldn’t see how his sham of a family no longer represented unification, which Tabor thought could have disastrous fallout.

The women were chatting about Larissa’s pregnancy as the servants cleared the plates from the table in preparation for the third course. She looked ready to pop any day – and about two moons too soon, according to Tabor’s calculations. They were discussing remedies for her swollen ankles and sore back.

“Did you have a productive day?”

The table went quiet as Shorack finally addressed his son.

“Yes, father,” Tabor replied, stuffing in one final bite of salad as his plate was taken from him.

“Tell me, is Merry Moll still working down at the Hammer and Anvil?”

Tabor nearly choked on the greens. Apparently his father had been following his comings and goings more closely than he had anticipated. “They call her Poxy Moll now. She’s taken in one too many sailors in her day, or so I’ve heard.”

Another Gillray. For more information on this particular story, see http://www.regencyhistory.net/2013/04/frances-villiers-countess-of-jersey.html

Shorack surveyed his son. “Follow me,” he said slowly, rising from the table as the serving women were bringing out platters of aromatic blue-gill tuna.

Tabor sighed. His father rarely missed a meal, and tuna was one of the Protector’s favorites. He knew he was in trouble if his father was skipping out on it.

[To be continued in Part 3]

Tabor (Chapter 4, Part 1)

Here, we’re introduced to Tabor, the Protector’s son. The chapter is from his perspective, though it harkens back to the plot line established in Chapter Two.

This scene takes place in a brothel, so please don’t read on if you’re likely to be offended, though it’s fairly tame.

As always, your constructive comments are helpful and much appreciated!

***

With their clothes on, the twins were indistinguishable, but Tabor was aware of the important differences. While Jayne had plumper breasts, Bethe tasted sweeter. Bethe, though less adventurous than her sister, was more enthusiastic, while Jayne let him roam her body freely. Alone, each was well worth a silver argen, but Tabor didn’t mind shelling out a full golden crest to enjoy the company of the two together. Nowhere but the Hammer and Anvil could offer such a treat, and he had plenty of crests and afternoons to spare.

This image is of an actual hotel, called Medieval Hotel Detenice.

As Tabor made his way down the staircase to the tavern’s gathering room, he noticed his stonefather seated at the bar. A nubile South Island beauty was vying with an ample Hrundl dame for his attention. Racine was awkwardly perched between the two, uncomfortably focusing on his stein of ale rather than the women at his side. Tabor stifled a laugh. Although Racine was more than twenty years his senior, he was clearly as out of place at the Hammer and Anvil as a greenhorn farm boy looking for his first romp. Tabor paused on the stairwell, wondering if he should leave Racine alone a bit longer, as his stonefather had obviously been sent to the tavern to look for him. Perhaps it would do him some good, make him a little less on edge.

A split second before Tabor turned to make his way back to the pair of beauties waiting upstairs, Racine caught sight of him. The old bachelor cumbersomely attempted to disentangle himself from the South Islander’s vines, which had managed to creep their way around him in an obscene manner – by “downstairs standards” at least. Leaving his drink behind, Racine made his way to a table near the fire, and Tabor followed suit.

The boy gestured to the barkeep, who promptly filled two more steins and brought them to the table. Tabor took a swig of the ale, waiting for Racine to begin his lecture.

Racine looked around the room with distaste. “It appears you’ve been keeping yourself quite busy.”

Tabor smirked. “How did you find me?”

“Where you spend your days is no secret, son. Your father is looking for you.”

Image from Hans Holbein (1538). Title “The Drunkards.”

The boy took another long swig. “Are there more stables to muck or horses to be shod?”

“He didn’t inform me, but I’m sure he’s aware of your lackluster performance with Captain Hammon.”

“I have better things to do than practice dressage.”

As if on cue, Jayne and Bethe descended the staircase. Racine raised his eyebrow and stared pointedly at Tabor.  “So it seems.”

Though Tabor had only been out of the academy for nine moons, he’d already held four different posts in his father’s service – each more mundane and tedious as the last. He’d shown much promise as a young lad, practicing with Captain Essex in the yard and Racine in the classroom. At the academy, he progressed quickly in his courses, excelling in weaponry and battle tactics. But, upon graduation, there was little activity that spoke to his skills.

He’d begun as a Guide, leading tithes across the Spine. The assignment proved riveting for only two quick romps to Rana and back, after which he learned that the stories of the Spine were things of the past. The mercenaries seemed to have settled into respectable businesses, where they could rob travelers under the guise of free trade. When he failed to show up for his third trek, his father assigned him to two consecutive posts in the Naval Guard, neither of which lasted a moon. To better keep his eye on his son, Shorack finally placed him with Captain Hammon in the Equestrian Guard – which just happened to be annexed to the palace. Already a seasoned horseman, Tabor learned to parade around after the royal carriage on official outings and ceremonies, but he preferred to ride with his family and hated the pompous formality of the post. Needless to say, he shirked his duties as often as he attended to them.

“He likely has need for an errand boy, rather than something that will actually rely on my talents,” Tabor said acridly.

“Drinking and whoring?” Racine grabbed Tabor’s stein and emptied the remains on the floor.

“And how else should I be spending my time? The realm has no use for me, and, until it does, I prefer to spend my time here than with tithes and old men.”

Racine shook his head and rose. He knew it was no good to lecture the boy, so he took his leave, having delivered the summons.

Tabor downed what was left in Racine’s mug and motioned to the barkeep, who brought him a fresh brew.

Oren (Chapter 3, Part 3)

The end of chapter three…wherein I try my hand at poetry…

***

Oren felt the vague sensation of movement. He slowly opened his eyes, but could only make out a blur of greens and blues and browns. His body was a strange mix of numbness and stabbing pain at different locations. Realizing he was lying on his back, Oren attempted to sit up, but his muscles would not comply. The clop of a horse’s hooves and a merry whistling filled his pounding head. At the very last second, Oren turned his head to the right and vomited. His headache subsided a bit.

“Whoa!” came a voice from behind him. The movement came to a halt with a jolt.

Soon, a stranger was kneeling next to him, wiping the boy’s face and shirt. “So you’re awake then?” the man asked.

As his sight began to clear, Oren realized that he was strapped into a litter in the back of a shoddy two-wheeled cart. Instinctively, he began pulling against the restraints.

“Best to stay put, if you asked me,” the stranger informed him. “I’ll loosen ‘em if you want, but the apoth says that the less you move, the better. With all this bouncing around from travel, any unnecessary movement may be your death.”

“Where am I?” Oren asked groggily.

“Somewhere in the Spine, I’m sorry to inform you. But we’ll be passing through a gate to Agralax within the hour if you don’t go spewing your guts up every five minutes. I thought you’d be out of it until we could reach a surgeon. Actually, I wasn’t sure you’d ever be waking up. But, then again, I’m no surgeon myself.”

“What happened?” Oren asked as the man passed him a canteen of water. He rinsed his mouth out and spit.

“Hell, boy, I was gonna ask the same from you. We were supposed to meet your group at the Feldeen gate but were waylaid by a downed bridge spanning the Equinox. Showed up the next morning, and everyone was dead – soldiers, tithes, horses, you name it. Looks like you were hit by some pretty nasty archers. There were arrows sticking out everywhere. Had a few of ‘em poking out of yourself as well, though our apoth was able to remove them and cauterize the bleeding. Seems that horse landing on you was the luckiest thing that could’ve happened. Likely saved your life.”

Oren’s memory started to return, and he flashed back to the mayhem in the camp.

“The apoth says you’ve got some busted ribs and broken bones, but we’ll have to get you to the surgeon before we can see if there’s any permanent damage.”

Oren tried to wiggle his toes, but couldn’t see if his efforts were fruitful as his mud-covered boots were still strapped to his feet. “So you’re a Guard?”

“Sure am. Ensign Rodger Downs. I was a tithe from Feldeen, just like you. I was one of the first batch to go into service. Just one more turn before I get to go home again, but they up and promoted me. Haggled me into three more years of service. Not that there’s much left for me to go back to. My family’s lands were burned during the war, and we just didn’t have the money to start again. I decided to try my luck as a Guardsman and make my way in the world.”

Oren tried to nod, but the effort proved too much. “We’re going to Agralax?”

“Yep, Temple to be exact. We’ve already gotten two days of travel done.” Downs held up his water skin to Oren’s mouth. The boy gagged on his first two attempts, but was able to swallow a little on the third.

Oren tried to do the math in his head, which proved more difficult than he anticipated.

“We bickered back and forth for a while about where to take you – on to Vustania or to Agralax. The marshal wanted you to report directly to Llewling to fill the captain in on what in the seven hells happened out there. But the apoth seemed to think that the surgeons at Temple could do you the best service, especially if your back is damaged. I spent my first two years of patrol in Temple, so I offered to take you up there myself. When you feel up to it, we can send a hawk to the powers that be about the massacre.”

“I don’t remember much,” Oren said, trying to hold onto the snippets of memory. His pounding head and rolling stomach weren’t making it easy. The flashes contained horses and arrows and fire, but he couldn’t put them in order or make sense of them.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” the ensign offered. He sighed and urged Oren to take one more drink before strapping the skin back to his shoulder pouch. “For now, let’s focus on getting you put back together. We’ve got a rough road and a long way to go, but I sent a message to the wasals at Temple. Someone who can help should be meeting us at the gate. The apoth says you should try to stay awake on account of that nasty lump on your head. Though I don’ know what good it’ll do you, seeing as you’ve been out of it for at least three days already. I was beginning to think you’d turned into a vegetable on me, son.”

Downs smiled compassionately and returned to his mount.

As they made their way through the Spine, the guard continued to prattle on, but Oren couldn’t tell whether the words were meant for the horse or for himself. It didn’t matter. Oren slipped in and out of consciousness, finally letting a sweet dream overtake the harsh reality. He was a child back in Daley, sitting in the schoolyard, where his sister and her friends were skipping rope and chanting a simple rhyme they’d heard a thousand times from minstrels stopping though on their way to nowhere and everywhere.

Beware the wild world

Unto travelers unfurled.

Each stronghold unique,

Its own brand of mystique.

 

In Agralax rich,

Your wounds surgeons will stitch.

But wizards and priests

Wear the mark of the beast.

Oren (Chapter 3, Part 2)

Finally, some action. I am planning on revising Chapters One and Two to be less “talky.” I just haven’t hit that creative point yet!

I know I just posted the first part of the chapter yesterday, but I won’t be around much this weekend. You’ll have to wait for the third and final installment of Oren’s chapter on Monday. 🙂

***

Oren wasn’t sure what woke him, but he sat up and looked around. The moon was still high in the sky, and the pastels of sunrise had yet to grace the east. Aside from the remains of a dozen or so campfires, all was dark and still. Brewster stirred beside him.

“What is it?” he whispered, still half asleep.

Oren listened for anything out of place. Aside from a whicker from one of the soldier’s horses, there was silence.

“Nothing,” Oren assured his friend. “I just have to piss. I’ll be right back.”

He stood and walked down the slope to the area where the horses were corralled. As he was unbuttoning his pants, one of the horses let out a wild scream. Startled, Oren looked over in the horse’s area, just in time to see the stallion crumple to the ground, continuing to writhe and snort.

Oren stepped into the corral to see what was wrong with the beast. The commotion was infecting the other mounts, as they backed away from their fallen comrade, wildly rolling their eyes and snorting. Two more horses dropped just as quickly as the first, shrieking in pain and rolling on the ground. The remaining creatures became frenzied, pawing at the ground and circling riotously, trying to pinpoint the invisible attacker. Oren shared the horses’ fear, darting his gaze from left to right. Only when a fourth steed fell directly in front of him did Oren realize what was happening.

Three arrows emerged from the palfrey’s withers. The animal screamed out into the night, wheezing as it attempted to suck in air. Its eyes fixed firmly onto Oren’s, as if calling out for help.

The melee at the corral had spilled over into the main camp. The guards ran back and forth, barking orders at the young men – none of whom had had a day of military training in their lives. The boys did their best to assemble as ordered, but with so many people shouting so many different orders, it was hard to tell whose commands trumped whose. Men ran amok around the campsite, yet there was little they could do to prepare for battle, as the boys hadn’t yet been armed. They were just farm boys who knew more about soil composition than warfare.

Amidst the panicked yelling, an earsplitting shriek pierced through the cool night. Oren couldn’t tell who had let out the bloodcurdling screech, but he was certain the sound was a harbinger of death. Then another and another cry added to the symphony of death. As Oren attempted to regain his footing, the wails increased, mixed with the sounds of the tithes’ prayers and cries for their mothers. The eerie sounds seemed to invade the very air of the night, coming from multiple directions and yet nowhere at all.

The same arrows that impaled the horses now struck the tithes and soldiers. The boys he had grown up with were becoming human pin cushions right in front of his eyes. The lucky ones fell to the ground dead, while the unlucky slowly bled out, sobbing and praying for death. Still, Oren could discern no archers, no enemy.

Oren was frozen, watching the carnage in front of him. He pissed his pants, unable to make a move either towards his dying friends or away from the gruesome scene. We’re farmers, he thought. Who would want to kill farmers?

To his left, a black destrider reared back on its hind legs as an arrow sank deep into its crest. Oren fell backwards to avoid being kicked in the head, stumbling over a fallen mare as he lurched back. The nape of Oren’s neck connected with a large rock as he fell to his back. As he gazed up at the sky above, the last thing he recalled was the muddled sense that the sky itself was raining down the arrows.

[To be continued…]

Oren (Chapter 3, Part 1)

This is the last shifting in storyline for a little while. Overall, there are six character perspectives, but chapter four starts tying them together. (We go to Nikolas’s son and the continuation of the plot line in chapter two.)

My question to you: Do you think that three plot lines is too overwhelming at this early stage in the book? Might it be better to go back to Makenna’s plot line (chapter one) or continue with Nikolas’s plot line (chapter two) rather than add the third one here? Your honest, critical opinion would be helpful. Thanks!

***

Oren Sarsguard shifted his pack to his right shoulder as he continued down the gravel road. An excessively wet winter had left the road a slurry of mud and pebbles, which squished around Oren’s boots and made an oozing slurp as he lifted his foot. He couldn’t decide whether it was a good thing that he was in the rear of troop, as the road had been tramped down a bit by the hundred other men in front of him, or if it would have been preferable to march in the front and not trip on the occasional boot print.

Normally, Oren would not have been part of the tithe troops. As the oldest son, he was responsible for studying for the Farmers Guild exam in anticipation of taking over his father’s orchards one day. But as the number of required tithes had been raised in anticipation for the anniversary of the Unification, the Bakers, Vintners, and Farmers Guilds located in Feldeen had offered to double the price for any goods purchased from families where the tithes had volunteered. Although the Sarsguards had never wanted for money, the cold winter had pushed the growing seasons back at least three weeks, which meant that their annual profit was in danger. And with all of the competition from foreign goods stemming from the new trade agreements, even a slightly postponed harvesting season could open the door for their competition to take over the market.

So Oren had enlisted, promising ten years of service to the realm for the welfare of his family. It wasn’t such a bad trade off, in actuality. Since the Unification, few soldiers saw action. The military was more akin to a local militia force, keeping the peace on a smaller scale, acting as communications liaisons between strongholds, repairing fallen segments of walls, and, in the case of this new troop, ensuring the safety of the Neban capitol during the anniversary festivities. Oren’s sister, Tasha, could take over the orchard when the time came. And his own pension would allow him to purchase another plot to expand the family business upon his return.

Oren’s boot made another perfunctory slurp as Brewster Jefer slid next to him. “Blast this bloody mud,” Brewster complained as he shook his left boot in an unsuccessful attempt to clear the tread of the slop. “No matter how tightly I tie the laces, it seeps into my sock.”

“You’d better get used to it,” replied a young soldier on horseback from behind them. “It’s like this all the way to Vustania. There’s been talk of paving the main thoroughfares, but, with the Unification ceremony, that isn’t likely to happen for a while. And, of course, when they do finally pave the roads, we’ll be the ones out here laying the rock.”

Brewster murmured something under his breath, low enough for the soldier not to hear. As his name suggested, Brewster’s family belonged to the Brewers Guild, though they were one of the lesser houses. Unlike the larger families who sold their ale throughout Nebe, the Jefers were content to keep their business within Feldeen’s borders, even within the confines of their hometown of Daley.

Brewster’s and Oren’s families owned adjacent land plots, though the Jefers’ land was significantly smaller and less fertile. The boys had grown up together. Like Oren, Brewster had joined the army to help out his family – or, rather, his family had compelled him to go. As the youngest of six, Brewster was just another mouth to feed on a scant income. His father persuaded him that joining the army would provide him with more opportunities than were available in Daley. At the moment, though, all Brewster was gaining was a leg cramp and mud between his toes.

They band of tithes had been walking for three days towards the central gate leading from Feldeen to the Spine – or the no-man’s land between the strongholds that spanned the innermost regions of Nebe. When the strongholds were formed thousands of years earlier, the Lords squabbled endlessly about the appropriate borders of the six lands. To appease everyone involved, the concept of the Spine was introduced and finally ratified. Each stronghold’s border would open into the Spine, rather than jut into another stronghold. The neutral area allowed travelers and soldiers space to move between strongholds without having to enter another’s territory.

Of course, rather than providing a space for movement amongst the lands, the Spine served to keep inhabitants within their own strongholds. As a lad, Oren heard exciting yet terrifying tales from his grandmother about the people who inhabited the Spine – mercenaries, who, under no official rule, could literally get away with murder, rape, and general mayhem. After the Unification, Protector Shorack attempted to quell the rumors and “clean up” the Spine. Since the underlying agenda of the Unification was to unite the strongholds and promote free trade, the citizens had to feel safe upon entering the Spine to do business with the other strongholds. Oren wasn’t sure whether to believe in his grandmother’s boogeymen or the Protector’s propaganda.

After another hour of weary travel, the band of would-be soldiers stopped to make camp for the night. They chose a spot about two miles west of the central gate, so they could meet up with a second batch of Feldeen tithes on the morrow and march directly through the Spine and into Vustania without having to stop. Whether the captain of the guard was fearful of what they might run in the Spine or didn’t want a hundred frightened young men spending the night in the area between the strongholds, Oren couldn’t tell. He was, however, pleased at the thought of spending one last night in his native land before embarking on the newest phase of his life.

Oren and Brewster found a grassy hillock on the outskirts of the camp where the mud wouldn’t infiltrate their sleeping packs. Several other boys from Daley joined them, and the group started a campfire to begin heating their rations. The yeast rolls, salted meat, and beans were a far cry from what the young men were used to, as Feldeen was a veritable cornucopia of farmland. Fresh meats, fruits, and vegetables graced even the poorest tables in the stronghold, as the locals bartered in the town markets. Although Neban officials attempt to stop the practice of bartering after the Unification – preferring all transactions to be completed with the new currency – old practices died hard. There just weren’t enough guards to close down the markets completely, and those that were present would turn a blind eye for a share of the fare.

As the boys dined on their “feast,” they recalled past times spent together in their small town as well as the fetes of daring that they would perform in the service of Nebe. They stayed up late into the night reminiscing about past loves and schoolboy pranks and harvests. But when the subject shifted to their families, the boys became quiet and subdued. More than a few sniffles went around the group as they realized what they were leaving behind. Despite their false bravado, they were still young men who had never traveled far from Daley. The prospect of being away for ten whole years was daunting to even the bravest among them.

Long after sunset, the lads crawled into their sleeping packs and drifted off to dream of the schoolgirls who would be wives and mothers by the time they returned.

Nikolas (Chapter 2, Part 2)

The end of the second chapter…

***

A hearty laugh sounded behind the Protector. “My Lord,” Sar Racine said as he took a place next to Shorack. “What do you think of our new lot?”

“Green,” Shorack replied. “Hrundhl provided many of the best warriors in the land at one time. Remember the Siege of Offed?”

Racine chuckled. “That was many years ago, my Lord. Hrundhl raises their young men for lumbering and leatherwork now. But they still come from solid warrior stock. They’ve got fighting blood in those stocky bodies somewhere, and, if anyone can bring it out, Essex can.”

Shorack silently agreed. Essex had guided both him and Racine in their own courses as young men. If he could take the sons of shipwrights and fishmongers and turn them into two of the most experienced and feared swordsmen in the land, he could polish these Hrundhl turds into diamonds as well. Or, at least costume jewelry that would pass as diamonds to keep the public in order during the festival.

The two friends nodded at Essex as they turned from the courtyard.

“I thought you were supposed to be in a cabinet meeting, my Lord,” Racine said as they sauntered through an archway that led to the green.

“I’m fairly certain those misers and toadeaters can handle the current affairs on their own by now. My involvement in Neban affairs is a pleasantry the Guilds extend to me. I’m aware that I’m an unnecessary vestige of times gone by. I won them their freedom and power, so they are compliant with my position within the country, but they know as well as I do that there’s no need for a warlord Protector any longer.”

Racine began to make a polite rebuttal to ensure his comrade of his necessity to the realm, but Shorack raised a hand to silence him. “The last thing I need right now is another flatterer or rhetorician. We all know that I hold no true power any longer. And I have no taste for bureaucracy or economics. Why do I care whether the crops are flourishing in Feldeen or the acolytes have enough tallow in Agralax or the moneylenders are charging high interest rates in Rana? The realm is at peace.”

“You always were a ‘big-picture’ man, Nikolas,” Racine noted, dropping the pomp of titles while they were out of earshot from bystanders.

“I’m old and bored. Even if I wanted to launch a crusade to ‘save’ the handful of unhallowed tribesmen in the north or wage a land war with the south islanders, I couldn’t physically do it. I’d have to sit on my hollow throne, living vicariously through the feats of young men who were still being swaddled when we had our chance twenty turns ago.” He sighed. “When did we get so old, Peder?”

“A long time ago, my friend, a long time ago. But I bear news that might provide you with a little amusement for the moment.”

Shorack raised an eyebrow.

“We are expecting the shipment from Feldeen within the week, and another hundred set out three days ago from the Agralax Gate,” Racine offered. “Instead of letting Essex have all the fun, get out in the yard again. I’m sure your presence would boost morale and solidify the men’s faith in you. As you know, your position will always be stronger than that of the guilds as long as you control the military. Make the men worship you and secure your future.”

Nikolas shook his head. Somehow, the thought of farm boys and magicians did little to raise Shorack’s hopes for the next lot of tithes. He was never meant to be an instructor. He was a warrior and had no patience for training recruits, especially as there was no real purpose for the training. No, the Protector knew that his was a dying breed and his art would die along with him.

“It’s not my future I’m worried about. I have children to think about now. What is to come of them? Tabor especially. He knows no trade and scorns the guilds. He’s too much his father’s son, I fear. There is no precedent for the Protectorate. Will he ascend to the title, or will the guilds choose one of their own? Perhaps the office will be complete once I am done.”

Original Artwork from http://dailyartbrigade.blogspot.com/2010/11/medieval-experiments.html

Racine understood. Tabor was Shorack’s eldest son, and his own stoneson. He was born of Shorack’s first wife four years before the first regicide, when the men were at the peak of their military careers. At the time, war was mounting and hit full stride soon after. War was a way of life until Tabor was near ten. The father and stonefather instilled in the boy a love for weaponry and battle, never thinking that the time would come when those skills were no longer necessary. Now, at seventeen, Tabor had graduated from his military courses, having trained directly under Essex for years. He had only been out of school for a few months, but already he was bored with routine scouting missions, city guard duty, and escorting tithes across the Spine. Both men were afraid that the boy’s restlessness could lead to resentment between the Protectorate and the guilds, as Tabor was wont to get into mischief when left alone for too long with nothing to occupy his energy.

“Have we heard from Goffany?” Shorack asked, suddenly interested in the tithes.

Racine paused, trying to read his old friend. “We’ve sent a second ship.”

“And what of the first ship?”

“No word, my Lord. But we’ve had reports of foul storms near the cape. I personally sent another hawk to cross the Pentheas this morning.”

Shorack knew as well as Racine that the ship had not been delayed by weather. “Send another hawk to the outpost at the central Ranan gate. Have them prepare a party for a westerly march if necessary.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And have Tabor report to my study first thing tomorrow.”

Nikolas (Chapter 2, Part 1)

Okay, we’re switching perspectives here. I’ve been pondering this tactic for a while now. My favorite fantasy novelists (Tolkien and Martin) do this. However, both authors have all their characters start out in the same location before breaking apart. This gives the readers a sense of cohesion that I’m not sure my “jumping around” perspective does.

The images are of the “Crypt” in the Old Guildhall in London – one of my favorite places. I imagine the throne room in my novel somewhat like this, but longer and narrower.

***

Nikolas Shorack gazed listlessly around the chamber as a wizened old man continued to deliver his report. The man was clearly a relic of the past—no panache for public speaking at all. His monotone delivery was erratically punctuated by awkward moments of emphasis. “…small uprisings in Lower Agralax…murmurings of discontent in Myr Voc…extended progress in keeping the Banker Guild satisfied…crop production on track in Feldeen…”

Shorack didn’t bother to stifle his yawn. In his nine years as High Protector, he had sat through hundreds of weekly cabinet sessions. And, with each meeting, he became increasingly disinterested in state affairs. Since the Unification, he was well aware that he had become a mere figurehead. The real power was held by the Guilds. Each Guild was in charge of its own governance and had its own hierarchies and laws. Because of this compartmentalization, work had become more efficient, money began to flow, and the realm was no longer in need of a strong militaristic leader such as Shorack was, or at least had been. He was paraded around as a symbol of peace, and the office overtook the man himself—an ideal rather than an individual. Sure, there was the occasional skirmish amongst the Guilds, or a small band of rebels would quickly rise and fall in outlying areas, or a wall would collapse, or a road would become impassible. In these circumstances, Shorack would issue an edict written by someone else who had been informed by someone else who was hired by someone else. He would assure everyone that things were under control and send an emissary to take care of the problem quietly and efficiently.

In the meantime, his warhorses aged in the stables, his best soldiers had returned home long ago to raise families, his weapons rusted in their cases, and Shorack himself withered on a throne of his own making. Everything he had worked so hard to implement had come to fruition. The land was unified, and he was living a life his parents had never even dreamed of, yet he was dissatisfied. Somehow this was not the future he had predicted.

Shorack stood slowly, feeling an unfamiliar creek in his knee. “I trust you men can handle the afternoon’s affairs without me this once,” he announced, interrupting the speaker. With that, he walked out of the room before the others could rise officiously.

The Protector traversed the great hall to which the cabinet room was annexed. Long and narrow, the chamber was more akin to a Doxa temple than a throne room. Located at the heart of the palace, the room had no exterior walls, and thus no windows. The palace had its own house from the Chandler Guild working day and night just to keep the room lit. The room had once been Lord Willif’s throne room, and Shorack had resisted using it as his own formal chamber. However, his cabinet suggested that retaining a bit of the past would ease the change in leadership, allowing a bit of nostalgia for the past – though Nikolas was unsure why anyone would want to remember Willif’s reign.

Banners of the fifty guilds adorned the two long walls, twenty-five on each. The royal crest was situated over the throne itself, somewhat larger in its dimensions: a golden sword-bearing dragon reared in conquest on a pure white background, six gems below its feet, each representing one of the six strongholds of Nebe. Sar Emon of the Weavers Guild had designed the banner shortly after Shorack’s conquest in the southernmost stronghold of Rana. Until then, Shorack had been using the ancient Vustanian crest featuring a yellow ship on a sea of ocean blue, as Vustania was home to the realm’s busiest, and most efficient, seaports.

It was into a nautical life that Shorack had been born. The only son of a middling shipwright, Nikolas spent much of his youth admiring the Vustanian Guard. Many a harsh word was exchanged between father and son when Nikolas informed his father that he would be enlisting in the Vustanian Guard, rather than taking up his father’s calling. But Nikolas had experienced the hard conditions of an artisan’s life under a feudal system and preferred the excitement and promise of the military. The two had not spoken again after Nikolas left his parents’ house twenty years ago, and the insurrection following the regicide ensured that they would never speak again. Shorack visited the gravesite once a year on the Great Remembrance, but the choler of their parting still haunted him.

The Palace Guard stood at attention as Shorack stepped out of the building and rounded the corner to the stables. In the courtyard, young men were practicing with blunt-edged swords and wooden shields. New recruits had been steadily streaming in as the time for tithes had come in anticipation of the ten year anniversary of the Unification. In six months, Guild representatives from across the realm would pour into Nebe’s capitol city. With that many bodies in one place, security had to be tightened. As the realm’s main seaport, Llewling was accustomed to a variety of visitors from strange lands, purchasing and selling goods, recruiting young men and women, and sampling the native commodities. But the city had never had quite so many visitors as Sar Racine, the General of the Unified Army, was expecting for the festival.

Because of this, the number of annual tithes had been raised, including the number of young men each stronghold sent into martial service. Vustania itself could have supplied enough young men to get the job done—and Shorack would have preferred his soldiers to be comprised of Vustanians alone—but Racine suggested that requiring the six Strongholds to supply an equal number of soldiers would increase nationalism and hinder any thoughts of rebellion. So, each year, five hundred young men from each of the six strongholds traveled to the capitol for training and ten years of required service. This year, a thousand tithes from each stronghold were required to ensure peace—or at least the semblance of peace—during the festivities.

This new lot appeared to be from Hrundhl, Shorack noted. Large, muscular boys, weather-worn from the harsh environment of the northernmost archipelago. They look like they’ll cause more trouble than they’re worth. Sar Essex was putting the boys through basic courses, but none showed much promise at the moment. They awkwardly held the swords like meat cleavers and dropped their shields as often as they were hit. The bright sun and oppressive humidity had rendered more than a few laid out on their backs on the sidelines.

Shorack watched on as Essex demonstrated the proper stance for a hilt-hit to the gut, such as the boys would likely deliver in the close quarters of the city. No one wanted bloodshed, if possible, as it tended to incite more crowd control problems than it solved. Besides, most of the foot patrol only carried blunted swords, unbeknownst to the public. There was no need to provide deadly blades to new recruits who could get trumped up on their own power and let loose unnecessarily.  Shorack had seen it happen more than once. Hell, he had been that eager, power-hungry young man more than once.

For the seasoned soldiers who traveled the Spine, real weapons like those used during the war were necessary, but, within the Llewling limits, the mere semblance of military might had been enough to keep order over the past nine years. Besides, who needed a blade when a hilt or a fist or a shield would do? There was no reason for unnecessary death sentences when a smaller physical castigation would suffice. Shorack had learned that when he was a young soldier in Lord Willif’s army. The former Lord’s quickly incited wrath and haphazard, callous punishments for even the smallest infractions were what led to the first of the six regicides. Shorack made sure to learn from his predecessor’s mistakes by ensuring his own bark was worse than his bite.

Of course, that didn’t mean there weren’t ramifications for lawbreakers in the Unified Nebe. But Shorack preferred to scare the citizens from breaking the laws before they actually committed a crime. Therefore, he chose a handful of murderers, traitors, and rapists at each Quarter Sessions to make a public spectacle of – ensuring that the criminals had no family members wealthy or powerful enough to raise a stink, which was growing increasingly difficult with the rising wealth of ordinary citizens. While Nikolas didn’t want his people to fear him, as the people had feared Willif, he did want them to fear the sars and saras in charge of doling out punishments. As such, the Unified Army was ordered to never exert excessive power over the populace. This was rule number one that Essex instilled in the tithes and other recruits. And this was the lesson he was about to make sure the Hrundl recruits never forgot.

Essex planted his feet firmly on the ground as he ordered a tithe to attack him from behind. Unaware of what was awaiting him, an eager boy charged the old sar, certain that he could take the aging trainer down. One blink before the recruit actually reached Essex, the old man thrust his sword’s hilt backwards and downwards between his arm and his body, holding onto the sheathed blade with both hands for leverage and power. The hilt hit exactly as Shorack knew it would, knocking the boy to his knees. The tithe clutched his groin as he rocked back and forth. The other recruits winced in sympathy.

[To be continued…]