Untitled Sword & Sorcery Short Story
Length: 4,591
Draft: 1st Draft, no edits

by: Patrick Hester
© 2011 All Rights Reserved

The Witch King, bored, called upon the demi-god Utesh, for inspiration. A hundred bodies littered the ground below the sheer cliff wall of the castle, their life’s blood still warm in the throne rooms summoning pool. The Horned One appeared, spirit using the blood to give it form, lend it ground in the human world. Not until His bloody muzzle stood above the Witch King’s own horned helm, did Utesh speak words of forming in the black tongue causing two acolytes in attendance to fall dead to the floor upon the hearing.

The blood gone cold, the spirit of Utesh gone, the Witch King called for more cattle from the city. This night, he would set loose a monster.

# # #

Divorak, bored, heard strange tales of a new, interesting challenge on every tongue. Sure it was some sort of deception, he set his sister, Jlian, to finding the truth of it. Feeling the eyes of the fifth village of locals in just six days running over his broad shoulders, Divorak pulled sword and breaker from their scabbards on his saddle and began working out the kinks the long ride had set into his muscles.

The sword he held in his left hand, wide, flat blade as long as his arm. He preferred the breaker in his right hand, its blade half the length of the sword, twice as thick with notches cut into one side where it can catch an opponents sword. Slowly, at first, he swung sword and breaker, slicing through the air before him, imagining some foe dodging this way or that.

Time got away from him. It wasn’t until sweat flowed from his brow and soaked through the padding of his leather vambraces did he notice Jlian waiting for him. As always, she was covered from head to toe in dark robes, only her blue eyes and pale skin visible above the stiff-mask covering the lower half of her face. An acolyte of the goddess Lo Shan Wei, her talents lay in the arcane arts and as such, took a toll on her body that not even Divorak truly understood, a toll she worked hard to conceal beneath those robes.

“Well?” he asked, grabbing a bucket and tossing it into the trough.

“A score and more voices, all tell the same tales,” she said softly.

Undoing the knot on the leather scrap holding his long, pale hair back, he nodded, then took the bucket and upended it over his head, the cool water causing his skin to prickle. Jlian has many talents, including the ability to see into the heart of a man and know whether he spoke the truth or not. It was for this reason that he allowed her to broker all agreements on his behalf. She could tell with the first words spoken, whether or not the man before them would pay as promised or seek to deceive and withhold payment for work honestly done. If she said the tales were true, they were true.

“So.”

“So,” she echoed.

“An arena built for sport? A monster champion? A hundred gold crowns to anyone willing to fight the beast? Sounds impossible.”

“Ah,” she replied just loud enough for he alone to hear the word. “Fight and win.” Her voice held Power, much of it as he had seen for himself on more than one occasion, so she was forced to whisper most of the time lest some pour soul find themself beset by her unwilling tongue. “There is no reward for those who are killed.”

“And plenty of those if the tales be true,” he muttered. Another bucket of water and his stomach reminded him they had not eaten since break of day. The sun was now dipping towards night so he announced they would take meal at the inn and she followed. An hour later, he picked at his teeth with the bare bones of the chicken they’d shared, he, as always, eating the larger share for Jlian had little appetite anymore. When the bar wench he favored brought him another ale, he told his sister he intended to make for the arena.

“You decided that two weeks ago,” she whispered, her own cup still three quarters full of ale from when they’d sat down.

“Perhaps,” he agreed.

“It won’t be easy,” she continued in hushed tones. “They say this beast was let loose upon the land three winter’s back. It spent little time acquiring a taste for human flesh. It was only when its sport learned to run, hide, stay where it could not reach them, did the Witch King build the arena and offer the reward. Now fools from every station of life willingly walk for weeks for the honor of being slain by it. And for what? The promise of gold?”

Divorak belched loudly, hoping the wench heard it. She seemed promising for a companion through morning. “You said the gold was real.”

Jlian tsked. “Enough eyes have seen it resting on a pedestal in the arena that I know it to be there, but that doesn’t mean you will walk away with it anymore than those other fools whose blood now soaks the ground beneath the Witch King’s boots.”

The wench seemed to be trying to look at him without letting him know she was looking at him. Promising, indeed. Smiling, he looked at his sister and met her gaze, something few people managed anymore. “If I did not know better, sister, I would say you sound concerned for me.”

“I would not have you throw your life away on an impossible task.”

“Ah, but only the impossible ones are worth doing,” he replied, grinning now and counting out several coins from his purse. “I am going to go fuck that wench. Tomorrow I leave for the arena. Will you be joining me?”

“I will,” she said softly. With a nod, Divorak stood and made his way across the room where the wench waited with a smile. He did not notice the dangerous spark in his sister’s eyes.

# # #

The arena was more impressive than either sibling expected to see. Built outside the towering walls of the Witch King’s black stone city, it stood nearly as tall as those walls which Divorak judged to be ten times his own height and more. Round as his shield, it held rows upon rows of stone seats each higher than the last, enough for thousands of people to view the combatants below them. On a dais above the blood-soaked ground sat a throne large enough for three men. In it sat the Witch King himself, tall as a giant, covered in smoldering armor and horned helm. Red eyes blazed from within, lighting upon Jlian as soon as she entered beside her brother.

Knowing her own power no match for his, she paused, then prostrated herself before him. Divorak had seen this before and though he did not like it, understood that hers was a world different from his in most every way so he said nothing and simply waited. When the Witch King’s helm dipped ever so slightly in her direction, Jlian stood again and they were free to move to their seats with the other challengers along the bottom row. He was surprised to see so many, nearly two score of varying size and shapes. Only three or four looked to have any sort of skill, the rest obviously fools seeking release from their pitiful lives.

“He stares,” Jlian whispered. How Divorak heard her above the crowd he did not know, probably some magic of hers.

“Your beauty no doubt entices,” he quipped. He tried never to tread on topics of the arcane, preferring solid ground beneath his feet rather than wispy promises from spiritual patrons known best for their fickle natures.

“Would that it were so,” she replied. He shook his head at that. Women were difficult enough to understand, but that comment would tie his brain in knots for months if he allowed it. Instead, he took his seat and scanned the battleground below him.

The sands in these parts were not naturally red, so he assumed the color below came from the massive amounts of blood spilled by the beast champion. A large door sat in the shadow of the dais, presumably where the beast entered. Stairs lead from the challengers section down into a shadowed passage. Leaning out over the edge of the ring, he saw the gate where it must come out. Near the beasts door sat a pedestal, its column a carved relief of a prostrated human bearing the flat surface as a burden on his pitiful shoulders. Upon it rested a large leather satchel.

“The gold crowns,” whispered his sister. He grunted in reply.

The Witch King raised his hand and the assembled spectators fell silent.

“Once again,” his voice boomed throughout the arena. “We come together to see if the strength of man can persevere against The Beast!” At this, the crowd went wild with their cheering. Divorak frowned. Did these people not remember that this beast once terrorized them? Now they cheer to see it slaughter men? “The Prize!” cried the Witch King, and on the pedestal, the leather satchel vanished. Atop it, gold coins were stacked in a perfect pyramid. This hushed the crowd again.

Standing, the Witch King looked at the challengers. “Who among you dares to enter the ring?” Far to his left, a man jumped to his feet. He was covered in chain-mail, carried a large, two handed sword and wore a shiny helm upon his head. “I do!” he shouted. Divorak mourned for the man even before he took his first step down into the tunnel. All that armor would only weigh him down, keep him from being mobile. Jlian touched his arm, hissing, “The door opens.”

# # #

The creature that walked out onto the battlefield was unlike anything Divorak had seen before, and he had traveled the breadth and length of the land a dozen times over. Twice as tall as any man, it ducked beneath the arch and met the roar of the crowd with a spike toothed grin. Green and gray scales covered its skin running to a paler yellow on its underbelly. Its face was long, nose stretching out perhaps a hand from where its serpent eyes gleamed in the sun. Though it walked on two legs, those legs ended in clawed toes matching the clawed fingers on its elongated hands with a long, spiked tail trailing the dust behind it. As if that were not enough to make it different from all other things he had ever seen, when it paused to screech for the crowd, a pair of leathery wings sprang from its back, stretching out to either side and beating frantically at the wind causing red dust and sand to whip out into the cheering masses.

“Demon,” Jlian whispered.

“Aye,” Divorak agreed. He did not say out loud, however, what kind? He’d fought many in his short time on this earth and none looked as imposing or dangerous as this. He had no doubts it could use those wings not only to fly, but to batter a man with wind and sand, mayhaps to even cause his feet to fly from beneath his legs. Those claws looked sharp as daggers and twice as strong, those teeth perfect for rending flesh from bone.

Again a cheer went up from the crowd, heralding the arrival of the armored fool.

“Come, warrior, the prize is yours if only you can best my champion,” came the Witch King’s voice above the din.

The first match did not last long. The beast stood still as the man rushed in and spun, swinging his massive two-handed sword in a deadly arc only to find it turned by tough, scaly skin. The ring of the strike sounded like a bell throughout the arena. The man stood there for a moment, stunned, before the beast slapped him with a single clawed hand. Spiraling head over heels, he flew across the arena, landing in a roll that continued until he slammed into the far wall. The crowd went mad as he tried to push himself to his feet again. The beast waited patiently as he staggered back, limply picked up his sword, and pushed forward. Faster than Divorak’s eyes could track, the beast’s tail snapped and the man’s helm flew from its perch and rolled along the ground. Again the crowd went mad. Divorak looked from helm to man only to realize that the helm had not flown away empty, for a headless body now twitched before the beast, blood cascading down from the open wound.

“Next?” asked the Witch King.

# # #

“You are mad, brother,” hissed Jlian.

Perhaps, he thought. His original plan, such as it was, had been to wait until all the other challengers had gone into the arena and had their battles with the beast. In this way, he’d hoped that they would, at the least, have tired the creature out and carved the way for him to finish it off. Unfortunately, his plan hinged on these battles to last hours, not a single hour. He doubted the creature had even broken a sweat, if such a thing sweated at all.

As he scanned the empty challenger section, he wondered if he should’ve come up with a back-up plan. Just in case.

“Can you offer support?” he asked. It would not be the first time they’d cooperated in battle, another advantage of his sister’s arcane talents.

“No,” she replied. “Not with him watching. He’d know immediately.”

“Pity,” he sighed. A little extra strength or speed would’ve been useful, but he knew better than to push. If she feared the Witch King, nothing he said would convince her to help him cheat.

“You can still walk away.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked, truly bewildered by the suggestion.

“Next?” bellowed the Witch King as the last challenger fell, his body neatly sliced in two halves right down the middle. As gruesome a sight as that was, the crowd seemed lustier in their shouts than ever before. Divorak had to admit, it was a neat trick. He’d tried something similar once, but his sword, though passing neatly through the skull, had gotten caught around the jawline.

Standing, he passed over his breaker and shield to his sister’s care. He’d decided long ago that neither would do him much good against the beast. He also doffed his shirt, which he felt would slow him down.

Pointing his chin at the Witch King, he asked, “Will he pay?”

Shaking her head slightly, his sister replied, “No.”

“Bastard,” he grunted, taking the steps down into the tunnel. The air here was thick and hot, more so than he suspected. Two goblins waited there, one guarding the gate and the other working the wheel. As it pulled the rungs, the wheel spun and the gate moved slowly up. Divorak stepped past and into the light of the arena, the crowd’s roar like thunder in his ears.

Kneeling, he took a handful of red dirt and rubbed it between his hands, then another that he rubbed into the hilt of his sword, a third went down the length of the blade. The crowd seemed puzzled by this and he was in no mood to explain. Swinging the sword before him once, twice then a third time, he stopped and waited. The crowd roared, the beast screeched, then moved forward.

Its tail whipped out like it had so many other times in the last hour. Divorak dove right, the tail snapping through where he’d stood a moment before and slamming into the metal gate, the sound ringing through the arena. The beast screamed in pain, coiling its tail back, wings closing in and forming a barrier as if to protect the damaged flesh. It was the first pain the creature had felt this day and the sting of it was clearly shocking. Even the crowd had fallen to a dull murmur, unused to seeing the creature in any sort of pain.

Divorak wasted no time, coming to his feet and dashing forward, but he did not take the creature head on, instead angling to the side, slashing his sword along one of its leathery wings. Again, it shrieked in pain and twisted away from him. The arena had gone deathly silent but he tried to ignore all but the creature as it retreated again, trying to turn so its damaged wing faced away from him. In doing so, it gave him an opportunity to slice the other wing. This time, the shriek was so loud he nearly closed his eyes at the sound of it. Leaping into the air, the beast desperately beat its wings, trying to hover above him or carry it across the arena and away from him, but he’d cut both and they did not carry the creature as it intended, instead causing it to crash down awkwardly. Scrambling on all fours like a lizard, it folded its wings in and dashed across the sand.

Divorak spun, sword arcing high and came down on the tip of its tail just above where it’d struck the iron gate. The flesh there was softer and his sword cut easily, removing tip from tail. Blackish blood sputtered from the wound and the beast cried out, leaping forward and twisting all at the same time. Its momentum carried it forward, slamming it into the far wall. It lay on the ground there, dazed and shocked. Divorak sprinted forward, sword held low beside him.

He made straight for the head, brought his sword up and plunged it into the soft flesh of the beast’s left eye. It opened a moment before the sword penetrated. The beast reared up, a mournful sound escaping its lips. Divorak struggled to keep his hands on the hilt of his sword as it thrashed back and forth. He had only a moment to wish he’d driven the sword deeper before the blade loosed itself from the eye socket and he was cartwheeling through the air. Something solid stopped him suddenly and he plummeted to the ground where sand filled his open mouth and eyes.

Spitting sand and blood from his mouth, he shook his head, then tried to rub the sand from his eyes. It was painful and slow, the grains of sand scratching and digging in deeper the more he rubbed. Through blurred vision, he could see a mass he believed to be the creature spinning wildly on the other side of the arena. It seemed to be covering its wounded eye with its long fingers while its tail whipped about randomly as if to keep him away.

The mournful noise it was making had become deeper, louder. He almost felt pity for it. Almost. Pushing back to his feet, he took a deep breath and felt a sharp pain in his side. Gingerly touching the flesh there, he decided something inside was probably broken. He would need to end this sooner rather than later.

Looking at the blurry creature, he had to admit – he’d done much better than all the rest. Now he just had to finish it.

Inching along the edge of the arena, he kept to the creatures left side, not easy the way it was thrashing about. It had also taken to pounding its tail into the sand, kicking up dust all around it and sending tremors through the ground beneath his feet. That tail was still deadly, even without the spikes. If it came down on him it would surely crush him, so he had to avoid it, stay out of its reach until the last moment. He also couldn’t let it calm down or start thinking straight – it was in pain, suffering perhaps for the first time in its short little life. It didn’t know how to respond, what to do, so it was merely reacting, unlike the calculating predator he’d watched kill two score men as if they were no threat at all. He surely did not want that beast to return.

His mind was tracking that tail now, recognizing how it twisted opposite the way it was about to strike. When he saw that it was about to strike opposite him, he waited only until it began to arc up before dashing forward. He’d already dismissed the thought of trying to off-balance it somehow, perhaps slamming into its knee, knowing that, as large as he was, his mass was nothing compared to the beast. He doubted such an attack would do anything besides further break what was already broken inside his own body. No, instead, he knew his attack on the soft flesh must continue. It was the only vulnerable spots on this creature he could exploit.

So instead of leaning into his mad dash as he approached the creatures flank, he leapt up, foot landing on the exposed thigh like a step, thrusting him higher, sword held like a dagger. He flew up, the beast turning at his touch, clawed hands slashing for him while his sword found its mark, the soft, fleshy area to the side of its face where the ear slits were. Hot lighting scored his chest but the sword sank further and further, fueled by his momentum. Soon he was falling forward, the beast beneath him, his own hands slipping from the hilt of his sword as they disappeared in a cloud of dust, dirt and blood.

# # #

Jlian fought the urge to gasp as she waited for the dust to settle. Opposite her, the Witch King sat silent on his throne. She was certain it was her imagination playing tricks, that his red eyes were not, in fact, glowing brighter than they had when she first looked upon him.

Her brother was a troublesome man, moreso than most knew. Life would be considerably less exciting were he to settle down. Still, his performance today – he had out done himself. Never had she seen such a thing. It would be fitting for the dust to clear and she to find both the beast and her dear brother locked in death’s embrace arm in arm. She would not put it past him to do such a thing to her, though he would argue that she is no victim to his heroics.

Looking around the arena, the crowd’s mood had drastically changed. Used to slaughter, a real fight had never occurred to them. Many sat stock still, mouths agape, eyes wide, but more paid little or no attention to the battle, instead staring to the Witch King, awaiting his reaction.

Jlian worried about that as well.

A groan reached her ears and she looked down. Her brother was staggering away from the beast, its body still twitching, his sword planted firmly in its skull. She shook her head, amazed. No wonder she’d been tasked with his care all those years ago. He truly was destined for great things.

“I have killed your beast,” he wheezed, hand pressing against his side. Frowning, she wondered what sort of damage had been done there. “There it lies,” he waved a hand. “The prize is mine.”

Everyone waited. Jlian found herself going through various spells she might incant and rejecting them, one by one, as far too weak. Nothing in her arsenal would prove effective against someone of the Witch King’s power. Still, she could destroy his arena, perhaps cause damage to his city. She would have only one chance, so she chose to target the city, quickly weeding away anything that would take too long to cast. Once the With King began his incantation, she would have mere seconds to cast her own before he was free to counter her again.

“So you have.” The Witch King’s voice filled the arena. “The prize is yours.”

Jlian blinked.

Where the pyramid of gold rested on the pedestal, the leather satchel returned. Divorak stepped up, one eye on the Witch King, the other on the satchel, and lifted it from its perch. Looking inside, he smiled up at the dais, retrieved his sword and returned to Jlian.

# # #

Jlian Spoke the Word of Healing, and Divorak found it much easier to breath.

“What about the arm?” he asked. It felt broken, but not badly. He could still move the fingers of his right hand, though they were numb.

“Later,” she whispered. “I need to rest.” To punctuate this, Jlian curled up next to the fire, closed her eyes and began to snore.

Divorak counted to three before asking the night, “Why did you let us live?”

The Witch King, looking no taller than any other man, stepped from the darkness and took the log opposite him. “Because you expected me to kill you,” he answered, voice hushed. It was odd to him that this creature would speak so like his sister, careful not to use his Voice.

“She did not sense you,” he said, pointing his chin at his sleeping sister.

“She did not.”

“Come for your gold back, then?” Divorak asked, casting a furtive glance at his sister while shaking the satchel, the gold inside clinking mutely. She appeared to be dead asleep. Healing did that to her. He tried to will her eyes to open but it did not work. Sighing, he replaced the satchel on the ground before him and stared across the fire at their new guest.

The Witch King sat silent. As that silence drew on, Divorak wondered if perhaps both magic users were now asleep. Still, the Witch King’s eyes burned red, fixed upon him, unblinking. For his part, Divorak was tired and more than content to wait until the King found his voice again. It took some time.

“You may keep it,” he said at last.

Divorak decided not to say the first thing that came into his head. Instead, he thought on it, inclined his head and said, “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me, Divorak of Ghul,” hissed the King. Divorak blinked at the naming of his home village. “I said you may keep the gold. You may also lose it, this very night.”

“So,” he grimaced. “I knew you would come to fight me.”

The Witch King did another thing that Divorak did not expect, he laughed. It was a merry thing, full of mirth, the sound of which should never have come from such a creature. Slapping hand to knee, the Witch King, amused, leaned back upon his log. “I should pay another hundred crowns for that alone. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so. You are a rare man, Divorak of Ghul. Pity.”

“Pity?” Divorak asked.

“Aye. For, though you slew my beast in fair combat, you failed to slay her children.” A sudden, high pitched screech rent through the air, quickly followed by another and another. Divorak jumped to his feet, head twisting back and forth, trying to pinpoint where they were. He thought perhaps a mile away, southeast of where they now sat.

“Why do you grin?” the Witch King asked.

Divorak, picking up his sword, realized that he was, in fact, grinning like a fool. This time he did not hesitate to say the first thing that came into his head and was glad for it, because the Witch King seemed taken aback.

“Because. This should be fun!”

~End~

Make me famous:

So, I recently shared with you guys an excerpt from a WIP – an untitled space opera.  It was from one characters point of view – the story itself has multiple characters so we can see a lot of different pov’s.  Today, I wanted to share one of those with you.

Ulysses Sean Starker is the character who inspired this entire story.  It was his tale that I wanted to tell.  I realized early on that I needed to build his past before I could tell the story that I wanted to share – even if no one else ever read any of it.  Luckily, my brain being my brain, his past became this interesting and compelling story in its own right and other characters, like Gabe Carter, started to emerge.  But it all started with Uly and wanting to understand him better, know where he came from, how he became the man I first imagined him to be.

So, meet Ulysses Sean Starker, son of a farmer who only wanted to be something different.

Excerpt: Untitled Space Opera

By Patrick Hester

© 2010/2011 All Rights Reserved

In a word, farming was boring.  At least for Uly; short for Ulysses Sean Starker, only son of Atticus and Deidre Starker.  In just one day, Uly would turn seventeen.  His parents were firmly in the ‘you’re going to be a farmer just like us’ camp, while he was firmly in the ‘oh God please get me the hell off this rock’ camp.  Rarely did the two camps see eye to eye, which made family dinners interesting, to say the least.

“You have to aerate the soil,” said his father while demonstrating his technique.  Atticus Starker was a tall, thin man with too-tanned skin and thinning brown hair currently matted down with sweat.  His eyes were gray and sharp; he could see Uly goofing off or not doing his chores around corners and through walls.  Currently, Atticus wore a simple set of blue-jean overalls, a thin undershirt and his normal workboots, all of it covered in a thin layer of dust, dirt and grime, though the boots certainly had the lion share of each with more than a little mud thrown in for good measure.

“We have machines that do this,” Uly said.  His father looked up from where he was working with his hand tools, leaning back on his knees to frown at his son.  “We also have machines that measure the moisture in the ground, the maturity of the crop, the ratio of bees to pollenizer – all done by machines and all managed by your pad.”  Uly threw this last bit out because he knew damn well the pad was sitting back at the house in practically brand new condition despite being over twelve years old.  His father preferred a more ‘hands on’ approach to farming and suffered the trappings of modern ingenuity and technology only because the military insisted on it.

“You have to get dirty sometimes, Uly,” Atticus said.  “You have to dig your own hands into the soil, feel it under your fingernails, get a sense of it.  One day, all of this is going to be your responsibility and you are going to need to know it all as well as I do.  There’s not a spot on this farm unknown to me, because I take the time and make the effort.  You need to do the same.  Now, get down here and-“

“I’m enlisting tomorrow,” Uly interrupted him.  His father looked suddenly very tired.

“We’ve discussed this before and no, you are not.  You’re a farmer.  Now, grab your trowel from the truck and-“

“I’m not asking you for permission,” Uly interrupted him again.  “I’m telling you what’s going to happen tomorrow.  I’m going to wake up, get cleaned up, head into town and sign the papers.  I’m enlisting, dad.  Tomorrow.”

“You are a damned fool,” his father said, then he threw his tools down for emphasis.  “You never can get it through that thick damned head of yours,” he added, rising.  Atticus was not an imposing man normally, but standing nose to nose with him, Uly found himself fidgeting.  He himself was bulkier; built like the football player he’d become whereas his dad was easily a runner.  Where Atticus had thin but well hardened arms, Uly had more defined muscles and more heft to him.  His football coach wanted him for linebacker but Uly preferred wide receiver because he was strong and quick.  His eyes were his father’s but his hair was darker, favoring his mother and his skin, though tanned, was not as leathery as either of his parents.

“We’re safe here,” he said, thumping his finger on Uly’s forehead to emphasize each word.  “No wars, no terrorists, no politics, decent pay and plenty of work that needs doing.”

“If you’re a farmer,” Uly said.

“Son, you are a farmer, you just don’t know it yet.”

“I’m not a farmer and we’re safe because there are people out there protecting us!”

“No, we’re safe because no one knows we exist,” Atticus sighed.  He brushed by Uly and made his way to the truck.  A little rougher than he needed to be, he pulled the water cooler from its place in the back and held it above his head to take a drink.  When he was done, he leaned back against the truck and stared at his son.

“Your mother and I had to make some difficult decisions before you were ever even conceived.  We could’ve stayed home, lived our lives the way we always had, worked to pay off our debts and taxes, but we never could’ve afforded to have a child – not the way we were going and with the money we were qualified to make.  It was the easier way.  We had a bit of family around, life wasn’t terrible, but we just didn’t see a future that we wanted in it.  So, when the chance came up to move here, we took it.  ‘Wipe away your debt’ said the recruiter, and all we had to do was sign the Official Secrets Act and let our families believe we’d died in a car crash or some such bullshit.  A new beginning the moment we signed those papers; a whole new world to call our own.  Coming here, there were no prohibitions on having children, no prophylactic implants – we were encouraged to have children and as many as we could or wanted without any taxation or fees!  If your mother hadn’t had complications… That’s neither here nor there.  Believe me, son, this is paradise compared to back home.  You wouldn’t even be here if we hadn’t chosen to be farmers on this colony.”

It was the most his father had ever said on the subject in one sitting, but it had little impact on Uly.  He was frustrated that his parents either didn’t see how miserable he was, or they outright chose to ignore it.  Either way, he was done.

“I leave at six thirty tomorrow morning,” he said as he turned and walked away.  He could feel his father’s eyes on him with every step; he never looked back.

* * *

Ruby was snuggled into the crook of his arm, her cocoa brown skin warm against his. They were wrapped in his sleeping bag on soft grass far from everyone. Well, as far as they were allowed to go. The military had strict ‘out of bounds’ rules and fences. Still, they were far enough away for it to feel like forever. Uly was staring up at the sky and thinking. When she pinched his chest and yanked out a hair, he yelped.

“I’m getting the feeling you’re not here with me anymore,” she said with a wicked grin. Her dark eyes were full of amusement, her slim face still a bit flushed from their last… “I think I deserve your full attention, sir,” she said.

“You have it,” he smiled. “I swear!” he added when he saw the menacing look cross her face. She leaned in and rested her head against his chest.

“You’re thinking about Atticus again,” she said, not really asking a question.

“And tomorrow,” he admitted. “But I’m here now. Promise.”

“I really have no idea what I’m going to do when you’re gone,” she said softly. She wouldn’t turn seventeen for another six months and even then, wasn’t sure what she wanted to do yet.

“Don’t wait for me,” he said quickly, and got a hard slap on the chest for it.

“I heard they’re talking about lowering the age limit again, making it sixteen now instead of seventeen when you can enlist.” Uly whistled. That would not sit well with Atticus. He’d fought hard ten years ago to keep the limit at eighteen only to lose at the polls when the referendum passed with a startling majority.

“Are you going to enlist then?” he asked. He knew what she would say.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, just as he knew she would. He didn’t think she would leave the colony; the farmer was too strong inside of her. She was more like his parents than either of them liked to admit, and yet, he loved her. He would marry her if she’d have him, but was afraid to ask unless he knew how she’d answer. “Momma says it would be good for me but daddy says he doesn’t want me to go.” What do you want?, he almost asked, but he knew that down that road was a fight he didn’t want to have tonight.

“Ruebella? Get your ass home this minute! If you’re out past curfew again I will make sure you never sit right again! Do you hear me, girl?!”

The voice was Ruby’s mother and Uly found himself chuckling. Ruby started to extricate herself from the sleeping bag, digging through the pile of clothing that was half hers half his until she came up with her wrist wave.

“We’re on our way back now, momma,” she said, then quickly turned it off. Uly found himself with a wonderful view of her; standing in the moonlight, naked, shadows and light falling just right to accentuate her curves. Her dark hair shimmered, falling in rings across her shoulders and down her back. When she noticed him noticing her, she smiled. “I’m going to be late again, aren’t I?” she asked.

He threw back the sleeping bag to show her the effect she was having on him.

“God, I hope so,” he said. She laughed as she dove back in.

* * *

“Name?”

Uly rolled his eyes. “Thom? You have known me all my life. You’re only a year older than me. We played football together for three years.”

Blushing with each word, Thom Castle looked like a thundercloud about to erupt. He was a larger man than Uly, much larger, with wide arms and a wide torso and a melon of a head to match. Gone was the curly dark hair of his youth, replaced by the short-cut marking him as part of the military (as if the blue and gray uniform didn’t say it loudly enough). Absently, Uly wondered if they’d had as much trouble fitting him for that uniform as the football team had. The man was a mountain on two legs.

“God dammit, Uly! This is my job! I have to do it right!”

“Okay, okay,” Uly said, putting his hands up to forestall anything turning ugly. “I’m sorry.”

“Good. Now, name?”

“Ulysses Sean Starker.”

Thom pushed the keys on his terminal one at a time, his pudgy, sausage-like fingers sometimes causing him to push too many all at once, then having to go back and correct it. Uly started to wonder how long this was going to take and if there were going to be mistakes made.

He’d left the farm at six-thirty on the dot, his father nowhere to be seen but his mother seeing him off from the porch all full of tears and hugs. Dinner had been a nightmare, of course, but Ruby had taken his mind off of that. He’d snuck in after curfew and never heard his father leave in the morning before him, but somehow he’d managed it. Still, he thought he felt his eyes on him now and again as he walked to town.

“Age?” asked Thom.

“Seventeen today,” he replied, trying hard not to roll his eyes again. His mother was a puzzle to him; the night before, she’d been just as vehement as his father, just as loud with the yelling, but this morning, she was sad and teary eyed and clingy. He just didn’t understand women.

“Papers to prove it? School transcripts? Medical history?” Thom asked.

Uly waved his hand above the reader and Thom nodded as his terminal dinged, Uly’s implant having transferred the necessary information. At least Ruby hadn’t acted like his mother. She took everything in stride; no tears, no guilt. He really did love her.

“High test scores,” Thom grunted. He was looking at the data and grimacing. Thom always had struggled with school work. Uly had pushed to graduate early, taking summer courses and doing extra hours. Everyone thought he was dedicated to school but really, he just did it because it meant fewer hours working the farm. He’d also done better than most with half as much work, which bothered people. Given Thom’s expression, he must’ve been one of those people. “Broke your collar bone?”

“Yeah. Remember that game against Benton two years ago?”

“Oh, yeah,” Thom said with a whistle. “That was murder.”

They’d lost by twenty-four points. The rain was coming down as if someone were up in the sky pouring it out of buckets, turning the field into a mess of mud and standing water. A dozen players had broken something that day with all the slipping and sliding going on, except for Uly. Roshuka Gaida had taken him down in the third with a too-high hit from behind that had gotten him banned from playing the rest of the year given that it could’ve crippled him. Little consolation to Uly who lay face down in the mud, his collar bone broken and his mouth full of blood, mud and water.

“Roshuka joined,” Thom said into his thoughts. Uly’s eyebrows climbed nearly off his head. “Already off-world,” he added with a nod.

“Wow,” Uly said. It was all he could think to say. Roshuka had a mean streak a mile wide and everybody knew it. Part of him was glad the man wasn’t anywhere near the people he loved anymore but another part worried for anyone fighting against him. Roshuka would show no mercy.

“Okay, everything looks like it’s in order. Take a look at your screen and make sure the information is correct,” Thom said. The screen facing Uly flared to life and he saw all of his information. He did a quick scan through it, nodding.

“It’s correct,” he said.

“Wave please,” Thom asked. Uly waved his hand across the reader and Thom’s terminal dinged again. “All right, all that’s left is for me to read to you the agreement for enlistment and for you to wave your agreement. Please wait until I have completed reading the agreement before you wave the reader. Do you understand these instructions? Please wave for yes.”

Uly waved his hand across the reader, Thom nodded as it dinged.

“You affirm today that you understand you are enlisting in the United States Defense Force on this, your seventeenth birthday and that you foreswear all other allegiances and oaths, that you will support the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic and will obey all orders given to you without question according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You agree and understand that you can and may be sent away from this, your homeworld, for a period of no less than five years and you will remain on reserve recall for no less than fifteen years beyond your term, during which you may, at any time and without warning, be recalled to active duty. Do you affirm and swear, before God and myself as your witness, that you do understand and agree to the terms of your enlistment?”

Uly waved his hand above the reader. Thom nodded at the deeper ding that his terminal made, then looked up with a grin and offered his hand to Uly. “Welcome to the USDF!” Uly took the hand with a smile of his own. It was official now; he was a soldier.

“You’ll report out front of this recruiting station tomorrow morning for duty, nine o’clock. If you don’t show up, they’ll send someone to find you. I don’t recommend you let that happen.”

“I won’t,” Uly said. “I’ll be here.”

Uly walked out of the recruitment center expecting to feel different, like he was a different person but he still felt like Uly. He shook his head, then he saw his father’s truck. There was no mistaking the beat up old red Ford. His father stepped out and walked around without even looking at Uly. He reached into the back and pulled a duffel which went on the ground in the middle of the street, then he pulled a second one that landed next to it.

“Your things,” he said. “Don’t come back to the farm.”

“Dad…” Uly said, taking a step forward. The look on his father’s face stopped him dead.

“Don’t come back to the farm, Ulysses.”

Uly didn’t know what to say. He watched as his father drove away.

* * *

“You can sleep in the guest room – alone. And you Ruebella? I’m lockin’ you’re door tonight from the outside and if you step out it, I’ll shoot you and him. Is that clear?”

“Yes, momma,” Ruby replied. Genevieve Boisseau fixed him with a stare that would’ve sent any sane man running for the hills. Short, dark skinned and heavy-set with her abundant hair done up in layers and held in place with a cloth (Ruby told him what it was called once but he suddenly couldn’t recall), Genevieve was an imposing woman, more so considering that she seemed to have an intimate knowledge of his intimate knowledge of her daughter.

Women were crazy. They talked about everything.

“And you,” she said in that accent his parents had told him was half French half Southern, “What your parents done ain’t right. Rest easy knowin’ I will have words with them. For tonight, keep your nose clean and your dick dry, you hearin’ me boy?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said quickly, trying hard not to look at either of them. Ruby was smiling. Smiling!

“You can help Ruebella with her chores and we’ll getcha to town tomorrow,” Genevieve announced. With that, she left them alone in the guest room, though she didn’t close the door.

“She left us a window,” said Ruby as she came up to him, stood on her tip toes and kissed him.

“A what?” he asked, one eye on the door in case they got caught and he needed to start running.

“She said she was locking the door. Didn’t say anything about the windows,” she said as she slid her hand down his pants. Uly jumped and stepped back.

“Ruby! She’ll kill us!” Ruby laughed that throaty laugh that meant she was ready to do terrible things, terrible, wonderful things that would get them both shot by her mother in a fit of rage.

“Then come help me with the chores. We can start in the barn with the hay…”

* * *

“Now, you listen to me good, boy, hear?” Uly nodded. “You keep your head down! Don’t be drawing attention to yourself. Just do what they tell you and when and you’ll be fine, hear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Uly said with a smile. Mrs. Boisseau eyed him as if she didn’t believe him, but then she smiled, hugged him and kissed him on one cheek and then the other.

“I’ll give you two a minute. Don’t tally, Ruebella!” and she waddled off.

The USDF shuttle had arrived just a few minutes ago, and all the recruits were milling about, making their goodbyes to loved ones and friends. He was surprised by both the numbers of recruits and how many he knew personally. He’d counted at least thirty in the crowd and knew maybe a quarter of those by name and another quarter were familiar if he didn’t know their names. Devlin Ortiz was there; he lived up North and attended Conrad High School. They’d played each other a lot on various teams growing up. The other smiled at him when he made eye contact and Uly smiled back. Searah Alistair was from Uly’s class; a small girl with light hair and large eyes that never really said much. He was surprised to see her there at all, he didn’t get the ‘military vibe’ from her.

A few others caught his eye; Robin Trayce with his curly hair and freckled face, Danis Hobb all muscle and no neck, Kristen Alvarez, easily one of the most beautiful girls in school, like something out of a vid she was all boobs, hair and butt, Tamothy Druin, long, tall and gangly – the list went on and on.

“Hey,” Ruby said, cupping his chin and directing his eyes toward her. She slipped her arms around him and he around her; they kissed until he heard someone telling him it was time to go.

“You better send me a wave when you get there,” she said as he reluctantly pulled away.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

“And one every day after that!” she added with a smile.

“I’ll try!” he shouted as he ran for the shuttle door. He was the last one on and ended up next to Tamothy, quickly strapping into the seat.

“Well,” said Tamothy in a surprisingly deep voice. “Here we go.”

Uly looked at him and Tam smiled. “Voice changed this summer.”

“I had no idea!” Uly said with a laugh. Tam shrugged.

“I don’t talk much so how could you?”

“We’ll have to fix that,” Uly said as he felt the shuttle shudder and lift off. He looked out across Tam to the window and saw the town quickly shrink as the shuttle rose into the clouds. Uly took his duffle and shoved it under the seat in front of him. He’d gone through the things his father had brought him and cut it down to just the essentials, then asked Mrs. Boisseau if he might keep the rest at her home until he could send for it. She said yes so he was able to travel much lighter.

“I didn’t see your parents,” Tam said. Uly shook his head.

“We said good-bye on the farm,” he lied. If Tam knew it for a lie, he said nothing, just stared out the window. The view out the window flared and became darkness, both of them leaned to get a view.

“We’re in space,” Tam said breathlessly.

“I wonder where we’re going…” Uly said as he watched the planet start to fade beneath them.

“I don’t know, Earth maybe? Where do they train us?” Tam asked. Uly had no clue, but he doubted it would be Earth. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d get that lucky on his first time off-world. Earth existed to him only as a series of images in history books. There was very little direct contact between the colony and Earth for security reasons. At least, that’s what he’d always been told.

“Welcome to the United States Defense Force,” said a pleasant female voice. The lights in the cabin began to dim and the vids on the backs of the chairs in front of them sparked to life. “As part of the Protected Colony Planet Initiative, you or your legal guardians signed the Official Secrets Act as part of their Colonization Agreement. This means that your home world is classified top-secret in order to protect it and you from harm at the hands of our enemies at home and abroad. When leaving your home-world, you are bound by the oaths and agreements taken by your legal guardians to protect the location and existence of your home-world. To facilitate this, your planet, Montana and all the towns within were named after towns in Montana on Earth. Further, street names, layouts of towns, schools – all of these are identical to their Earth counterparts.”

Uly shared a look with Tam. The screen in front of them began showing side by side maps of their home towns and their counterparts on Earth. It was eerie. Uly felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when he saw his high school side by side with an identical one on Earth.

“If asked, you can honestly tell anyone the name of your home town, the schools you attended, the parks where you played as a child and they will assume you are from Earth. Further inquiry will show that, on the surface, your details match the towns in question. If pressed, understand that violation of the Official Secrets Act will result in execution for treason of yourself and any living family members off world. Please wave that you understand.”

Uly swallowed as he waved his understanding to the vid, changing the color from red to green. Tam did the same, his own vid turning green. After a few minutes, the entire cabin was filled with a green hue and the voice returned.

“Thank you. Your flight today will be short. Please be sure that your harnesses are secured as we approach the Tower Transport System.”

The vid died and the cabin lights came back on. Murmurs started throughout and Tam looked at Uly, shaking his head.

“I’d wondered,” said Tam. “But I never expected that.”

“We’re on a secret colony,” Uly said. “I suppose they have to do something to keep it secret.”

“But why?” Tam asked. “I mean, why is it a secret?”

“I don’t know,” Uly shook his head. “My dad always said there were a lot of problems on Earth; wars, terrorism, crime – he said that was only part of why they took the deal to come here. There’s probably more,” he added.

“The Chinese,” said a new voice. Both turned and looked across the aisle. It was Searah Alistair and Kristen Alvarez, Searah had done the talking.

“What do you mean?” Tam asked.

“The Chinese have been pushing for a long time,” Searah explained. “They outnumber us easily ten to one and back on Earth, the US has a lot of rules and laws limiting procreation, so they had to do something to increase our numbers for the coming war.”

“You think there’s going to be a war?” Kristen asked. Searah nodded.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s only a matter of time. So they have to keep the colony worlds secret so they’re safe. Like a fall back position.”

Uly didn’t like the sound of that at all, any of it.

Make me famous:

This one has been bouncing around in my head for quiet some time.  I work a little on it now and then when the mood strikes me.  It’s a complicated piece.

This week, after complaining that I hadn’t been very productive, I found myself working on this again and really getting into it so I thought that I would share a little bit with you here today.  I hope you like it.

Untitled Space Opera

By Patrick Hester

© 2010/2011 All Rights Reserved

Earth Prime: November 11, 2260 by the old calendar, 0315 hours

“Incoming call, Admiralty, Priority: Urgent.”

Gabe Carter, Commander Naval Intelligence, groaned.

Blinking at the clock on his nightstand, he fumbled around until his hand landed on the base of the lamp to click it on. Yellow light flooded the room causing him to blink some more and rub at his eyes. Pushing back the covers, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

“Accept call, bedroom,” he said to the pleasant enough female voice. The panel on the wall beside his bed flared to life, displaying the logo of the United States Defense Force complete with American Eagle, flag, laurel wreath and star pattern. Two heartbeats later, it was replaced by the image of an older woman in a robe, her silver and blond hair falling down around her shoulders.

Carter had never seen Vice-Admiral Vaicci quite so unkempt before. The woman was normally a paragon of military protocol and decorum. Her hair had always been impeccable, her uniforms spotless – to see her in this way somehow lent a vulnerability to her that made him wholly uncomfortable. It was silly of course – no one could sleep in their uniform with their hair perfectly set, but, somehow, thinking that she did, that she always looked that way, made it easier in his mind. He didn’t know why.

“Commander,” she greeted him. If she were uncomfortable with his standing there in a t-shirt and his tighty-whities, she didn’t show it. “Sorry to wake you. I know you’re coming off a forty-eight hour debrief on the El Salvador mess.”

“No problem, Admiral,” he said, stifling a yawn.

“I need you on Mars.”

Carter let out a long, slow breath. He couldn’t help himself. He hated space travel, always had.

“I know your feelings on the subject,” she smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“Of course, Admiral,” he nodded. “I apologize for my hesitation.”

“Are you familiar with the Arizona?”

“Raymond Feist’s ship? I am.” Older than Carter, Captain Feist had been a friend for decades. He liked the man immensely.

“That’s the one. They’re scheduled to start a six week Mars patrol tomorrow morning, 0900. I am moving their departure up to 0400 and you will be going with them.”

Carter glanced back at the clock on his nightstand – 0315. That didn’t leave a lot of time to get into orbit.

“Take a private tube,” the Admiral said into his thoughts. “Expense it.”

“Aye, sir,” he replied, his mind already going through a checklist of things he’ll need; computer pad, extra uniforms, skivvies if he needs to go off base and blend in. He already had a bag packed – really, he hadn’t unpacked, so that was sort of convenient.

“You haven’t asked why,” the Admiral said.

Carter looked her in the eye. “I figured you’d tell me what you wanted me to know, Admiral.” He was used to going places on little information and very short notice. It was the life of the naval intelligence officer.

“Good answer,” she smiled. “I don’t want to say over this channel.”

Carter stared at her. That was something. They were using the military net, supposedly the most secure trunk of the Westernet and nearly impossible to track, trace or tap. “I see.” He said after a minute.

“You’ll be fully briefed upon arrival. Contacts and what specifics I can provide will be on your pad by the time you reach the Arizona. Don’t dally, Commander.”

“Understood,” he said as the panel went dark again. Sliding the closet door open, he pulled his duffel out and began going through the contents to see if there were anything he needed to add. Shaking his head, he wondered – what the hell is going on on Mars?

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, having taken a private, priority tube to March Air Base where a Lear Shuttle waited for him, Commander Gabriel Carter stared out from the bridge of the U.S.S. Arizona at the small, blue planet in the distance. The Arizona had been waiting in high earth orbit for his shuttle to arrive. No sooner had they touched down than the carrier fired her engines and shot off past the moon to find the massive, I.D.E.A. maintained Jump Gate. The gate was really two long, wide platforms with a narrow trench between them where ships like the Arizona slid in and waited for transport. Once, as a boy, he’d had the opportunity to pass through the Panama Canal – jump gates always reminded him of that experience, of the ridiculous claustrophobia he felt at being penned in on either side. In this case, the gate walls swallowed up space itself. If you looked left or right, you got a sense of just how small you were compared to these massive constructs. Whenever he had to travel, he preferred staring straight ahead, through the end of the trench where you could still see space and the earth.

It was a silly thing, but part of why he hated space travel so much. Who else could say, when faced with the great expanse of the universe, that they felt closed in and claustrophobic?

People below him were speaking back and forth in short, clipped sentences. It was comforting in a way. They were the ones in charge of this ship, the ones making sure everything was running correctly, that they were in the right place, that they didn’t accidentally crash into the gate wall. That was a scary thought. Terrorists has taken out the original earth jump gate that way, commandeering one of the large expeditionary ships the I.D.E.A. Corporation uses to explore distant solar systems, then ramming it right into one of the platforms while it was charging up and preparing to do whatever it did that got you from one point in the universe to another. The explosion had been spectacular and the radiation had rendered hundreds of miles of lunar landscape unsafe for humans to this day. That was why the new gate was stationed further out and away from moon and earth alike.

“Any thoughts on why I had to wake up early for this little jump to Mars?”

Carter turned, smiling at the man who’d come up beside him. Raymond Feist was of average height with skinny shoulders and lightening black hair cut close to his scalp. He wore the light tan uniform the Navy tended to prefer, his chest ribbons showing his rank and status as a captain of the space fleet. There were dark circles under his light eyes and a tightness there Gabe did not recall of his friend. Granted, they hadn’t seen each other in over a year, but they’d stayed in touch through messages here and there. He thought of the mission to Mars the Arizona was about to undertake and decided that there was plenty there to cause stress and tension. Ever since the treaty talks with the Chinese had broken down, tensions were high throughout the fleet. Everyone was expecting a confrontation sooner rather than later and no one was looking forward to how a fight between American and Chinese forces might play out.

“Even if I knew, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell you, Ray.”

Feist snorted. “Intelligence rat.”

“Fleet popinjay.”

Both men laughed briefly at the barbs, but Feist sobered quickly and lowered his voice. “Has to be damned important to get you on a ship to Mars in the middle of the night.”

Carter couldn’t argue with that logic. He’d been thinking about it nonstop since the Admiral’s call. He still didn’t have any particulars beyond where he was supposed to go and who he was supposed to meet. That information did lend itself to speculation, none of which he was prepared to share with the captain of the Arizona, no matter how long they’d been friends. The Mars colony was officially split into two sections; military and civilian. Unofficially there was a third section connected to the military side that few people ever saw. It was from this station that a lot of intelligence about Chinese fleet movements were compiled and analyzed. His orders were taking him to that area and he could assume it was to look at something fleet didn’t want to transmit back to earth.

Ominous, that.

“I agree, Ray,” he said aloud. “But I don’t know what it is. I swear.”

Feist nodded, unconvinced and Carter knew what he was thinking – it was classified and he couldn’t talk about it. That was the problem with being in intelligence – everyone thought you were always lying to them. It had strained more than one friendship since his move to the division a decade ago.

The first flash of lightning made him cringe, causing Feist to chuckle. “I hate this part,” he commented. He did. They’d obviously received their clearance and the gate had begun to cycle up. The effect was a series of ever increasing arcs and flashes of electricity dancing along the walls of the gate. Faster than most people were prepared for, those same arcs would reach out to the hull of the ship, passing through it, through the crew – through him, unseen thank God. If he actually saw a giant lightning bolt crossing the deck towards him, he would run the other way.

Without looking, he knew that the thin little antenna that stuck out from the edges of the gate walls, were even know, beginning to pulse and glow. Up one side, down the other, back and forth, over and over. The light grew in intensity, so much so that Feist ordered shades to descend, halving the sun exploding to life around them. Shading his eyes, Carter waited for the moment when his stomach felt like it was being yanked out of his body, down some tube or pipe as if the universe had just flushed him. He didn’t have too wait long.

Different people had different reactions though the majority reacted no worse than if they’d just been tossed around bye a roller-coaster ride. He knew a senator on the arms services committee who threw up every single time without fail. His ex-fiancee immediately got a headache whenever she jumped, one that wouldn’t go away for days sometimes. For Carter, it was a brief moment of vertigo. The universe spun around him, forcing him to grip the rail before him to keep from pitching over.

A chime surrounded throughout the ship, followed quickly by a monotone voice declaring, “Jump successful. Clocks adjusted ten minutes for jump displacement. Welcome to the Mars Protectorate.”

Carter checked the time as it flashed across his peripheral vision, fed by the implant located behind his cornea. Nodding to himself, he took several breaths before standing upright and pulling his uniform jacket down and straight again. The other thing he hated about space travel was the loss of time. Ten minutes of his life were gone. To his mind, the trip had been instantaneous but the computer knew better. According to her, seven minutes were just gone and they were supposed to move on with their lives as if nothing bad had just happened. He often wondered why no one else ever seemed to be bothered by that. If he lost ten minutes every time he jumped, and sometimes he lost more, sometimes less, but for the sake of argument, if he lost just ten minutes – that’s an hour gone every six jumps. The average Defense Force member makes something like three hundred jumps in their lifetime. That’s fifty hours gone – a whole weekend of their life. Lost.

That bothered him.

“Prepare a shuttle for the Commander,” ordered Feist. “And an escort wing.”

Carter turned and smiled at his friend, letting the darker thoughts fade away. “I don’t know that the escort is necessary.”

“Intel suggests it is,” Feist winked at him. “You should know that.”

“Fine, fine,” Carter gave up. Feist stuck his hand out and Carter grabbed it easily. “Thanks for the ride, Ray,” he said.

“No problem. We were heading in the same direction. Not this early, but hey – you can owe me for the loss of sleep.”

“Shuttle’s prepped, sir,” called someone below them that he couldn’t see.

“Be careful,” Feist said, squeezing his shoulder. “Mars is a dangerous place these days. But I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

Carter smiled crookedly. Three bombs in six months and no idea how they were getting in, civil unrest and the lack of a new treaty looming over everyone’s head. It was driving fleet insane. “No, you don’t have to tell me that. I don’t think I’ll be here long, though. Thanks again.”

After a brief chat about poker that resulted in his reluctant acceptance to be included in the next game via vid chat, he made his exit and followed a young ensign down to the shuttle bay as quickly as possible. Without the ensign he was sure he would’ve gotten lost more than once. He didn’t spend much time on these ships except on the occasional off world mission, so it was easy for him to get turned around. The part of him that didn’t hate space travel completely, the very small part of him, still felt that space travel as a whole was strange; the hum of the engines reverberating through the hull, coming up through his feet, the taste of the air, not quite fresh, not quite stale. Plus the artificial gravity. He tried not to think about that or what might happen if it suddenly stopped working.

The shuttle, different from the one that brought him up from earth, shook and rocked as it lifted off from the deck and shot out the side of the carrier. Carter stared out the port side, watching the engine flare as one of the escort ships fell into formation slightly beside and behind them. Somehow, the closed in space of the shuttle was more comforting than being in the carrier. He shook his head, wondering if anyone else would feel the same way and if he’d ever get comfortable in space.

“We have a one hour flight to Marineris Station, sir,” said a yeoman. Young, male and wearing a pristine white uniform, Carter wondered how the man managed it given the hour. For his part, his interrupted sleep had him sure he must look like shit warmed over. “Would you care for something to eat or drink?”

Carter shook his head. “I think I’ll catch a little shut-eye. Wake me in fifty?” Just the thought of a little sleep instantly made him feel tired. Yesterday had been a long day and had spilled right over into today, which didn’t look like it was going to end any time soon. He yawned.

“Of course,” the yeoman smiled. Walking over to a closet, he pulled out a pillow and a blanket and offered them up. Carter took them and settled in for the flight. His eyes closed and darkness followed.

* * *

Twenty-seven levels beneath the Martian landscape, the lift came to a halt and the doors dinged open. Carter stepped out and followed the young woman in the red and black cammos down a decently lit corridor past nondescript doors labeled with numbers that began with four zeroes, twenty-seven, a dash and anywhere from oh oh one all the way to two four three that he saw so far. He knew for a fact there were at least forty levels here as he’d been on level forty once before. Rumor had it there were closer to sixty levels but no one had ever confirmed that to him. He also had no clue how many rooms were actually on this level as there were a bank of lifts on the main floor and some, like the one he’d taken, only opened up to certain areas.

At a door whose number ended in one three three, the woman paused and smiled at him. The door slid back to reveal a large room filled with monitors and stations but only one person that he could see. An older woman in loose fitting red and black cammos with short red hair, a wide nose and large eyes waved him inside before calling out to his escort for some fresh coffee. Carter stepped inside, crossed the ten or so feet between them and then followed the Master Chief down a quick set of stairs and to the only active work station that he saw.

“Chief,” he said. Master Chief Ashota had worked Mars for nearly fifteen years now, filtering through endless streams of data. Normally she had a team of dozens of analysts swarming around her. That the place was empty made Carter’s stomach go cold.

“Commander,” she said without a smile. She wasn’t a smiling type, never had been. Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall a single time that he’d ever seen the woman smile. Waving her hand above the console, she began entering in a long stream of characters by hand. Carter blinked at that. Since when had a wave not been good enough for access to a computer? “I prefer the old school ways, Commander,” she said without a trace of amusement in her voice. “Keeps people honest.”

“Of course, Master Chief,” he replied, not really seeing it but thinking it better to agree than argue the point.

While she typed away, the young woman returned with a fresh pot of coffee snuggled on a tray amidst cups, cream, sugar and, bless her, donuts. Carter thanked her profusely, then poured himself a cup of coffee, adding cream and sugar. One or two sips before he broke a donut in half and dunked it.

“Hungry?”

“You’ve no idea,” he admitted. Devouring the remnants of his donut, he grabbed a chair and sat before the console while the Chief queued up several files.

“What am I looking at here?” Carter asked with a yawn. The Chief tossed a file to the screen in front of him and he leaned in. Looked like a video file. He waved it to start, then leaned back. The image on the screen flickered to life, first showing the U.S.D.F. logo, then switching to a massive ship, much larger than anything anyone was supposed to have built or been able to build. He whistled through his teeth.

“The U.S.S. Barry, on routine patrol on the outer edge of the Martian Green Zone, came across an unknown contact,” Master Chief Ashota said. “On silent running, they started a track on the target and took up a parallel course, trying to get as much data on the contact as possible.”

Carter squinted at the blurry image.

“Try this,” said the Master Chief. A few passes across the console and the image changed to one much clearer and obviously enhanced. Carter whistled again. The sharper image showed something longer, wider and taller than it should be. There was something on the hull he couldn’t quite make out. His mind was already running through the possibilities; Chinese, Japanese, European Union… He was starting to understand why fleet had refused to transmit these images, rousing him to fly up here in the middle of the night.

“Can you enhance this area?” he asked, drawing circles with his finger.

“Aye,” replied the Chief. Several images appeared on the screen, each one showing different versions run through different filters to reveal details of the ships design. His eyes immediately went to the image in the upper right corner.

“What are these?” he asked, tracing the rows along the hull with his finger.

“We believe they are gun ports, sir.”

Carter shook his head. “That’s not possible. There are…” he tried to count.

“Over four dozen, yes sir. On both the port and starboard. Plus these,” the image zoomed in, revealing several larger ports. “Rocket or missile ports. We also see missile ports along the spine of the ship in this shot,” the image was replaced by one at a slight angle, revealing rows of missile hatch covers.

“What the hell is this?” Carter whispered to himself.

“There’s more,” said the Master Chief. The image changed again, a close up on the hull. “Recognize it?”

Carter stared at the emblem on the screen. “Chinese.”

“Once the ship was identified as being Chinese, the Barry ordered them off. They were a hundred miles inside the Green Zone in violation of the Treaty.” Mars used to be neutral territory. Four years ago, the American Protectorate felt it was necessary to push China out. Too many conflicts, too many fights and bombs going off as tempers flared between factions. A treaty came later. That treaty was now being renegotiated and the Chinese government felt that, while the negotiations were ongoing, the old treaty was null and void and they could do whatever the hell they wanted.

“They wanted us to see them,” Carter mused. But why? They build a new ship, obviously a battleship, and then they make sure to be seen? It didn’t make sense. Except as an intimidation factor and that ship sure as hell fit that bill. Worse, why hadn’t anyone, anywhere reported this ship as it left port? Why hadn’t anyone reported the damned thing being built in the first place? The Chinese had two shipyards off-world and both were under covert surveillance; if this ship had come from either, there should’ve been a report and it should’ve crossed his desk. It didn’t. That was not good.

“That’s my take, sir,” said the Master Chief.

“Okay, I’ll need copies of everything including interviews with the crew of the Barry.”

“There’s more,” the Chief said.

“More?” he said, leaning back to look at her. “Isn’t this enough?”

“Enough to haul your ass out here in the middle of the night? Not likely.” Curious, he turned back to the console. The image on the screen changed to a side by side of the Chinese vessel and an American carrier. The carrier was dwarfed, the Chinese vessel at least four times the size. American carriers were little cities floating in space. The Chinese ship was four times the size – what did that make them? A state? A country?

“My god,” Carter breathed. The image changed to a video. The Chinese ship was moving off, lights along the hull flashing. The flashing moved up and down the hull, growing in intensity. Carter clutched at his chair, realization hitting him like a ten ton rock in the head. He leaned back from the display as flashes of light popped and swirled until the ship vanished in one bright flash of light.

“That isn’t possible!” he said. Ships could NOT jump without a gate!

“Yes, sir, I know. But there it is. The Chinese have built a jump capable ship. They don’t need gates anymore.”

Commander Carter felt the universe spinning beneath his boots.

Everything had just changed.

Make me famous:

Keeping up with the ‘short story a week’ goal I have set for myself, I decided to revisit a piece of Flash Fiction I wrote a while ago called ‘Welcome to Solar City‘.  To this day, it’s one of my favorite pieces and I wanted to expand it a little, delve deeper.

I’m calling this ‘Solar City’.  Enjoy!

Solar City (Excerpt)
© 2010 Patrick Hester

I wiped sweat from my brow, staring up at the dome far above me. I couldn’t actually see it, not from here, but I knew it was there protecting the city from a sun too close to a planet most people just called Hell. Solar City, my city, a massive, roving, domed mining platform called home by ten thousand souls. After a hundred years of terraforming, we still needed her, still needed the protection the dome provided, the air it kept in and the radiation and heat it kept out.

Mostly, I thought, wiping the sweat from my hand onto a reclamation patch on my coat’s inner lining.

The Sniffer whined, reminding me why I was here. If I’m being honest, which I try to do, I’ve never gotten used to the things. They looked like a cross between three animals, arms and legs of an ape, ears and sawed-off trunk of an elephant, torso and body not unlike an alligators. Their whip-tails would sometimes wrap around your leg and squeeze if you got too close. I tried not to do that.

They kept low to the ground, knees bent awkwardly, trunks snuffling along the ground and leaving a trail of snot that clung to your shoes if you stepped in it. But it was always the milked over, sightless eyes that got me. If you’re going to mess around with a genetic mish-mash of bits and bobs, creating something with heightened olfactory powers that go well into the super-being range, why bother with eyes that don’t work? I mean, I hate the way they just stare at you…

Makes my skin crawl.

Mexican Blake (hand to god that is his name, not a racial slur – said his parents were patriots who wanted Mexican independence from America. Crazy, right?), gave the leash a little tug and the Sniffer whined again, avoiding the corpse lying spread eagle on the concrete. That was new. Normally, a Sniffer doesn’t care what you point it at. I’ve seem them happily jump into the refuse reclamation system without a second thought and the shit down there makes me barf. One whiff and I’ll introduce you to my breakfast.

Staring at the body, I wanted to whine a little myself. “What’s wrong?” I asked instead. Mex shook his head, curly hair barely registering the movement.

“Never seen one act this way before,” he replied. “Something’s spooked it.” He gave the Sniffer a gentle pat on the shoulder and it leaned into him like a puppy. Damned creepy things.

“Yeah,” I said out loud. I was spooked too. This body didn’t belong here. Oh, don’t get me wrong – we get our fair share of bodies, Diggers killing each other over water or sex, casino’s sending messages that debts need to be paid, that sort of thing. We sweep it under the rug, maybe run somebody in for a show of justice, Corporate orders – keep the Digger’s digging, nothing else mattered, not even human life. Occasionally we’ll see a legitimate accident, it happens, but not often. But this? I’ve never seen this before.

His clothes are fine, tailor cut. They shimmer, color-shifting depending on the angle and marking him as Corporate. Silver, black and purple hair, shaved close around the lower half of the head but kept extra long on top and stylized make it worse – he’s Board, or related. You can make out such details despite the mess of shattered bones, puddled blood and gore.

“You need cause of death?” asked Winky nervously. Winky was what we had for a doctor, a short, squat, nervous woman with a tick in one eye and one leg shorter than the other giving her a perpetual limp.

My comm was buzzing in my ear as I shook my head. We knew what killed him, a fall from high up. The words ‘CORPORATE PRIORITY’ flashed across my sunglasses and I turned, looking up and up and up at the Corporate Spire looming above me all shiny metal and glass, impossibly tall. There were only a few dozen of these in Solar City, each taller than the last but this one stretched taller than all the rest. It was filled with Corporate types, the hierarchy from the charts they plaster here and there. They were the ones who told everyone else what to do, told the Diggers where to dig, the city where to move.

Metaphorically speaking, falling from a Corporate Spire was something few people survived. Literally doing it like this poor sap?

“I’m being summoned.”

Mex stood beside me, that damned Sniffer wrapping its damned tail around my leg. He pounded me on the shoulder and laughed, “Better you than me, brother!”

Make me famous:

I said I was gonna write a short story a week and one week in, I’m 1 for 1!

I even sent it around for some feedback (Thanks to everyone who got back to me – I really appreciate it!!).

For now, I wanted to share a little of the story with you folks.  This is the raw, unedited-and-not-taking-into-consideration-the-feedback-yet version.  This came to me on the drive into work one day when I thought it would be cool to have a character calling himself ‘Murder’ who brings ghosts back to help them cross over…

Murder (Excerpt)
© 2010 Patrick Hester

Tap-tap

Tap-tap

Annoyed! Who would be bothering me now? When I’m in the middle of the best, most restful sleep I have ever known?

Tap-tap

Knuckles on wood? No, something else. Maybe a key or a key ring tapping against stone. Why stone? Whatever, still annoying. I just want to sleep.

Fresh air on my face, not too warm not too cool. It smells of jasmine and sorrow. That doesn’t make sense. What does sorrow smell like?

I open my eyes to see yellow, paint splattered stars on a brilliant blue sky. No moon, no other light, just those stars looking brighter and larger than they should. Sitting up, there is no wind, no breeze that touches me yet it seems to roar just beyond my reach out there, where a gray mist hangs over everything. That doesn’t make sense either. The wind should be ripping that mist away.

Tap-tap

Pushing to my feet I turn. There is a man sitting on a piece of cut-stone that’s half in the ground. Harsh words desecrate the stone, chiseled in its flesh. I can feel its pain over these wounds. I don’t recognize the language. The man is perched there like a bird, head titled, eyes watching me. He is dressed all in-no, wait – I want to say ‘black’ but there is no color here, just pale blue and drab gray. I look up at the yellow stars and wonder if they truly are yellow. I look back to the man. My mind says he wears black. It makes no sense.

Black shirt, black pants, long black coat. Even black hair and black eyes. Pale skin, colorless. With one finger on his left hand, he reaches down to the stone.

Tap-tap

“Who are you?” I asked, surprised at my own voice. Deeper than it should be, my brain says. Off, somehow.

“Always with you lot, it comes down to names. Names have power.”

“I’m Josh,” I offer. He tsks.

“Never listen either. Names have power. Tell someone your name and they have power over you.”

I blink. It hurts. “Okay, then, what do I call you?”

“Murder,” he replies. He doesn’t blink. That’s wrong.

“Murder? That’s not a nice name.”

“I didn’t say it was my name. You asked what you can call me. You can call me Murder.”

“Okay.” I turn, looking around. Some sort of park full of stones. My brain disagrees but I don’t listen. Everything is so gray. The sky is clear, the night perfect, not too cold, not too hot, and no moisture to speak of. Where does the mist come from? The wind roars in the distance.

“Things to do, Joshua,” Murder whispers in my ear. I turn back, shocked at the intimacy. He still sits perched atop the stone, easily six feet away.

Tap-tap

“How did you do that?”

“Always who, how, why. Never was before, always is now. Too far, too long yet not far enough.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not to you,” he smiled, briefly, like a flare in the sky, then it was gone. “Things to do.”

“You just said that.”

“Did I? Did I… Follow now.”

He hopped off the stone, spun on the spot and started walking. I didn’t have anything else to do and was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, so I followed. He lead me down a jagged path through the stones and through the mist. It seemed to part before him, then close again behind me, so we were in a perpetual mist free circle. That doesn’t make sense. Mist shouldn’t act like that – it’s mist.

Now and again I would catch the faint sound of someone moaning or crying or shouting. Looking around, I never saw the source. It was strange. Murder didn’t seem to notice at all. He kept walking, that long coat of his billowing in the wind that I couldn’t feel. My mind protested that.

At an iron gate, he paused. It was closed tight, wrapped in a large chain held by an even larger lock. Murder tsked. Spinning, he grabbed my shoulder, my stomach jumped and we were on the other side of the gate. Gone was the mist, gone too the strange roar of the wind. Best of all, color flooded back into my eyes.

The pavement beneath my feet was the only gray I saw. Across and down the street, houses stood, penned by green trees, bushes and lush lawns. Flowers bloomed, the scent of them tickling my nose even from where I stood a good half block or more away. Looking up, the sky was dark, the stars muted but twinkling and a few wispy clouds meandered their way east.

“Follow.”

Nothing about Murder had changed – he was still black as night from head to toe, with pale skin and unblinking eyes.

“Where?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Too soon. Walk first, then run.”

He turned and started down the road and after a minute, I followed.

Make me famous:

So – I had some time to myself when I got to Milwaukee for my connecting flight.  I found myself noting that the concourse / terminal itself was incredibly drab and depressing.  The color scheme was all gray and faded blacks in odd patterns that were probably eye catching twenty or more years ago.  Add to that the fact that it was like a ghost town, not even the people from my own flight were there.  I’d been shoved into a window seat on a puddle jumper.  The person in the aisle seat didn’t do the ‘stand up as soon as the lights come on thing’ that every seasoned traveler is prepared for, so I had to wait until nearly the last person from the back of the plane got off before I could move into the cramped aisle and, stooped over cuz it was too short for me to stand up in, dragged my bag from the over head bin and made my way out into the concourse.  By the time I got there, it was empty.  I saw a few workers at the little hot dog place, a couple more at the coffee place, but other than them, it was empty.

Kinda creepy.

I headed into the bathroom and saw the same drab colors only now with really poor lighting and a pool of water spread across the floor in front of the sinks.  Yuck.  I did my business and ran for it.  When I sat down at my gate, I was the only one there and I had an hour before my flight started boarding.  I did a few tweets but the over all mood of the place, the state of the bathroom – for whatever reason, I was inspired to pull out my laptop and write.  It’s not part of any larger story, it’s just something that had to get out of my brain.

I saw it as sort of a ‘traveling sales man’ story, I don’t know.

I offer it up to you here today.  I named the file ‘Depressing’.  715 words for about 45 minutes worth of (mostly) random writing at the Milwaukee airport.

~P

Depressing

Everything was depressing; the drab gray color of the carpet with its half-moon, sweeping dark pattern broken up by odd checkered boxes all of which were faded and blended together after only God knows how many years and thousands of travelers. Staring at it made his brain shut off for a time as he walked through the concourse, dragging his roller bag behind him, the front wheel squeaking every four steps like clockwork.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asked someone in a dark shirt with dark pants and a lanyard weighed down by identification cards, key cards, keys and a slew of things he didn’t exactly understand in his current state of hazy, fringe awareness. A smile and a nod, a finger pointed behind him. Embarrassed at his stupidly walking too far and passing his destination, he grimaced a thank you and spun on his heel, that front wheel of his bag protesting the sharp change of course loudly.

Inside was no better than outside; the bathroom covered in two shades of gray tile, one dark one light, both depressing. It sank his mood further, already deep and hollow thanks to a day of travel in too small planes with too cramped chairs and not enough elbow or leg room for a man of his height; six foot six. The floor here was sticky, his shoes making that noise like Velcro being pulled apart. Each step forward caused his shoulders to twitch, his stomach to roll. It was disgusting. He wanted to vomit.

Above him the light was dim and he grumbled about the damned environmentalists and their stupid bulbs that gave off half the light of their predecessors. Was it really going to kill the earth to give him enough light to see what the hell was around him?

To his right a row of urinals without dividers; he couldn’t handle that, not with his shy bladder. If someone else came along behind him, he’d never be able to piss. Not that that was very likely given that most of the people from his flight had made a bee line for baggage claim. He had a connecting flight in an hour and the only other soul he’d seen had been the young man in the dark shirt and pants. Still, it was a possibility so he veered left and saw the yellow sign warning of a slick floor. Staring at the reflected light he snorted. Slick? It was a cesspool of standing water! There was a row of sinks here and whoever had used them had tried their best to create a new lake right there on the floor!

Carefully picking his way through that mess, lifting his bag and clutching it to his chest, he went maybe seven paces before there was a sharp right and a row of dark stalls. The first one had urine in the bowl; he wondered how that happened when it had one of those sensors above it (thank you very much mister and misses environmentalist). There was also paper strewn across the floor so he passed. The second was in no better condition so he made his way for the handicapped stall at the end. It looked clean enough but he couldn’t be sure in the dim light.

Pushing his bag into the corner, he used the tip of his shoe to flip up the seat, failing twice to get it to stay before, with a grin of triumph, it remained vertical. He sighed then, as he always did when the piss was flowing and the pressure slowly fading away. He may have grunted too, he did that from time to time these days, much to the embarrassment of his son.

Circles in the bowl round and round. Dribble. Dribble. Shake. Shake.

He stepped away and waited for the little sensor above the toilet to blink or not blink or whatever it was supposed to do and flush the toilet. Nothing happened. After zipping back up, he waved his hand in front of it – nothing. There was a little button on it so he gave the paper roll a tug, balled up the results and used it as a buffer between his finger and the button so he could press it.

Woooosh, went the toilet as it flushed.

Make me famous:

One day I was sitting here and I thought, we need more cowboys in space.  This lead me to sit down at the computer and start writing.  The result was originally called ‘The Brothers of Katie Rose’; an homage to the classic western flick, ‘The Sons of Katie Elder’, but then I changed it to ‘Brother’s Revenge’ and now, am calling it ‘Cahill’s Homecoming’.

…it’s all about names.

Anywho, this story flowed quickly and easily. Two people have read the majority of it, but no one but me has read the complete story – yet.  I intend to share it with a few friends to get feedback – if you’d like to be on that list, let me know.

In the meantime, I wanted to share a bit with everyone here today, so here it is – the opening for ‘Cahill’s Homecoming’, a new short story by me, Patrick Hester.

Cahill’s Homecoming (Excerpt)
by Patrick Hester

© 2010 Patrick Hester
All Rights Reserved

Cord Cahill’s eyes widened when the image of the solar system he was navigating through was replaced by his sister’s face. Katie looked older than he remembered her; dark auburn hair, pulled back from her narrow face by a pair of faded blue ribbons, had lightened in the ten years since he’d seen her last, there were a few lines around her dark eyes and thin lips and her cheeks had sunk in and hollowed. He knew as well as anyone that life on the frontier was hard and took its toll, still, it surprised him to see how much his little sister had aged.

“Cord,” she said. Her voice sounded weary. “If you’re seeing this message, it means that I have died. I’m sorry to be so abrupt about it, but you were never one to linger over the difficult things.” His breath caught in his throat. Dead. Their mother had always said Katie would outlive them all. Cord always assumed that would be the case. “I had a feeling this day might come sooner rather than late, so I took the precaution of making this video for you. With Uncle Bobby gone, and you and Matt off world, I put all of momma and poppa’s things in storage with Mister Bogg and paid for near on two years just in case you can’t get here anytime soon. Or you can have him ship them wherever you might be. Choice is yours, of course. As the oldest, I expect you’ll see to Matt once in awhile and make sure he isn’t getting himself into too much trouble. I always understood why you had to leave, Cord. I don’t blame you one bit. I love you.”

The image faded. Cord stared out into empty space feeling cold.

Another image filled his screen, this one of a young man with Katie’s eyes, nose and mouth but lighter hair and a wicked smile currently turned up in a snarl. Matt’s face was wider, fuller than Katie’s had ever been and he had the broad shoulders to go with it.

“Cord, I just-”

“I know,” Cord cut his little brother off. “I got one too.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

Cord did not look his brother in the eye. “About what?”

“She knew she was going to die!” Matt said hotly. “She knew! She prepared!”

“You think something happened to her,” Cord said softly.

“Damn right, I do. And I want to know what we’re going to do about it?!”

Cord squeezed his eyes closed, rested his head against the bulkhead of his ship. It was a good little snubnose ship; X-30 with the modified skip drive, twin cannons on the fore and aft plus torpedo tubes port and starboard and rocket launchers nestled up against the tail fins. He could easily outmaneuver the Republic PD13’s which were comparable in size, but also take on anything twice his size without breaking a sweat. He’d done that more times than he cared to remember. He was tired of it, to tell the truth. Tired of constantly looking over his shoulder because he took the wrong contract or pissed off the wrong warlord. He’d been considering settling somewhere.

Now this happens.

“I suggest we start with that piece of work she married,” Matt grinned that wicked grin that meant they were about to get into trouble, then his image flickered and he seemed to be concentrating on something else.

“Trouble, little brother?” Cord asked.

“Nothing I can’t handle. Republic ships trying to expand, absorb a planet that wants to stay free. Hired me out to discourage the Republic from sticking around. The Republic ships aren’t taking the hint. I can be home in…” he looked away. “Five days. Maybe six.”

Cord checked his nav system. “I can be there in four.”

“Don’t start the fun without me,” Matt said before his image vanished.

“No,” Cord sighed. “Wouldn’t want to do that.” He stared out at the empty space again, then shook his head. “Mother? I need a plot for Home. Warmup the skip drive.”

“Of course,” said a female voice. He’d set the AI for the computer to female because it felt right to him, and there was no one who could ever tell him what to do except for his mother, so giving it that name felt right too. “Calculating. Twenty-two jumps to reach Alpha Pyranti. Checking on local warrants.”

“Thank you,” he said, surprised. He’d completely forgotten to request that.

“No local warrants for ‘Cord Cahill’.”

“Good to know,” he said. “Make the first jump as soon as the skip drive is ready. Cycle up a sleep mode for me. While I’m out, look into any news coming from Home. Specifically search for any unexplained deaths. I also want to know who’s in charge and who wants to be. Download to my chip so I can dream it.”

“Understood,” said mother. “Sweet dreams.”

Cord rested his head against the back of his chair, sleep coming on quickly as the chemicals entered his blood stream via the various tubes running from the ships systems to his flight suit. The last thing he saw before his dreams began was the explosion of light coalescing at the tip of his ship, about to pull it into the first jump.

* * *

Tobias Jorgensen sliced a thin piece off his filet, taking a moment to drag it through the blood and juices on his plate before sliding it into his mouth and closing his eyes to chew. It was cooked perfectly, and by perfectly, that meant rare on the inside, seared on the outside.

“We have a problem,” said a deep voice. Sighing, Tobias opened his eyes. Prescott Quincannon was a well built man. His shoulders were wide, arms and legs thick to match his neck and his face had a hodge-podge of scars that he never cared to explain. He wore dark boots, brown pants and shirt with a dark vest and jacket over it. Two gun belts crisscrossed his waist and he usually had a few knives hidden on his person along with a grenade or two. In his hands he carried two things; his narrow brimmed brown hat and a holocube. From head to toe he was covered in the red dust that was so thick in this area.

Tobias took a moment to slice another thin piece of filet, chewing it slowly, before nodding to the other man to sit down. Prescott set the holocube down between them on the table and touched the side to activate it. The image of an older man appeared, perhaps fifty years old given how the dark hair at the top of his head steadily became more and more silver as it came down the sides and blended into the sideburns that framed his full face. A single scar ran lengthwise across his forehead, disappearing into his hairline. No, he thought, you could still see it running through his hair. How a man could survive a cut that ran across his skull that way was a mystery to him, even with the exceptional doctors around these days.

The man in the image wore simple enough clothes except for the gray and black vest and the long, gray coat; both marked him as a gun for hire, a member of the Gray Council.

“Hit the spaceport about an hour ago,” said Prescott. “Obviously someone talked. They’ve hired this guy to run interference for them.”

Tobias laughed, waving the holocube off and returning to his steak. The image faded. “You are too excitable, Mister Quincannon. Far too excitable.”

“Excitable? A hired gun shows up now and you think I’m excitable?”

“Cord Cahill,” said Tobias as he sliced his filet. “His name is Cord Cahill. No one hired him. As a matter of fact, he and I went to school together. This is his home.”

Prescott leaned back in his chair looking comical in his surprise. “Then why is he here now?”

“Because his sister died,” Tobias replied over a mouth full of steak. His steak, from his cattle, raised on his land. Life was good.

“Sister?” asked Prescott. Tobias grunted. “So, he isn’t here for us?”

Tobias laughed. “Oh, now, I didn’t say that, Mister Quincannon. Just that no one hired him.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin, folded it and set it atop the plate, his appetite waning. “You see, his sister was Katie Rose.”

Prescott’s face soured. He knew Katie Rose all too well. “The League-”

Tobias cut the air with his knife. “This is not a League world, not yet. You cannot expect their protection here.”

“You hired us.”

“I did. That’s why we’ll have to prepare for his arrival. Spread the word around town. I don’t want anyone talking to him, that way, he’ll have to come to me for his answers.”

“And then we kill him?” Prescott grinned.

“No. When you’re done, I want you to head out to the ranch and stay there while I speak with my old friend Cord. If he cannot see reason… Katie Rose stood in the path of progress. Cord is a business man, far removed of the young man who left us so very long ago. He’ll understand.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I suppose there will be one more incident between the League and the Gray Council.”

~end~

That’s it for now – just a taste.  Let me know what you think…

~P

Make me famous:

I have  shared with you a couple of chapter excerpts from ‘The Queen of Shadows’, the book I wrote in 3 days.

To be honest with you, I didn’t even pause before I started working on the next book, ‘The Road to Faloan’.  It wasn’t until I started letting other people read the first book, that I realized it needed a lot of work and I should probably stop working on the second.  Still, I managed some good stuff on the sequel, and wanted to share some more of it with you here today.

© 2010 Patrick Hester, All rights reserved.

The Road to Faloan

Chapter One Excerpt

The frigid wind blew down across the Wasteland, bringing with it ice and snow that stung at his face and eyes despite the cowl pulled tightly down around his head and the thick woolen scarf covering his nose and mouth.  He could feel it as it gathered in his eyebrows and froze his nose and cheeks, both of which had long since stopped burning and had become a dull, constant throb that kept him moving ever forward in the hopes of shelter and warmth for the night.

Overhead, dark gray clouds filled the sky from horizon to horizon, distant cloud shrouded mountains to ever-closer snow capped peaks, promising more icy rain and snow to come.  The ground between those mountains rolled gently to his eye, covered as they were in a thick blanket of snow and ice that crunched beneath the hooves of the horses as they plodded along, careful to avoid the deeper patches that threatened broken limbs and pain.  He let his horse pick her own way, giving little by way of direction except to nudge with his knees now and again, keep her heading ever north, deeper and deeper into the unknown and near glacial lands where men and beast are few and far between.  In this way, she led the other horses and they followed her despite the lead lines, trusting her to choose wisely and keep them safe.

Even through a half dozen layers of clothing beneath warm animal furs he could feel the cold seeping into his very bones, luring him with its siren song, whispering that he should simply close his eyes and let the coldness take hold finally; completely.  He resisted that song fiercely, using the cold to keep his mind sharp instead.  As long as he felt the cold, as long as it kept him on the edge, he had to remain awake and alert if he was to survive.

Besides, he had more than himself to think about.

Not for the first time, he took the frozen water bag from its place on his saddle and channeled a small amount of Fire into its core.  The water inside would be warm and steaming soon, fit to drink for he and his companion though not so hot it would burn.  With only ice and snow available as sources of water, he had done this more and more often of late, for both of them and the horses as well.  It would not do for any of them to try and eat the ice and snow unmelted thus stealing the very warmth from their own bodies.  The horses were northern steeds, shaggy haired and thick skinned against the cold but even they needed a few furs, judiciously placed, and water, not ice.  He had traded for them in the single village he had found, deep within the Wasteland, giving over the smaller, less capable horses from the Westland along with a sizable amount of gold for the massive beasts helping to keep him alive.  The villagers, all pale haired and eyed, spoke a difficult language he did not understand as he purchased what they would need for this trip using gestures and sign language.  But the looks on their faces he understood all to well as he rode forth from the village, his course taking him deeper into the north.  Sadness, for the most part, could be seen on those faces.  They believed he would die out here.

Problem was, they were probably more right then he wanted to admit even to himself.

This was a harsh land where few animals and even fewer people had the mettle to live from day to day, let alone thrive.  The bitter cold killed most, he assumed.  Lack of food and shelter and sunlight – he had read books describing whole seasons passing without the sun rising once, added to the deaths.  And then there were the few beasts and creatures who could survive in this place, all purported to be as harsh and cruel as the land itself, striking quickly and without mercy, killing those caught with their guard down with ease.  He had heard those tales as well and repeated them from time to time to perk up the ears of his charges throughout the years of his service to the High King’s family.  Now, deep within one of the very hearth tales he had once told for the pure joy of seeing it come alive in a child’s eye, he found himself setting wards each night to warn him if any of those creatures should come near.  So far, they had been left alone.

He wondered how long that would last.

Despite the cold, the snow and the beasts, there were a few men in these lands but they were has hard and cold as the land itself.  Long ago, they had broken away from the High King and the remnants of the Thirteen Tribes, calling themselves outcasts and setting out for the Wasteland and the places where no men dwelled where they could rule themselves and bow to no King not of their own making.  Here they had made a home for themselves, if such a word could be used to describe this place.  Where others died, they took the lessons of this land to heart and became one with it, claiming that it was a proving ground for them, a millstone to hone the edge of the strong and break the weak, leaving only the sharp inner core; the best of the best.  These were the Northmen, called rabid by some, feared by all and genuinely accepted as the greatest warriors in the world.

And they followed the Shadow.

He could not help but shiver even as the warmed water trickled into his waiting mouth and took the chill from his hands as they held the bag tightly.  Would they even bother with he and his companion, two men with three horses slowly making their way across the Wasteland?  He had no idea if it would be worth it to them and didn’t know a way to avoid them if they decided it was worth the trouble.  Given the chance, he would avoid any other villages or settlements he might come upon, but he didn’t even have a map to tell him where such places might be.  There were no maps of the north as far as he knew.  But he doubted there could be many along his path.  Who would live in such a place?  Perhaps there were warmer climes to the east or west and that was where they had their settlements, though he found it difficult to believe.  He had trouble imagining anyone living here despite tales to that effect.

Having taken his fill of the water, he pulled the lead line attaching his horse to the one behind and brought them side by side.  Pushing back the cowl of his companion, he noted the frost clinging to the beginnings of a beard framing the young face of his companion and charge.  His cheeks were ruddy and chapped, as were his lips and nose.  His wispy brown hair had grown much longer in the few short weeks they had been traveling and would now fall off his shoulders were it not bunched up within his cowl.  Blue eyes once fierce and commanding stared vacantly at nothing while he placed the water bag to cracked lips and tilted it back.  Swallowing seemed more reflex than conscious act but he was glad for it.  With the bag half empty, he pulled it away and began to rub down the arms and legs of his companion as much for the momentary warmth he received as for what it did for the other.

Three days had passed since there had been any movement or sign of life from the other beyond what he forced him to do.  Three days of blessed silence in which he cursed his own insensitivity as much as he praised the quiet.  He could not help it, though, to be grateful for a respite from the ever-erratic behavior coming from the other.  Half the snow they trod through now had been caused by a strange incident where he had believed himself to be in another place and time, fighting some army or threat only he could see and hear.  He had called a massive storm then and it had lasted a week, blanketing the land in fresh snow nearly up to his knees before it finally quit.  Frightening.  Perhaps more frightening had been when he realized that the man had called a storm and he had not been able to see the weaves.  Whatever Magic the Wizard had used, it was not the same elemental weaves he had been taught at the Academy.

No, though it pained him to see his friend in such a catatonic state, the alternative was worse.

Re-wrapping the scarf that had come loose and replacing the cowl around his friends head, Enmaleth turned his horse north again, re-wrapping his own head and continuing on.  He knew the road ahead would be long and cold and the silence he now enjoyed would not last, but there was no other choice that he could see.

Somewhere ahead lay the Valley of the Lost and a place called the Temple of the Soul.  He had to find this place; it was up to him to bring the Wizard Darius to the Mindwalkers.

* * *

“Enmaleth?”

The voice was so weak and hoarse he nearly jumped from his skin.  Turning, he saw Darius sway in his saddle, gloved hands reaching out to grasp the pommel.  The movement came so quickly, the horse shied and pranced aside and very nearly lost its footing in the snow before he was able to tug at the lead line and pull him forward.

“Where is my staff?” Darius asked.

“Lost,” he answered.  He had answered this question three times in as many weeks.  “In the rubble of the Tower.”

“Can you hear it?” he asked, left hand slowly rising to disappear beneath his cowl.  “Gods, Enmaleth, it’s so loud.”

“I’m afraid only you can hear it,” he said softly.  In these moments of lucidity he often complained of the voices only he could hear and how they raged and shouted, each vying for his attention.

“Where are we?” he asked and the hand slowly lowered again to retake its death grip on the pommel.

“The Wasteland.  We head for the place the Ancient told me about, in the mountains there.”  He pointed to the mountains on the distant horizon.  Never a good judge of distances, he had no idea how many more leagues stood between them and the mountains, had no idea where the entrance to their home even lay once he got there.  In his mind he knew only the vision of the stark gray archway bereft of rune or image that lead through a mountain and, supposedly, to the Mindwalkers.  How to find this place was a problem he left for later.  Instead he simply concentrated on getting them to the mountains alive and intact.

“She’s following us,” Darius whispered.  The icy cold surrounding them seemed to grip his heart and his horse tossed its head as it sensed the sudden shift in his mood to strong fear.

“Who?” he choked.  “Who is following?”  But it was too late.  He could tell simply by the way his body shifted in the saddle that Darius was no longer there, that he had once again become lost in the tumult that raged through his mind.  He imagined the voices the Wizard complained about had swallowed him again.

Scanning the land behind them, he tried to imagine who could possibly be following them.  Darius had said ‘she’ and that left the possibility of Moira, whom he thought he had warded their presence against with his Magic, or perhaps the warrior woman Min who had recently traveled with them.  Supposedly, the woman could sense Darius wherever he might be, but he had hoped his ward would shield her from sensing them as well.  He could think of no one else who could be following them.  Surely the Queen was gone, ripped from this existence as he had seen in the vision, swallowed by a massive portal she created from this world to the world of the Shadows.

Suddenly he had something new to fear out in the endless sea of white surrounding them and again found himself without alternatives for their protection beyond simple wards around the camp at night to give him some warning.  He had no ability with Spirit and little with Air and so, could not extend his senses out across the land in search of the ‘she’ who followed.  The wards he used to hide them from Magic were difficult enough without Spirit and he dared not try something so dangerous as projecting his mind ‘into the wind’ as it were and there seemed little chance Darius would wake enough to do so himself, so he put the matter from his mind for now.

Turning his horse he tugged at the lead lines and set them back on their course north.

Make me famous:

I managed some good stuff on the sequel to my ‘written in 3 days’ book ‘The Queen of Shadows’, and wanted to share some of it with you here today.  Yesterday, I introduced you to a couple of characters who were being put through the blender.  Here’s a bit of the aftermath.

Enjoy!

© 2010 Patrick Hester, All rights reserved.

The Road to Faloan

Chapter Excerpt

Tamra knelt near Jared where he lay in the litter they had built.  Once again his blankets had slipped and his shoulders were bare to the elements so she pulled them up and tightly tucked them under his chin.  His eyes seemed to flutter open momentarily and she sucked in a breath at the wild look he gave her before falling back into the delirium he had been suffering in for the past week.  She worried about the cold mixing with his fever and couldn’t stop a shudder from passing through her own body.  He’d fallen ill almost the moment they were safely away from the Black Tower and had been sick ever since.  She couldn’t figure out the cause beyond the fact that he had been beaten and tortured for so many days while they were held captive in the Tower’s dungeons.  She feared the worst, that he had some unseen infection or had picked up some disease in the dank and dark dungeon that had very nearly claimed both of their lives.

Just the thought of that place sent a new wave of convulsive shutters through her and she had to pull her cloak tight about her to ward away the evil memories and the natural cold.  Thinking of the Tower brought back the helplessness she had felt while chained in the dark, slimy creatures crawling through her hair, others biting at any exposed flesh in hopes of burrowing in for a meal.  She had never been afraid of the dark before but now she dreaded nightfall and huddled close to the fire for light and comfort.

And she kept Jared close to her.

She had been chained in the corner of the cell while he hung from chains in the center of the room.  He had been tortured mercilessly and she had been forced to watch.  As his body was pummeled and his spirit bent further and further – though never broken, she could do nothing beyond rail at her chains and cry until she had no more tears left.  It was this beating, this torture that she feared caused this illness in Jared.  And she feared it would kill him.

So many things had happened to her recently but the most surprising to her had been her love for this man lying abed before her.  Somehow he had wormed his way into a place in her heart she didn’t believe existed.  With his shy demeanor and fierce love for his family, and his willingness to trust her despite her hatred for the King, he had slowly ignited a fire in her heart and carefully stoked it over the weeks until she found herself completely in love.  So much so, she could barely remember a time when she did not love him.  To think he might die . .

No!  They had to do something!

Behind her, the argument raged on.  Absently hooking her errant red hair behind her ear, she turned to regard a scene that hadn’t changed in the last hour.  Agden and Min stood at the edge of the Witchwood, the man’s hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword while the warrior woman stood with feet planted firmly apart yet arms crossed across her breasts, both faced a group of armed Elves.

Agden was a massive terror all in black from the knee-high boots to the leather cord keeping his hair pulled back and away from his stone carved face.  A few wisps of gray showed at his temples now and were even twined in the various braids he wore, something she hadn’t noticed before, but it only added to the air of danger and menace surrounding him.  Weapons could be seen on his person as he stood with his cloak thrown back, but it was his eyes which truly made her fear him; they were a deep brown that seemed to bore through her and chill her to the bone.  How Min could love such a man was beyond Tamra.

For her part, the warrior woman Min looked no less imposing standing beside the giant of a man she claimed as her own.  She wore breeches like a man, something Tamra herself preferred, yet they were made of a different kind of cloth she hadn’t seen even as a traders daughter.  It was tough and resilient, finely woven and warm.  Atop them she wore a long sleeve shirt more like a jacket that folded over and was tied with another strip of cloth much like a belt.  Both shirt and breeches were a deep brown and a hooded cloak of gray covered all though it was pushed over her shoulder to free up her sword and sword arm.

They stood before a group of Elves, trying everything they could think of in order to earn them passage into the Witchwood.  Only the Elves weren’t buying it.  Three weeks on the road had led them to this place, three hard weeks with Jared suffering from whatever illness plagued him and the wounded soldiers dropping around them from a combination of the wounds they had taken and exposure to the elements.  Three weeks of riding through barren country, bypassing the route which would have taken them to Four Corners and her Uncle Bart and, just maybe, help.  But no, Agden had his own plans and no one was allowed to question his decisions.

That wasn’t entirely true.  Min questioned them from time to time, just not where anyone was supposed to know about it.  More publicly though, Allan would argue quite heatedly with the giant warrior.  Tamra had heard all her life how redheads supposedly had tempers, her brother Cam complained about hers enough, but she had never truly seen it until she watched Allan go toe to toe with the big man.  He definitely had a fire inside him and when it raged, it burned his face red and nearly flushed away those freckles when he stood in defiance of Agden.  Of course, it all centered around his concern for his brother’s health.  They were all concerned for Jared’s health.

Even Lorna, the tall blonde apprentice to Min, who had befriended Tamra almost their first night together.  Often they would sit with Jared together while Tamra bathed his skin in cool water or tried to force broth into his mouth so he had something in his stomach.  It helped take her mind off things having Lorna with her, reminding her of her brother Cam and their relationship.  She missed him terribly.

“It cannot be, Friend Agden.  The King has sent orders – no Human is to pass our borders.”

The voice tickled her ears, sounding both light and serious all at once.  Having never before heard the speech of an Elf, Tamra found herself unable to put her finger on a single word to describe the sound of his voice.  It was light yet rich, almost always smooth and gentle as a whisper but with a definite huskyness that came through on certain words.

She just couldn’t define it.

“But I don’t understand, Anorein,” Agden said.  The conversation had drawn her attention again and she tried to focus in on what she took to be the combatants.  Min and Agden stood to one side, strong and confident in their demeanor while across from them stood a half dozen sylvan Elves.  Each was clad in simple tunics and breeks of rich forest colors of green and brown arrayed in a dizzying pattern that seemed to help them blend into the foliage behind them.  Four of them were dark haired and dark eyed, including their leader, and the other two were fair haired and pale of eye.  None stood above five feet in length yet each carried a bow as tall as Agden and had a quiver full of arrows on his belt with a small dagger opposite it.  All had golden skin, so much so that Min’s skin appeared more yellow to her eye.

“You name me ‘Friend’ yet tell me I cannot pass?” Agden asked.

Anorein, with his high forehead and spiky black hair, looked truly distressed by the entire situation.  His long face showed a shadow of emotion akin to shame as he answered the big man’s questions.

“I cannot question the order I have been sent by the King’s own hand, Agden.  Please, you must understand I mean no disrespect to you.”  His bone thin arms came up and he turned his long fingered hands over as if to plead for forgiveness.  “No Human may pass the border under penalty of death.  There is no exceptions.”

Agden was having none of it.

“Who came to you when the Orcs came through the mountains to desecrate the groves near Paltoarn?  Who hunted side by side with you to make sure not a single one made it home again?”

“You,” Anorein answered regretfully.  His long face was screwed up in agony.

“And was I not told that no fire would be closed to me?  That no Elf would deny me shelter from the cold or help should I require it for the remainder of my mortal life?  Was I not named Elf Friend for my services at Paltoarn and Reqoal and Yeluwn?”

“Yes, yes a thousand times yes!” Anorein cried.  “But I cannot disobey my King!”

“Anorein,” Agden said, his voice becoming softer.  “If ever I needed a haven for a time, and a friend, it is now.  My . .” he stumbled as if he was about to say something else but quickly changed it.  “This young man was sorely wounded and has taken on a fever that will not break.  He is in need of a healer and a warm, safe place to rest.  He is in my charge, is my responsibility and much rests upon his shoulders.  Please, if I must beg on my knees I will but let us pass.”

“I cannot,” Anorein whispered.

“Is there not a healer nearby you might send for?” Min asked suddenly.  “We could make camp here and wait.  You wouldn’t have to let us in and go against your orders.”

“Yes!” Anorein agreed, his head bobbing up and down at the chance to be let off the hook.  “Weyia of Clan Winddancer is only an hour by horseback.”  Turning quickly, he let of a stream of words so tangled Tamra couldn’t make out a single thing.  She assumed it was the Elf tongue she heard as the target of the tirade nodded once and disappeared into the forest at a fast trot.  Another few words and a second Elf bounced off and was quickly enveloped by the foliage.

“I have sent Pyia to fetch Weyia and Henae to gather wood so you may have a fire.”

“Can we at least move into the cover of the trees?” Agden pleaded.  “There is danger out in the open for you as much as us.”

Anorein struggled for a moment before he nodded and they were led a bit deeper into the Witchwood.  Tamra knew the slender trees here on the outskirts were nothing compared to the mighty trees deeper in the forest.  She had even heard tales about Elf cities being built high atop the trees deep within the forest where the trunks were as wide as a Human city and the tops couldn’t be seen from the ground.  Of course, those were hearth tales told by her father to amuse when she was still a child.  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if there might not be a grain of truth to the tales.

Jared lay in a litter attached to two horses.  With her hand firmly on the bridle of one and Agden’s on the other, the Elves reluctantly drew them into the forest and to a small clearing where they were allowed to make camp.  Tamra busied herself with extricating Jared from the litter with the help of Allan and Lorna while Min and Agden sent Elves off for water even as the firewood arrived.

As she and Allan freed the litter poles from the horses and gently laid Jared on the ground, she caught the other’s eyes for just a moment and registered the pain and loss in the man’ gray eyes.  She knew that pain well for it kept her up at night with thoughts of losing Jared after all she had gone through to find him.  How must it be for Allan who had traveled across the whole of Westland to rescue his brother only to have him fall to a sickness and be on the brink of death?  Without knowing why, she reached out and squeezed his hand gently.  He smiled awkwardly and stepped away, leaving her to tend to Jared while he took care of the horses.

“Here.”  Tamra followed the water skin up to find Lorna hovering just beside her.  Her pale blue eyes shimmered as she smiled.  She had her long blond hair pulled back into a tail and wore clothes identical to Min’s with a simple cloak over them.  The hilt of a sword could be seen just peeking over her shoulder.  She wouldn’t speak of the sword except to explain that it had belonged to her father and now was hers.  For her part, Tamra wore the sword of one of the fallen soldiers on her back.

Together, they helped settle Jared into a more comfortable position, Tamra trickling water into his mouth while Lorna undid the straps holding him in place.  As she worked, the blankets were pushed aside and Tamra caught a glimpse of metal etched with dark runes as it caught the sunlight.  That was the sword she had pulled from the crystal when she and Jared were trying to escape from the Black Tower.  They had been lost in the labyrinth above the dungeons and she simply found herself in the room where the sword rested.  It had seemed to call to her and she freed it as easily as slicing cheese with a warm knife, the runes seeming to glow green in the light of the room.  She didn’t know why no one else had ever pulled the sword free before, but it had seemed the right thing to do at the time and they had need of a weapon beyond the dagger she carried.  But still, she hadn’t told a single soul what she had done, not even her new friend Lorna.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she had kept the sword.  No sooner had she pulled it free, then Kaine had walked in on her and Jared.  Just the thought of the man sent shivers through her.  He had a bald head and golden brown skin that was covered in tattoos forming a swirling pattern that hurt her eyes to look at.  He had been the one who tortured Jared and, by making her watch, had tortured her as well.  Not to mention the things he promised to do to her after he broke Jared’s spirit.  She would not think of that.  When he walked into the room, she had tossed the sword to Jared because he was closer and Kaine’s men were coming forward with their own swords drawn.  Jared had cut them down with ease.  Kaine demanded he hand over the sword, extending his right hand out forcefully, fully believing that Jared would comply.  He was wrong.  Jared had cut the hand off cleanly with a single swipe and sent Kaine screaming from the room; the hand lay in a bloody heap where it had fallen.

Somehow, she sensed that the sword belonged with Jared even though it was she who had freed it from the crystal.  So she had left it by his side throughout their long trek south.  No one had said a thing about it or questioned her in the least she it remained there still.  As if the thought urged her on, she pulled at the blanket and hid the gleaming metal from sight.  If Lorna saw anything, she didn’t say so.

“There’s time before she notices we’ve stopped for the night,” Lorna said.  “Do you need anything else?”

Tamra couldn’t help but smile.  Lorna was talking about Min and their nightly training sessions.  No matter how far they traveled in a day, nor how hard the traveling was that day, Min would come to Lorna soon after they made camp and expect at least an hours worth of training from the girl.  Sometimes it was with swords; most times it was without.  Tamra found herself mesmerized by the latter.  Min had a way of fighting that just seemed to flow and to watch her and Lorna go through the motions slowly each night, the younger following the pattern laid out by the older over and over again, it just caught and held her attention.  For that brief period in time, all her worries and concerns melted away and she simply followed the pattern.  Truth to tell, she found herself becoming jealous of the teaching and wished that she, too, could be out there slowly stepping out the moves to Min’s cadence.

“I’m fine,” she answered with a genuine smile of affection.  She might be a little jealous, but Lorna was her friend and was concerned for her.

“Well, I could use some help with the horses.”

Lorna tried her best to scowl at Allan as he stood not too far away from them, horses patiently waiting to be rubbed down and fed.  Tamra couldn’t quite figure out if something was going on there or not.  Allan did his best not to even look at Lorna while all she did was cast scowls in his direction anytime he did get caught looking.  To make matters worse, he was a prankster just as Jared had once told her long ago.  The first chance he got when they were away from the Wastelands, he had placed a couple of frogs in Lorna’s bedroll while she practiced with Min.  Agden nearly flogged him for it.  Everyone could hear as the older man chastised the younger for being a fool and an idiot and a few coarser phrases Tamra had stored away for future use.  As punishment, Allan had spent the next week exclusively caring for the horses.  But that didn’t stop him from arranging a green snake in Lorna’s bedroll eight days later.  Agden had been furious.

“I’m sure you could,” Lorna said coolly.  Then she promptly headed off in the opposite direction.  Allan watched her walk away.  When he noticed that he had done so in plain view of everyone, he blushed furiously and led the horses away muttering to himself all the while.  Tamra had to stifle a giggle.

“How is he today?”

Tamra jumped as Min came up behind her.  The woman could walk across broken glass without making a sound, something that just bothered Tamra to no end.  Her older brother Cam had taught her about the forest and how to hunt, but she doubted that even he would hear Min approach unless she wanted him to.  Staring up at the mysterious woman with green eyes so like her own, a fact which bothered her as well considering she had been the only one for miles who could boast such green eyes once, she couldn’t help but feel the jealousy surge back to the top again.  This woman knew so much and she wanted to beg her for the knowledge, to take on a second apprentice.  But she could never find the right words and felt that it just wasn’t something you could just blurt out.  What was she supposed to do?  Walk up with her sword in hand and beg to be taught?

“Still fevered,” she answered with a grim smile.  Running her hand across Jared’s forehead it came back slick with cool sweat yet his skin was hot.

“There will be a fire in moments and the Elf, Anorein, says that he has a tea for fevers that is most effective.  Until the healer arrives, we will try the tea.”

Tamra nodded.  They had been trying different teas and potions for weeks now only to have them slow the sickness for a few hours, perhaps a day before it came back with a vengeance.  The Dwarf, Kala’nor, had produced many of the roots and leaves for the teas they had tried before he left suddenly one night.  She knew there had been arguments between the Dwarf and Agden, but she was never privy to any of them.  Then, late one night, she woke to find him leading his pony from the camp.  In the silver moonlight, she could just make out Agden’s form as he stood watch.  He never made any attempt to stop the Dwarf’s departure.

“I hope the healer isn’t far.”

“Anorein has said that she is an hour away on horseback,” Min offered.  “Expect two and a half before she arrives.”

“I still think we should have gone to the city.  They may not be the best healers around, but they were closer and I fear every moment he lies untended.”

“But the danger was greater in the city.  Here we sought known allies of Agden.”

“And look how well that’s turned out,” Tamra shook her head.  “Turned away at the borders.”

“Not yet.  Do not underestimate Agden, child.  Once he has set his mind on a goal, he does not stop until he has attained it.  That is why you stand here today, free from the Tower.”

Tamra snorted.  Both Min and Agden conveniently left out the part where she and Jared freed themselves from the dungeon whenever they wanted to close the discussion and make her feel small for not readily agreeing to everything they said.  She was supposed to feel grateful when all she felt was helpless.  Helpless to break the fever and bring Jared out of his delirium.

“And Four Corners?” she asked knowing full well the answer she’d receive.

“Far too dangerous now,” Min repeated Agden’s catechism.  “You must remember with whom you now travel.”

As Min walked away, the words hung in the air.  Looking down at Jared’s pale face, his features distorted somewhat by the sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, she found it hard to breathe.  There had been a few traders along the roads, people Agden rode out alone to converse with and they all had the same story concerning the White Tower, a story weeks old even before it reached them here at the edge of the Westland; the King was dead.  He had not been seen for a very long time and the Baron’s were now fighting over the crown.  But it wasn’t their right to sit on the throne of the Westland.  That right belonged to Jared alone.

It seemed like a hundred years had passed since the night when they sat together next to a fire and he told her who he was.  So many emotions had shot through her in that moment, fear foremost among them, and she had backed away for a time.  Before that moment, she had found herself liking and trusting the shy young man she had rescued and it wasn’t for his looks because his face was swollen and his body was a continuous bruise covered over in a stench that assaulted her nose at every turn.  No, she had liked him.  He was shy and gentle, quick to laugh and easy going enough to be laughed at without getting angry.  Like his brother he was a prankster, was fiercely devoted to those whom he loved, and wanted nothing more than to go home again – something that she herself felt deep in her own heart.

But in that moment of truth between them, everything had changed.  She had been raised with a hatred for the White Tower and the King.  The King had called for taxes, then more taxes and then when her father couldn’t pay, he had taken everything in payment.  Her father was killed, her mother and sisters raped and killed, and she had always believed in her soul that the King had been responsible.  Yet here was a man telling her that everything she believed in was a lie; that the King had nothing to do with any of it because he wouldn’t do that.  He said that the King was a good man and that Jared himself was his heir.  And she found herself wanting to believe simply because even if she didn’t know this King, she had come to knew Jared.

And now, when she had come to terms with the things he had told her, had accepted that it was the Barons who were raising the taxes and bringing harm to the people in order to discredit the King, and had found herself in love with a man, the man turned out to be a King.

That’s why it had become too dangerous for them to travel in cities where the loyalties could not be absolutely assured, why they had to hide among the Elf forests if Agden could swing it.  All because the man she had come to love, the man who had in her mind been only the Heir and thus, not too far above her love, had very suddenly become the King and very few people would be happy to find him alive and well.

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Yesterday, I introduced you to the book I wrote in 3 days, ‘The Queen of Shadows’.  Well, at least to one of the better bits of it.

In order to setup tomorrow’s excerpt from the sequel, ‘The Road to Faloan’, I wanted to share another bit today.

The characters from this novel also exist in the rewrite, ‘The Chronicles of Darius’, though slightly changed.  Still, you can get a sense of who they are from these excerpts.

Enjoy.

© 2010 Patrick Hester, All Rights Reserved

The Queen of Shadows

Chapter 33 Excerpt

He’d heard one of the older women at the Tower once say something along the lines of, “How cruel the Hands of Fate should you tempt them with your good fortune,”. Jared had never really understood that, nor believed in it.  But now, staring into the eyes of the man who haunted his dreams, he began to see.  It was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds to burn away the morning mist and leave the land crisp and clear again.

For a time he had been happy.  The horrors of the recent past dulled by warm food and a dry place to sleep.  It became something akin to a dream as he walked hand in hand with Tamra, losing himself in her eyes, dreaming of her lips pressed against his, of her body pressed against his.  His body healed and the aches and pains slowly went away, replaced by more honest ones as he worked for his room and board at The Waystation under Old Bart’s watchful eye.

Yet, he was happy.  Content.

And now he paid the price for his happiness, for his pride in his work.  Kaine had come for him.

How long had he tried to recall the man’s name without success?  Each night for so many nights uncounted, his dreams had been filled by this man’s face, his cold, dead eyes staring in glee as he inflicted yet another torture on Jared’s battered body.  But the name had escaped him, almost as if it could not pass his lips for to do so would call him down upon them like some great demon out of hearth tales.  And yet he was here, standing in the inn’s common room, staring at Jared with those same eyes.  The word couldn’t help but slip past his lips now.

“Kaine,” he whispered, and Kaine smiled.  It was the sort of smile that turned Jared’s bones to mush and he expected to hear a moan or scream issue forth from his body, but no sound formed.  He couldn’t move.  Terror held him in its grip.

With the ease of a courtier, Kaine crossed the room and took the chair across from them, his eyes never leaving Jared’s.  He wore a dark chainmail shirt and breeches with leather chaps over them.  Jared could make out no other details as Kaine’s long cloak swayed back and forth before he sat down.

Beneath the table, Tamra’s hand still clasped his, though her grip had become like iron.  He dared not look at her for fear he would draw Kaine’s attention to her.  He wanted to shout at her, tell her to run, anything, but his voice was lost to him and he could not find it.  Cold sweat began to run down his back as Kaine reached across the table and lifted his ale, sniffing it, then returning it to the table, nose crinkled with distaste.

“You are rested?” he asked slowly, his voice smooth as silk yet cutting through Jared like a knife.  He couldn’t get the image of Orc hands obeying that voice, of claws reaching for him, tearing at his soul.  “Yes,” he said with a glance toward Tamra, “I would say you are.”  Again, Jared wanted to howl, but he was completely frozen.  Kaine had found him.  The Fates were cruel.

“I will give you a choice, Jared,” Kaine began with a smile.  But there was no warmth in that smile, only cold death.  Jared shivered.  “Come with me now, without incident, and I will let this place stand and all within it go about their business unmolested.  Resist me, in any way, and I will burn it to the ground, with the town around it as well.  And the people . . ” he trailed off.  Smiling again, he finished, “they will suffer greatly.  You, above all others, know that I can make them suffer.”  Finished, he reached a glove covered hand across the table as if to place it on top of Jared’s left hand.  Suddenly finding the will to move again, Jared jerked his hand away and nearly cried for help, until the look in Kaine’s eye silenced him.

Kaine meant every word.  He would make these people suffer and raze the town.  How many people lived here?  Hundreds?  Perhaps thousands?  He couldn’t let their deaths be on his hands!  All Kaine wanted was him.  If he walked away with him right now, they’d all be safe; Bart, Marta, Hattie, and Tamra.  All he had to do was accept the offer.

“No!” Tamra said.  “You can’t go with him!  We can take him!  Together we-”

“‘We’?” Kaine asked, interrupting her.  “Wait,” he said, a thought coming to his mind.  “Is this the little rabbit who helped you?”  Tamra shut her mouth, but it was too late, Kaine knew.  He laughed and Jared shivered again.

“I’ll go with you,” he said quickly, rising from his chair.  He had to protect Tamra.  He had to get Kaine away from her.

“Oh, no,” Kaine mocked him.  “It’s too late for that now.  You see, the offer has changed.  I will have the rabbit as well.”

He didn’t remember leaping over the table, didn’t remember locking his hands around Kaine’s throat, but somehow, he did both these things and now sat straddling Kaine’s chest, his hands tightening around the man’s throat and slowly crushing the life from him.  Somewhere in the distance, Tamra cried out his name.

“They all die,” Kaine croaked, gasping for air, “if I don’t walk out that door.”

Looking up, Jared noted the soldier loitering near the door, hand on the hilt of his sword.  He knew Kaine wasn’t lying, he didn’t have to.  Kaine had all the power, he was the one in control.  But Jared didn’t want Tamra to come, didn’t want her to suffer the way he knew Kaine would make her suffer.  In the end, she called his name again, softer this time, and the fire left him.  He eased his grip from around Kaine’s throat and stood up.  After a fit of choking, Kaine smiled up at him and extended a hand, expecting help up.  Swallowing pride and anger, he helped the man rise.

“I knew you’d see reason,” Kaine said amiably, then he struck Jared hard across his face and sent him careening into a table.  The table crumpled beneath him, shattering into a dozen pieces before he ever hit the floor.  Tamra was there in an instant, helping him to his feet again.  He could taste the blood as it trickled from the corner of his mouth.  He knew it was only the beginning.

“What be the meanin’ of this?” Bart asked as he entered the common room.  He had a large club resting on his right shoulder.  His eyes went from Tamra to Jared before settling on Kaine.  Had Jared been the one to face Bart when he had that look in his eye and was carrying that club, he would have turned tail and run, but not so with Kaine.  The tattooed man simply smiled and fished a coin out of his purse.  Jared caught the glint of gold as the coin flipped toward Bart.  Bart let it fall to the floor untouched.

“For your troubles, good sir,” Kaine said with a smile.  “My young friends and I will be leaving now.”

“And just why would they be a doin’ that?” Bart asked, his voice a low rumble.  “It don’ look to me as if they be wantin’ to go w’th likes o’ you.”

“Ah, I understand your confusion,” Kaine laughed.  “You see, they know that if they don’t both come with me right this minute, that I will have my army turn this town into a killing ground.  That I will impale men, women and children on pikes set around the city walls for the crows to feast upon.  Well, those that I don’t simply burn along with their ramshackle dwellings.  Or give to my Trolls for their cookpots.  Now do you understand.”

The blood had drained away from Bart’s face, growing paler with each word until he looked a ghastly shade of white.  But there was still a set to his jaw and a determination in his eye when he looked to Jared.  For that moment, Jared admired the man his loyalty and his courage.  He was still willing to fight if Jared wanted him too.  He had given his word, and Tamra was like his own daughter.  He would fight to protect them, even against insurmountable odds.  Jared admired him, but he couldn’t allow it.

Shaking his head slightly, he told Bart ‘no’, and the man seemed to deflate.  Picking up the gold piece, he tossed it back to Kaine and told him his money was good here, then he stepped aside.

“She stays here,” Jared said, finding his voice again.

“No,” was all Kaine said before heading out the door.

Jared turned to Tamra, a thousand things on the tip of his tongue, yet all of them fleeing at the sight of her eyes.  God, he thought, how I love her.

“I go where you go,” she said, then she kissed him, quickly and passionately and pulled away again just as quickly.  She wrapped her arms around Bart, hugging him just as hard as he was hugging her.  Jared waited patiently, though his lips were on fire.  He still felt her body pressed against his, some places soft and others hard, but all of her warm.

“Boy, I do be sorry,” Bart croaked, tears brimming in his eyes.

“No,” Jared said quietly.  “There’s nothing you can do.  Don’t blame yourself.”

“You’ll take care of her?” he asked.

“As best I can,” Jared answered.  Then they clasped hands briefly.  The soldier still stood at the door, making it clear that they had to come now.  Jared walked out into the sunshine, Tamra beside him, and found Kaine sitting atop his horse, three other mounts tied to the hitch.  The other soldier took one, leaving one for Tamra and one for him.  Mounting with as much dignity as he could manage, Jared grasped the reigns firmly and followed Kaine as he led them back through the city and out the gate.

He was a captive again, but he was not alone.  This time, Tamra was a captive as well.  The Fates were truly cruel.

*          *          *

They spent the night huddled together in the center of a huge camp.  Kaine’s army surrounded them, and it had grown incredibly large.  Jared counted at least two hundred men on horseback, a thousand Orcs and a dozen Trolls, their huge forms visible high above the rest of the army as they made their way through the camp.

Though they appeared to have been forgotten, there was no chance for escape.  They were truly held in the center of the camp, with dozens of campfires spread out around them, and the sounds of the army crashing in on them from every direction.  Kaine had learned from his mistake and would not repeat it.

They spoke in whispers, trading words of comfort between them as the night passed and they fell asleep, each clutching the other for warmth as well as security.  When the sun rose, they were kicked awake and left alone to take care of their personal matters.  There was no where else to go, so they did so right there in the open.

Kaine came soon after, leading a horse behind him and holding a good piece of rope.  Jared eyed the rope as he would a serpent about to strike, but could do nothing as his hands were bound before him and the lead rope handed to Kaine.  Tamra was forced into the saddle of the horse beside him.

“You will run,” Kaine said with a smile.

“No!” Tamra shouted.  “He won’t be able to keep up with the horses!”

“Oh, he’ll keep up.  He will have incentive.”  Kaine leaned down from his saddle as if to confer with or pass some great secret, but when he spoke, his voice was loud enough for all to hear.  “You will run.  If you fall, you will not be whipped, but she will.  And it will not stop until you are up and running again or we make camp for the night, whichever comes first.  Do you understand?”

Jared wanted to scream, wanted to toss obscenities up and wipe the smirk from his face, but he couldn’t find his voice.  Instead, he merely nodded.  Once.  This seemed to have a better effect on Kaine than had he actually spoken, the man flushing red, eyes wide with barely contained rage.  Perhaps it was Jared’s face that had enraged him.  He felt so calm, as if he had passed the point of terror and come to a new place within his heart and mind where nothing could touch him anymore.  He would run, of course, and he would not fall.

Tamra would not be whipped.  Ever.

*          *          *

Tamra flew from her saddle, catching Jared just before his head hit the ground.  Clutching him to her chest, she cried and rocked.  He was drenched in his own sweat, but cold from the wind.  His breathing came in great gasps and his lips were cracked and dry, his wrists rubbed raw and bleeding where the ropes cut into the flesh.  Cursing she called to Kaine for water and food.  He laughed at her.

“The way you’re running him, he’ll die without food and water!”

Kaine urged his mount forward until he towered over them, his features hidden in the twilight shadows of the setting sun.  All expect his smile, which showed straight white teeth gleaming bright and wickedly down at them.

“No, he won’t do that.  I will give him a new incentive.  Boy.  Boy!” at this, Jared stirred in her arms, his face turning toward the sound until he too, stared up at Kaine, his eyes wide.  “Listen to me, boy,” Kaine hissed.  “If you die before we reach the Tower, I will know her, do you hear me?  And then I will pass her to all of my men for their pleasure for as long as she survives, and we have ways of keeping a person alive for a very long time.  Do you understand me, boy?  Do not die.”

Jared nodded, once, and Kaine pulled his horse away, but not before barking orders to one of his soldiers.  He looked no different from the others, who all wore black armor to match Kaine’s, but Tamra cared little for how he looked as he dropped the waterskin and loaf of bread down to her before riding off with her horse in tow.

Cradling Jared as she would a baby, she trickled the precious water into his mouth, and moistened the bread before she fed it to him.  He needed his strength if he was going to survive until they could escape again.  Only, she didn’t know how they would escape.  They were kept in the center of the army now, and forced to remain with Kaine throughout the days ride.  They had no weapons and no supplies.

It was hopeless.

But she had to keep Jared alive.  Tears streamed down her face as she fed Jared, her Jared, and gave him water.  He was so brave and so strong and she felt so weak and useless.  She only served as a weapon for Kaine to use against him and she hated herself for that.  But she hated Kaine more, hated him like she had never hated anyone else in all her life.  He had caused them this pain, and continued to cause them more pain and would never stop until she killed him.

And she realized right then that she would kill him.  She swore an oath to it.

*          *          *

As the Black Tower loomed above them, Jared seemed to lose his strength and, at last, fell.  He was dragged the last few miles to the Tower as one of the men riding with Kaine whipped Tamra, each slash of the whip sending ripples of pain through her body.  He was careful to land each slash across her back, and she collapsed into shuddering sobs that lasted until they rode through the massive black gate.

Her vision blurred and she had to hang onto consciousness with all her will power as they dragged her and Jared through the twisting labyrinth of dark stone, stopping at last in the dungeons below.  She heard the click as the metal snapped around her writs, felt the cold against her skin as she was thrown to the floor.

Opening her eyes, she saw Jared, arms stretched wide, wrists manacled to chains hanging from the ceiling with not enough slack for his knees to touch the floor.  His head was down, his hair falling off his shoulders and dripping with sweat.  They tore away his clothes and she saw his body was a mass of bruises and cuts, some still bleeding.  Kaine took a handful of hair and pulled hard on Jared’s head, raising his half-closed eyes up to meet Kaines’.  He whispered something she couldn’t hear, Kaine did, then laughed and left, the door to the cell banging shut and leaving them in darkness.

Struggling to rise, she tested her own strength, but the chains which held her were so short she couldn’t rise above her knees.  Nor could she cross the room to Jared.  Sobbing again, she called to him and he whispered something too faint for her to hear, but it was enough.  He was alive and so was she, though they were trapped within the Black Tower.

Suddenly the darkness seemed far more threatening.  Curling into a ball, she tried to ignore the slick yet burning feeling on her back as the shudders came.  Her body shook for a long while before sleep simply took her.

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