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 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:

Enjoy!

© 2010 [...]]]> 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.

Make me famous:

Having said that, it wasn’t [...]]]> On a long, 3 day weekend several years ago, I wrote a book.  Called ‘The Queen of Shadows’, it was intended to be the first in a series of adventures of a Wizard named ‘Darius’.  As you might expect with a book written in just 3 days, it wasn’t very good.

Having said that, it wasn’t all terrible.  I realized that really, it was the outline for something far broader than what I’d originally conceived.  With that in mind, I broke the story out into parts and started rewriting things (this is after I’d already started ‘book 2′ – but more on that tomorrow).  As I said, not everything was terrible.  Whole swaths of the book are actually quite good, but you have to read through the crap to get to it.  Well, YOU don’t.  See, I pulled one of those ‘good parts’ out just for you.  These characters appear in the new ‘Chronicles of Darius’ novels I’ve outlined (and written quite a bit of), though they are slightly different than you will see them here.

Take a read and hopefully you’ll like and enjoy it.

© 2010, Patrick Hester – All rights reserved.

The Queen of Shadows

Chapter Fourteen

Jared wanted to die.

All of his life, he had worn clothes made better than those worn by most other people simply because of this station in life.  It was something required of him being that he was the adopted son of the Lieutenant of the Guard.  Allan had suffered along with him, wearing the same stuffy coats and too-tight breeches along with polished knee high boots that chafed and soft, silken shirts.  But as Prince and Heir to the throne, the clothing normally worn by him to state functions had become inappropriate overnight, along with everything else that he owned.

He could still remember the look on the face of the Mistress of the House, Elsa Fenweit, when he came back to his rooms after speaking with the King and found her going through his things.  She had a rather large pile of his clothes, all good shirts and coats and pants, sitting in a pile in the middle of his room like so much rubbish.  To his horror, his best pair of boots, the ones with the caked on mud that fit his foot just right and he could walk for hours while wearing them in the hardest country, were in the pile along with all of his underclothes and two out of his three good cloaks.  She looked scandalized that his things would be in such a state, as she put it.

He’d asked her what it was, exactly, that she thought she was doing and she informed him, in no uncertain terms, that his old clothes were to be taken away and burned.  She then made a comment to the effect that she couldn’t believe he still wore some of those things, ratty as they were, and that none of it was fit for a person of his newly announced rank and standing in the household, being Heir to the Throne and all.  Her stout little body jiggled as she poked a finger through a hole in his favorite shirt before tossing it into the pile along with the rest.  That these were the same clothes her maid washed week in and week out for him without so much as a word seemed no longer of consequence.

Shocked beyond the ability to move, he stood dumb and mute as two of her maids came in and swept the pile up in their arms and hauled it off.  Elsa eyed him up and down as he stood there, her swollen cheeks puffed up, hands clasped before her, light brown hair done up in a tight bun.  He suddenly realized that she was appraising the very clothes he was wearing and, looking to the now empty wardrobe in his room, a tinge of panic ran through him at the thought he would have nothing at all to wear should she demand the very clothes off his back.

As if she had read his thoughts, she smiled and told him that she would return for what he had on after the tailor delivered the new clothes that had been ordered for him.  When the tailor delivered the new clothes, he stared silently at them.  A half dozen coats with high collars and silver embroidery along the lapels and cuffs with two shirts for each coat, the shirts having buttons all the way to his chin.  They were of a finer cut than anything he had seen before and had matching pants as well.  Three traveling coats were also there, though of simpler design, they were no less grand in tailorship than the embroidered coats.  A pair of fine cloaks replaced the two thrown away, both of plain, stout wool and of a color between dark green and black, only one of which had a hood.  His new wardrobe was rounded out by four pairs of knee high boots that fit better then any he had had before, much to his surprise.

And now that he had to wear these clothes, and the shirt and the coat took turns choking him, and the breeches were too tight and clung to his body far too much to his mind, and he was the object of every conversation winding around the room, he wanted nothing more than to die.

From across the crowded room filled with dignitaries from all over the Kingdom, Allan gave him a lopsided grin to let him know that he shared his pain.  His clothing, too, had been replaced, and he now wore a fine cut red coat with the same brocaded patterns on cuffs and lapels as Jared.  After all, if Jared became King, Allan became Captain of the Guard.  He shared a moment with his brother before yet another woman trotted her daughter in front of him in order that he might take notice of the ugly thing.  This one had a snout where a nose should have been along with beady little eyes and bad teeth when she smiled.  He tried not to grimace as he kissed her hand and gave her a polite smile of his own before hastily moving away.

In different corners of the room, minstrels plucked away at gentle tunes while the Lord’s and Ladies sipped wine and spoke often in hushed tones meant for no one but themselves, or laughed uproariously for all to see.  The King, wearing a robe of red velvet with wolf fur at the fringe and collar, stood in conversation with the Baron Modred, a dozen or so feet away from Jared.  The Baron wore all black, not even attempting to put on the finer clothes customs demanded at such a gathering.  His long sleeve shirt with a high collar was covered partly by a leather vest and he wore small, black leather gloves on his hands.  His pants were dark as well, as was the cloak he wore that was so long it dragged the ground when he walked.  The only thing that seemed appropriate for the party were his brightly polished, knee-high boots.

Jared had been afraid of the Baron nearly all his life.  The man had a scar running the length of his face over his right eye.  The eye itself was completely white, and the Baron attributed the wound and scar to a group of now dead Orcs who came upon he and his kinsman while hunting in the lands of his Barony.  Like most tales of heroic endeavor, the number of Orcs had grown over the years from the first telling of only twenty, to the current telling that it was nearly a hundred, and he and his men were outnumbered four to one, and yet held their ground and won the day.

But whenever the man turned that white eye toward him, Jared always shuddered and found himself trying to take a step or two back and away.  He did not like to be caught in that gaze.

He jumped when he felt a sharp poke to his left kidney.  A flash of red hair accompanied by a wolfish grin announced Allan’s presence as he took a spot next to Jared.  His brother rocked on his heels, slowly letting his gaze drift along the gaggle of people sipping wine from silver goblets, resting for a short moment on the Baron before continuing on.

“You know,” he whispered conspiratorially, “He’s gonna notice you staring at it one of these times and then,” he slashed a finger across his neck in slow imitation of a knife.

“That’s not funny.”

“Depends on where you’re standing,” he smiled again.  Allan had that twinkle of mischief in his eye that was infectious and Jared couldn’t help returning the smile.

“I met your future wife tonight,” he said, and the grin on his brother’s face died instantly.  “Not too bad, really, if you can get past the snout.”  Allan shuddered and closed his eyes.  Jared was glad, it meant that he, too, had seen that particular offering by one of the Ladies of the Court.

“Do you feel like a piece of meat too?” Allan asked suddenly.  Jared nodded a yes and they both took to watching the crowd again.  There seemed to be quite a lot of older women watching them, their eyes scanning them up and down the way meat buyers weigh the worth of cattle and sheep.  It made the back of Jared’s neck itch to no end, and the hairs on his arms stand straight up.  Each of the women had a daughter, or younger sister, or cousin, or niece that she wanted to introduce him to and she just knew that he would instantly like the girl and that they would become fast friends, if not more.  They always punctuated the more.

Not to say that he didn’t want . . .more, not at all because he did.  It’s just that, well, he liked to be the one doing the chasing, not the other way around.

“I need something to drink,” he said, noticing the cotton-mouth he had developed.

“I’d stay away from the wine,” Allan cautioned.  “That’s the last thing you need in this place.  It’s more dangerous out there than fighting a thousand Orcs.”

“Agreed.  Stay sharp.”

“You too.”

Jared moved away, catching the arm of one of the servants as he went.  He asked for some punch and the servant said he would bring a cup as fast as he could and he was left standing there in the open again, a lamb waiting to be slaughtered.  No sooner had the thought formed in his mind, then he saw one of the Ladies break from the rest of the hunting group and make a straight line for him.  He realized that he had started to think of them each as a lioness, slowly stalking a lone victim across the plains.

Min cut directly in front of her and stood facing him with a smile, the Lady huffing behind her as she moved away.  He didn’t hear exactly what was said, but he knew it to be something truly nasty.

Min wore the same type of clothes she always wore, loose fitting breeches and soft leather shoes with a long-sleeve tunic cinched at the waist with a belt.  The only difference was that this outfit was made of fine blue silks and was decorated with intricately embroidered patterns of dragons and flowers, of all things.  A few, scant wildflowers of yellow and blue decorated her hair which was held away from her face by a white band of lace, the rest of it falling straight behind her shoulders.

“I owe you,” he said with a smile.

“I know,” she returned his smile.  “I have watched these women,” she spat the word, “Parading their daughters in front of you and young Allan for the better part of the night and decided to take pity on you.”

“And I thank you,” he said with a slight bow.  The servant soon came running up carrying a tray filled with goblets of punch.  Taking two and offering one to Min, Jared began to think he might have to find a better way to defend himself against these women.  Before he knew it, Min had agreed to begin teaching him her way of fighting hand to hand.  He stared at her, wondering how he got backed into that corner when Agden came up and stood beside them.

Jared had been told since he was old enough to hold a sword about the kinds of creatures he would have to defend the realm against as a soldier in the King’s Guard.  Among the nastier of the Foul Folk, were the Trolls.  Standing seven to eight feet tall with hides as hard as rock and able to turn the most determined blade aside easily.  With huge hands for crushing and legs the thickness of tree trunks to smash you with.  A thousand tales of Trolls and Troll cookpots – they ate any meat – flashed through his mind whenever the man standing before him looked him in the eye, because he would rather face a thousand Trolls if it meant he didn’t have to face Agden.

The man stood a good head taller than he, and if black on the Baron looked frightening, this man made it look terrifying.  Black leather armor over a dark shirt with a high collar, undecorated by brocade or other distractions along with good, stout breeches and knee high, weather worn boots with a daggers’ hilt barely discernable in each.  His cloak hung from his shoulders like a cape, well away from the sword belted on his hip instead of his back where it usually rested.

His eyes held an intensity that one shied away from immediately, and his face was often stark and grim, especially under torch or candlelight, the flames casting wicked shadows across those deep lines.  Dark hair fell well below his shoulders and held dozens of tiny braids throughout indicating that he held to the old traditions.  Jared didn’t know whether to believe that he did or not, for each braid was meant to remember a battle fought and won.  There were so many, he dared not count them for fear of losing his place, or embarrassing himself by gawking.

To see the man smile, pleasantly, at Min, nearly made him choke on his punch.

“And where is our charge?” she said icily.  Jared frowned, not understanding.

“There,” rumbled the big man, finger pointing across the room.  Jared followed that finger and saw the Wizard Darius seemingly lost in conversation with Enmaleth.  In the weeks since his arrival, the two had become nearly inseparable.  In fact, the only time he didn’t see them together was when he and Allan were receiving their lessons from the old Mage.

Both men had taken to wearing long sleeve shirts made of wool that fell as far as their knees and were cinched at the waist with a cloth belt.  Under it, they wore close-fitting breeches and soft leather boots laced up to their knees.  Over this, Enmaleth had his usual cloak of crow feathers, and Darius wore a hooded robe of black with the front open and the hood thrown back.  With all of that, and Darius’ silver hair all frizzy and in disarray, and Enmaleth’s bald dome sparkling in the torchlight, no one could mistake them for anything other than what they were – Wizards.

Sliding a finger between his collar and his neck, Jared gave it a little tug and tried to ease the choking feeling.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one side of Agden’s mouth begin to curl and quickly pulled his finger free.  He could feel the heat as his face flushed, and tried to look away long enough for it to go away.

“Feeling a little constricted?” Agden asked.  Had Min snickered at him?

“I’m fine,” he croaked.  The man was so bloody intimidating.

“This is a different battlefield, this room, but one you must learn to maneuver just the same.”  It was a surprising insight from the man, but Jared should have known he would say something like that.  He was always saying something strangely profound and meaningful when least expected, or was quick with a piece of advice Jared cursed himself for not thinking of on his own.  The man had an air about him, whether it was self-assuredness, or plain old arrogance, he wasn’t sure.  He only knew that he had learned to take him seriously and show respect while he was shaking in his boots.  Triss had told him to listen to the man and pay attention to what he had to say because he just might learn something.

“I know,” he said.  “I just don’t like the feeling that I’m the prized bull being shown at market.”  The laugh from Agden was so loud it drew stares from all the corners of the room, his deep voice rumbling like thunder even when he laughed.  Min refused to meet his eye and stared at her punch as if it held the secrets of life.

Jared blushed furiously.

With a start, he noticed a liveried servant threading his way through the masses and heading for the King.  He held a long brass staff in his hand and looked straight ahead as he walked, never seeming to notice the people parting to make way for him.  His strides were long and measured, his pace set exactly as he crossed the room and came to stand before the King.  Bowing low before the King, he came about after a slight nod of acknowledgement and brought the staff down on the stone with three, sharp thrusts, the sound bringing everyone’s attention to him.

“Stand and attend!” he said in a booming voice as a hush fell over the crowd.  “Hear ye!  Hear ye!  The High King is about to speak!  Stand and attend!  High King Aron, son of Oden, son of Agnoth, shall speak his wisdom for all to hear!”

The King drew himself up as Baron Modred took a few respectable steps away.  For a second, the King’s eyes met Jared’s and a smile touched his lips, but just as quickly as it happened, he turned and began to scan the crowd.  Jared wondered what the man might have to say.  The announcement had already been made about him, that was the reason for all the parties going on in the city night after night, and this gathering of nobles tonight.

“It has been nearly five hundred years since a True Wizard walked the Tower,” the King began.  “His presence has started me wondering about the past, and the future.  I have come to realize that many traditions and customs held close to the throne for centuries have been displaced or discarded over the years.  Granted, some were quite foolish, while others make sense even today, though they are not used.

“It is for one of these latter that I have called you here tonight.”

The crowd murmured and Jared saw many an eye flick back and forth between himself and the King.

“Long ago, a young Prince would travel in the company of a Wizard for a period of time, along the Road to Faloan,” gasps took the crowd and Jared suddenly wondered what the King had in store for him.  All the eyes in the room were now riveted to the King, and that made his stomach go queasy.  Travel with the Wizard?  To this Faloan?  He had never even heard of it before!

“In this journey, it was hoped that the Prince would cast off the last vestiges of his youthful exuberance, and begin to take his first steps toward the wisdom needed to rule the land justly.

“And where better to learn patience and wisdom, than in the care of the Elves of Faloan?”

Jared reached for a goblet of wine as the astonished gasps became louder voices decrying disbelief.  Drinking it in one gulp, he grabbed another.  Within heartbeats, he was on his third.

Make me famous:

In the 90’s, a comic [...]]]> I think we all enjoy writing a little fan fiction.  For me, there was a lot of different, well known universes that I played in as I was learning to write.  Sometimes, it’s easier to write in well established worlds because you know them so well.  Hopefully, you do them justice.

In the 90’s, a comic book series started running over at Dark Horse called ‘Tales of the Jedi’.  I imagined this story based on that format; in the Star Wars Universe, but not within the ‘established’ movie continuity (we didn’t have ‘Episode I’ or the Timothy Zahn books yet).  I also thought, ‘How weird/cool would it be if someone from Yoda’s race was a Sith?’

I hope you like it.

© belongs to the rights holders. Anything else is © 2010 Patrick Hester, all rights reserved.

Tales of the Jedi: Masurai Odet

Masurai paused mid-step.  She’d sensed something nearby, something that didn’t quite feel right.  Before she could delve further with her senses, harsh purple light sliced through the darkness towards her.  She reacted instinctively, her own lightsaber appearing in her hand, the blue/white blade rising with a hiss just in time to block the other from slicing her in two.

The next few seconds were a blur as Jedi and Sith battled furiously, lightsabers clashing as they dipped, swayed and arced in a strange and beautiful, albeit deadly, dance.  Masurai was beginning to wonder if it would not be her death that punctuated this dance.

“Fear, young one.  All Jedi must conquer this most elusive of enemies if they are to survive.”

That was her old Master, echoing through her mind.  He did that now.  It was more than a little disturbing.

When her lightsaber met the other again, she lifted her hand and pushed with the force, causing the Sith to fall back for just a moment, more than enough time for Masurai to flip backwards and away, spinning as she flew through the air.  Landing softly, she took two steps and then jumped again, pushing herself higher with the force, landing in a run on the low ledge of the wall.  She knew that this would not be enough though, so she leapt from the ledge, again using the force to push her higher, tapping the wall three times with her feet to go even higher before using her fourth step to launch her to a balcony on the opposite wall.

Through the doorway, her lightsaber dark, she slid up against the inner wall and waited.  She could not sense him, the Sith, but she knew he was still out there.  That, too, was disturbing – she should be able to sense him.  Did the Sith have some way of shielding themselves from detection?  And why hadn’t he followed her?  He certainly could have managed it.  He should be here.  That he wasn’t, bothered her greatly.  Still, she could not wait here and let him ambush her again.

She sprinted down the darkened corridor, using her senses to show her the way.  These ruins, they were in fair condition, all things considered.  A few holes in the walls and floors here and there, easily avoided.  The dust was a problem.  He could track her by her foot prints, so she used the force to push the dust away before her, and return it to the floor behind her.

Suddenly, she paused again.  Something was wrong.  She reached out with the force.  There was… no life.  None.  Not even the smallest insect anywhere that she could sense within the ruins.  She couldn’t help but gasp.

That was a mistake.

The floor cracked loudly, breaking into a dozen chunks that fell away beneath her, causing her to lose balance and begin to fall as well.  She reached out, touching one of the larger chunks with an extended toe and, jumping up, pushed with the force.  She nearly reached the unbroken floor when it cracked as well.  Everything was coming down around her.  She leapt from fragment to fragment, then the walls cracked and broke, chunks hurtling towards her.  Lightsaber in hand again, she blocked the first fury while still managing not to fall.

Just when she thought she was going to make it out, a large piece of wall slipped through her defenses and struck her just above her ear, sending her spiraling, dazed, then; darkness.

* * *

“The Sith use fear as a weapon; the Jedi must learn to overcome their fears, to push them away and give them no sway over our actions.”

“But Master, how does a Jedi overcome their fears?”

“That, my young Padawan, is what I must teach you.”

* * *

Masurai groaned.  Her head felt like a Wookie was stomping up and down on it.  She tried to move, but found that she couldn’t.  Opening her eyes to darkness, she tried again.  Her hands, arms, legs and feet were bound somehow.  She struggled for a moment, then tried to sense what was binding her.  Shocked, she felt nothing at all.  No, that wasn’t right – it wasn’t ‘nothing’, it was more like an absence of anything…

She shook her head and saw stars.

“Little Jedi, alone you are, Master’s gone, how you are scarred.”

The voice was oddly melodic.  There was no other sense of anything around her, not the Sith, not any life.  She shuddered.  Never before had she felt such an absence of everything that is natural.  What was this place?

Light, intense and sudden, filled her vision, then pain seared through her body and she screamed.  How long she screamed, she couldn’t know, but it felt like forever.

“Tell me now what I wish to know, and promise do I to let you go…” he giggled.  More light, more pain.  Sith magic.  Searing through her.  She screamed again.  When it stopped, she gasped for breath.

“How…can…I…tell…you…anything…if…you…keep…doing…that?”

He giggled again, and a ball of light appeared.  She squinted and saw him for the first time.  He was tiny, even smaller than most of the younglings at the Temple.  His face was round and long with droopy and pointy ears on either side.  His skin was green, his hair dark and thin and he wore a tight fitting, black tunic and pants.  Staring at him, she realized she’d never seen his species before in her life.  Which was not good.

His three fingered left hand held aloft the ball of light, his right hand twirled her lightsaber around in circles.  She instinctively reached out with the force to snake it back to her but she met that same invisible wall that seemed to permeate the air around her.  He looked at her, his eyes squinting, and giggled.

“Try as you might, you will fail.  Stronger am I, than ever be you will.”

A chill ran through her.  Then the pain began again and all she could do was scream.

Make me famous:

Essentially, you’ll get an excerpt each day this week. Some are current projects, some are from things I’ve worked on throughout the years.  Either way, I hope that you enjoy them and leave comments!

~P

I wanted to share something different with you today.  It’s not Flash Fiction due to it’s length, but nor it is really a short story.  It’s something in-between.

It’s a bit of future-history from The New Universe (my own little sandbox of creative endeavors – everything I write exists in this little Universe I’ve created).  [...]]]> Happy Monday.

I wanted to share something different with you today.  It’s not Flash Fiction due to it’s length, but nor it is really a short story.  It’s something in-between.

It’s a bit of future-history from The New Universe (my own little sandbox of creative endeavors – everything I write exists in this little Universe I’ve created).  I hope you like it.

Tales from The New Universe: Gunny Homn

© 2009, Patrick Hester.  All Rights Reserved

Descent

The Slider shook violently as it sliced through the atmosphere.  The exterior glowed white hot, the heat shield pushing away the worst of it to form a long tail in its wake.  Inside, she felt none of it; her body snug in the viscous gel that kept her blood oxygenated, her body safe from the G-forces the Slider was experiencing and from the heat and friction chipping away at the surface of the craft.

Just large enough for one person, the Sliders sole purpose was to deliver someone to the surface of a planet with minimal time, effort and cost.

Someone like Gunny Homn.

*  *  *

Homn pulled the strings of her boots tight, the worked, brown leather laces wrapping around the knee-high, tan boots four times before they were short enough to be tied.  Her pants were tucked in and tied up the sides, simple cotton leggings beneath them.  Her belt was braided and made of stiffer stock, carrying two pouches, a long-blade dagger and a smaller, flat blade knife used for eating.  The tan shirt also had a second, cotton shirt beneath it that doubled as a lining and she wore a green, short cut vest and matching jacket over that.  The long, dark, oiled cloak that would complete her outfit still rested on the back of the chair next to the desk.

A quick look in the mirror and she flashes the woman reflected there a rare grin, tugging on the thick braid of hair hanging down, hugging the left side of her face.  She definitely looked the part of a heathen.  Now, she just needed to convince the Vice-Captain.

*  *  *

“Unification is the single greatest priority for the Human Race,” said the speaker on the chat, wearing a brown L’oum-suit with gold trim and a mirror-mask reflecting the gray L’oum of the interviewer.  “Between the dilution of the Blood and the Cullings, we really cannot afford to allow these lost, backward splinter worlds to continue their Unholy Evolutionary Paths unaided.”

The mirror-mask of the interviewer held a blue tint, trimmed in pale red.  “But, many within the Hierarchy of the Dome, argue that these splinter worlds, because of the divergence in their Evolution, are actually throwbacks to a baser, lesser Human existence than what we know today and will only serve to further pollute our lines if Unification is allowed.  How do you respond to them?”

“Don’t you see?  That is precisely why we must bring them back into the fold.  Because they are throwbacks, their Blood is much closer to Genetic Purity.  They haven’t experienced the Degradation as so many of us have.  For generations, dilution of the Blood has caused more and more genetic mutation and weakening.  These splinter worlds have survived in the old ways.  They have diseases, suffer from exposure to bacteria, breed through sexual reproduction – things that we have not experienced in thousands of years.  Because of this, they build up tolerances we can only dream of.  Bringing them back into the fold will only strengthen us over time and ensure the continued expression of The Message throughout the Universe.”

Homn nodded thoughtfully.  High Command agreed with this assessment.  There was a program being developed even now to try and find these splinter worlds, assess the odds of successful Unification.  They were even looking for volunteers who might be willing to act as the Forerunners.  Fingering the a’Ddah of her N’osh to align with the docking web, she wondered what that might entail, a sense of adventure beginning to take shape in her heart.

*  *  *

“These images were taken from a high orbiting o’Anah’N'ret.  A splinter world.  We believe there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of such worlds, scattered across the Universe.  Upon the Breaking, many fled the Culling of the Ute and no record was made of their journey, nor their destinations, so that the Evil may not find them.”

Homn stared at the images flashing slowly across the scried.  She was shocked to see people so naked.  Not a single one wore the Sacred L’oum or made any effort to hide their Souls from the Universe.  Many around her seemed just as disturbed as she, some turning away in disgust or fear.  As she watched, an image of a woman stunned her; she had long hair, wrapped upon itself in an intricate pattern that seemed impossible to her eye.  Never had she seen such hair, spilling from the woman’s head down one side of her naked face.  Her skin was strange, darkened with hue and color, and she wore some sort of garment that covered parts of her but could not have protected her from the Universe.  Also, it accentuated her shape in a scandalous fashion, taking away any semblance of Blessed Androgyny.

Equally, men were naked to the Universe, their faces visible, skin darkened, clothes seemingly made to somehow accentuate their differences rather than hide them as was proper.  It was as if madness had taken them.  She had heard of whole Seeqhs going mad, removing the Sacred L’oum, mixing and comingling as savages, Souls naked to the Universe.  It was the kind of thing you told in hushed tones to frighten and motivate the young newly hatched.

“They are more primitive than we could have ever imagined.  To contact them will require sacrifice and dedication above and beyond anything that has ever been asked before.  Only the strongest of us will be able to endure such trials.  No one will judge you if you choose to leave now.”

Homn stared, curiosity warring with fear in her heart.  She had never before found herself wavering once a decision was made, yet she had never expected this.  ‘Sacrifice and dedication’?  Watching as so many begin walking away, she remembered what had brought her to this point; the Human race needed these heathens in order to survive.

Steeling herself, she stayed where she stood.  When the last of the deserters, for that was how she thought of them in her mind, when the last of them left, there were only a handful still standing before the Captain.

Nodding to those remaining, the Captain continued the briefing.

*  *  *

Homn stared at the reflection before her.  It was her, naked to the Universe.  After weeks, it was still difficult to see and she found herself looking down or away lest the Ute feel her presence and swarm for the Culling.

Her head was covered in a thin layer of fuzz; hair.  She’d never had hair before.  It was unnerving.  Her skin had taken on a slight hue under the daily imaging doses she endured at the hands of the scientists.  They assured her that it was safe in low doses, but she’d seen Rotero’s naked skin blister and belch something green and red all at the same time.  He’d screamed, too; a horrid sound gurgling forth from his throat.  Then they took him away and she had not seen him again.

Her round mammaries looked odd to her, but they told her they were necessary and adequate for the task.  Most surprising to her had been the hair growing near her sex, and the bleeding that had begun almost as soon as her Sacred L’oum had been removed.  The scientists told her that it was normal and ancient, but she did not see how this was possible.  She was leaking fluids from inside her skin - that could not be normal!

The thought made her stomach speak – another oddity without the Sacred L’oum, and something she had never known before.  Sometimes that sound meant she had to ingest something.  With her mouth. Other times, she had to expel something from… other places.  It was all so base and degrading and very inhuman.

They said and spoke and assured her that this was how the splinter Human’s lived their lives every day.  She couldn’t fathom any of it.  It was so… brutal, savage.  The stark differences between male and female offended her.  Esah and she had been set the task of standing, face to face, speaking to each other directly.  The task was difficult; they were required to look each other in the eye while speaking, no mirror-mask to protect them.  This necessitated risking soul to soul contact without reflection. During the exercise, Esah’s sex had inexplicably engorged.  They rushed both of them to separate rooms for testing and decontamination.

She could tell that the scientists had been unnerved by the entire affair.

The Rorsah came to speak with them each day after that, despite their sins and nakedness.  It was the only comfort for her at this point, knowing that what they did had been approved by the Church, that their souls were protected even if their skin were not.  An entire F’qua had been devoted to thirty-eight hour prayer just for their squad.

Just yesterday, they had told her she would be elevated to Gunny.  She was equal parts disturbed and prideful.  She knew she had to continue on.

*  *  *

“Kneel before your God,” said the Rorsah, and Gunny Homn fell to her knees.  She pressed her face to the floor, feeling the vibration as the walls of the tank slowly receded and the room filled with light and warmth.  Her skin prickled.

You have done well, Gunny Homn, said the Human God, speaking in her mind.  Euphoria spread through her body.  Yours shall be a shining example to all Human kind.  Rise, and look upon your God so that you may take me with you in your heart and spread The Message wherever you go.

Gunny Homn rose, tears streaming down her face as the God of Humanity shone brightly before her.

* * *

“You are the only one, Homn.  The only one to persevere.  Yours shall be the example for those who come after.  Are you prepared?”

Gunny Homn looked up at her own reflection in the Vice-Captain’s mirror-mask.  She saw her own excitement there, her own pride.  She would be the first, but not the last.  Unification would begin here, now.

“I am,” she replied.  She stood above the Slider.  The Honor Guard saluted her as she was lowered inside.  The seal locked her inside and the pumps began to fill it.  She breathed deeply, letting the gel fill her, become part of her.

The only indication that the Slider had been ejected, was the slight thrumming in her ears.

*  *  *

Her senses were under assault; lungs burning, eyes flaring with pain from the colors and light, ears thrumming with the beat of her own heart, deep within her chest.  She fell to her knees, palms forward, the gritty surface cutting into the exposed flesh, digging beneath her fingernails.  Back arched, she expelled the last of the gel from her lungs, then shuddered with her first burning breath.

The air was warm but sweet; she gasped repeatedly, taking in great breaths, eyes watering.  She threw herself away from the puddle of gel, rolling over on her back, eyes staring sightlessly up at the blur she assumed to be the sky.  She clutched to the dirt now, digging her fingers deeper, afraid for the first time in her life, aware that there is no ships deck beneath her, but rather a world turning that could spin her right off.

She could feel the weight of gravity pushing her down.

Her heart pounded in her ears, her breathing started to stabilize.  For the first time, she drew in a deep breath through her nose, a thousand scents assaulting her, swirling through her mind which churned trying to identify them.  Eyes beginning to clear, she saw a deep blue sky above her, the color unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The breath she’d been inhaling caught in her throat.

“…so beautiful.”

* * *

Aboard the o’Anah’N'ret, the Rorsah stood beside the Vice-Captain, watching as the Slider’s vapor trail faded beneath them.

“What we do today will change us for all time.”

The Vice-Captain nodded, purple tinged mirror-mask reflecting the blue planet’s glow.  “Perhaps she will find what we seek.”

“Perhaps,” the Rorsah agreed.  “I doubt it though.  Are the other Forerunners prepared?”

“Each o’Anah’N'ret reports ready.”

“She truly believed she was the only one…,” he shook his head.  “Tell them to proceed.”

“If we find evidence of Homeworld on these first excursions, the Universe shall truly tremble.”

“The Universe should tremble, for we are returning and all that was lost shall be taken back.”

The Vice-Captain nodded at that as well.

~End

(for now)

Make me famous:

The gist: young woman living her life like any other normal person, suddenly finds herself neck deep in a mess that involves magic and a whole list of other things she’s always been told aren’t real.

I decided I [...]]]> As you probably know by now, I’ve written a novel.  I’m working on the second draft right now.

The gist: young woman living her life like any other normal person, suddenly finds herself neck deep in a mess that involves magic and a whole list of other things she’s always been told aren’t real.

I decided I wanted to share this excerpt with you. Comments are most welcome.

Enjoy.

© 2010 Patrick Hester. All rights reserved.

Sam Kane – an excerpt.

I moved to the rail, setting my coffee cup down very carefully.  I heard the ’snap-click’ of a zippo as he lit up.  A stream of smoke shot straight out beside me as he stepped up and looked out at the graveyard.  “What do you think so far,” he asked.

“What do I think?” I replied.  “I think I lost my job today.  I think you are loony.  I think she’s loony too.  And I think it’s time I went home, filled the tub with really hot water, had myself a good, long cry and soaked for the rest of the day because tomorrow, tomorrow I need to start looking for a new job.  Thanks for the coffee though.”

I didn’t even look at him as I turned away.  I saw my entire future going right down the shitter.  The thought entered and fluttered around the edge of my mind that I was going to have to tell my father that I was no longer a cop, that I’d gotten my partner put in the hospital with little chance of a recovery and that I was going to lose everything I had because I didn’t know how to be anything other than who I was; a cop.  And my father, the career officer, the thrice decorated beat cop, he was going to make me feel even shittier than I already did because he just has that way of making me feel like an utter waste of otherwise good genes.

I was halfway to the door when Mayfair spoke again.  “You saw a ghost last night.”  I felt my knees give way and I half-stumbled before windmilling my arms out to stop myself from falling.

“It’s never an easy thing, having your world turned upside down,” he was saying.  I heard him, heard the words, the tone of his voice so somber and quiet, but my mind was back in that apartment building staring down the hall at something that had caught my eye and held it while my partner rushed into the apartment with his gun drawn and at the ready, sure I was right behind him, watching his back.  I could hear him crying out in fear at first, emptying his gun faster than I thought possible.  Then he made a sound I would never be able to forget nor describe adequately no matter how hard I try, all full of anguish and terror and pain, how the pitch of that shriek climbed higher than I thought a human voice could manage.

“We’re told that the boogeyman doesn’t exist, that the world is a place of black and white, right and wrong and everything fits into these neat little columns that can be explained away by science.  ‘The closet is simply a closet’ they tell us, and we clutch at our stuffed animals and pray for the weak glow from the night-light plugged into the wall for our appeasement to extend just a little bit further than it does, for it to chase away the shadow we can see just on the edge of our vision.”

I don’t remember falling to my knees but I did, both in my memory and there on the porch.  I could feel the tears on my cheeks now, streaming down my face in the hot Denver afternoon and yet I felt like I was right back in that apartment building hallway again.  My partner was being ripped apart and I couldn’t move though my mind was screaming at me to help him or run away or do anything but just sit there where I could hear everything happening just a few feet away.  But I couldn’t take my eyes off the face of a child staring at me from down the hall, a child no more than ten years old and yet there was such pain and sadness on her face that it broke my heart and made me want to scoop her up in my arms and hold her safe.

“Eventually, we convince ourselves that what we see isn’t really there, that it can’t be there because that’s just childish nonsense.  We develop a sort of blind ignorance to the supernatural world.  When faced with the impossible, with what cannot be, our conditioning takes over and we cannot accept it for anything other than a hoax or a fraud, something perpetrated by kooks and phonies looking to cash in on superstitious, ignorant fools.”

Her eyes made my breath catch in my throat.  They were translucent and milky and though fifty feet easily stood between us, I thought I could see red veins crisscrossing around the irises.  A voice was whispering in my head, telling me to relax, to let go and to help her find her dolly because she couldn’t go to sleep without it.  Wasn’t I a nice lady, the voice whispered and I nodded, to help her and keep her safe from the bad men?  The air had turned thick and cold at the same time.  Every breath had become a chore, turning to fog as it passed my lips.  Still, a part of my mind was screaming that there was something else, something important that I needed to do, someone I needed to help.

“But there are those moments, those rare and impossible moments, when the world we know crashes into the one we cannot accept and we find ourselves having to cope with something our minds aren’t ready to handle.  As adults, we see the world around us as very cut and dry and so we make excuses, we try to force that which doesn’t make sense fit into those neat little columns and one by one, they start to fall apart because it just doesn’t fit, it just doesn’t work the way we’ve been told it does.”

Somehow, I managed to turn my head a little.  I could see inside the apartment just there, out the corner of my eye.  Could see that this thing, this great big hairy animal thing that was half-man half-dog like I had only ever seen before in movies, was shredding my partner’s torso with these massive claws on its left.. paw?  Hand?  Its fangs were red and dripping, its muzzle covered in blood.  My partners’ blood.  He was still alive, was held aloft by the creatures second, impossibly long clawed hand.  His face was turned to mine and there was this look there – this ultimate, final expression of utter horror.  I screamed in my memory and I screamed on the back porch at Banba as the creature tore at him, and blood splattered across my face.

“And then our world starts tumbling down around us.”

Suddenly, I couldn’t feel the cold anymore.  Everything was getting warm, warm enough that sweat started streaming down my body, clinging my clothes to me, mixing with the blood on my face.  The ghost had changed as I slipped away from its gaze, the little lost girl fading into a gruesome visage of an old woman with half her face gone and ribs sticking out of a torn and shredded nightgown.  She shrieked like a banshee, extending her bony hands towards me, grasping.  She took a halting, shuffling step forward, and I could see ragged black claws, could feel her need, her hunger to consume me somehow which just created a whole new kind of terror for me.

“Everyone reacts differently.  Some have innate or repressed abilities which can help them cope and move on.”

But something inside me had snapped.  Sure, I was afraid of the old woman, but I just knew there was something more important that needed to be done.  I turned back to my partner, back to his agonized screaming and I found myself screaming too – only my scream was pure rage.  I wanted that creature dead, I wanted it to suffer, wanted it to get the fuck away from Jorge.  I was so full of anger and rage that I actually saw red, and then the heat I felt all around me seemed to focus and move away from me in a straight line that struck the werewolf, if that’s what it was, square in the face.

“Some, a very rare few, have a certain Talent.”

The creature exploded in flames.  Then the flames licked the walls, and everything started to burn.

Make me famous:

If you haven’t been reading it, I want you to know – you make me sad.  I mean, here I am, slaving over this hot laptop, day and night, sweat sometimes forming on my brow (not really, but my [...]]]> So.  Chapter 16 of the WILDLY POPULAR WEB SERIAL Evermist hits the Internet today.  Are you excited?!

If you haven’t been reading it, I want you to know – you make me sad.  I mean, here I am, slaving over this hot laptop, day and night, sweat sometimes forming on my brow (not really, but my fingers cramp up and, honestly – think about my swimmers!  The heat from this laptop CANNOT be doing them any good…), sleep deprived, overly caffienated – and all to bring you the high quality science fiction you’ve come to expect from me… and you don’t check it out?!  You don’t tell your friends?  You don’t send me cookies?!

FOR SHAME!

It’s ok.  You can make it up to me right here, right now.  All you have to do, is click the links.  Start at the beginning and work your way through it.  Heck, I even offer the first ten chapters in a PDF – A PDF!  YOU CAN’T GET ANY EASIER THAN THAT, PEOPLE!  Then, tell two friends.  If they like it, have them tell two friends.  And so on.  And so on…

I swear to you, it will be worth your time…

So, without any further adieu or ranting on my part (or mine. I’m that little voice inside his head. No, I’m not Lews Therin Telamon.), I offer you: Evermist.

• 1st Ten Chapters as a PDF
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen
• Chapter Fifteen

Well.  There you have it.  Evermist so far.

…and it’s about to get sooooooo good.

~P

Make me famous:

Tales from The New Universe: The Legend of Aoudjila

Zohhāk fled from the great city early in the summer, making his way across the blistering desert where he intended to die. His lover had rejected him, taking another as husband after many nights where she whispered through the wall to [...]]]> © 2009, Patrick Hester.  All Rights Reserved

Tales from The New Universe: The Legend of Aoudjila

Zohhāk fled from the great city early in the summer, making his way across the blistering desert where he intended to die. His lover had rejected him, taking another as husband after many nights where she whispered through the wall to him, promising that he alone would win her heart and her hand. He left without knowing that her father had arranged the marriage against her will and that she, too, was heartbroken and distraught.

He ran for a day and a night without pause, deep into the desert where none return. He ran until his eyes began to swell, his skin to blister, and his feet to bleed. When he collapsed, the desert rejoiced, for it knew that soon, it would consume this trespasser as it had done a thousand times before and would do a thousand times again.

But Dahae, the great Ezhdehā, saw the little man and his flight into the desert, and she watched him, watched as he ran and ran until his tiny legs could no longer hold his weight and he fell into the greedy desert sands. She came to him, pushing away the sands with her cool breath, cradling him in her arms and lifting him away, deeper into the desert where she knew of an oasis.

There, beneath the shade of a fruit tree, she held the little man, so curious to her mind, and dribbled the precious water of the Aoudjila into his dry and cracked mouth. When she held him, she sang softly the songs of her home and realized that she wanted to know more of this man.

But that was forbidden, for she was Ezhdehā, and he merely human. Still, there were ways around this, so she called on the Daēuua and asked for a boon, and the Daēuua were glad to help her, for they saw that only chaos and pain would come from her request, which they thrived upon. They used their mainyu to transform Dahae into the image of a beautiful human woman, and this was the first thing that Zohhāk saw when he was able to open his swollen eyes again, and he fell hopelessly, endlessly in love.

They spent that night cradled together.

Zohhāk decided to build a home at Aoudjila for his love, a home they could share and live together in as husband and wife. The home became a grand design, growing and growing in size and complexity as his mind tried to design something worthy of her beauty and grace. His brothers came to help him in the desert, and they brought their own families and tools and construction materials.

Zohhāk devoted all of his time to the building of the greatest home ever conceived, and then it became clear to him that a mere home was not enough – his lady deserved a city full of people to worship her as a goddess. So focused was he on building a home worthy of his lady love, that he left Dahae alone most of the time, and she could be seen resting beneath the shade of the fruit tree, her stomach swelling as the months went on but her spirit falling deeper and deeper into despair. She stayed only because of the child growing inside her.

Aoudjila grew from the desert like a tree spurting from the fertile ground near the great rivers of the frigid North. Zohhāk pushed to make every detail perfect for his love, from the smallest petal design in the lattice work walls of the garden to the towers rising higher than any other in all the land, each tipped and trimmed in gold that caught the sun and glowed like stars throughout the day. The walls were of gleaming white stone, matched in the streets and kept clean and swept every hour. This meant that Aoudjila could be seen from far and wide – a gleaming white oasis deep in the heart of the desert.

When he felt it was finished, when he felt that it was at last worthy of his great love, Zohhāk sought her under the fruit tree where he first saw her and fell in love, only she was not there. Concerned, he called for a search of the city. It took hours, for he had built a sprawling city with thousands of people living within its mighty walls. In the end, she was nowhere to be found. It was then that his brothers, chagrined, told him that she had left long ago, years ago, while he was obsessed with building the city and had ignored her altogether. They brought forth his son and told him that he must be a father now, but Zohhāk could only scream for the child had his mothers eyes.

Zohhāk cried for days and the Daēuua rejoiced, for at last, they had their due. They reveled in the misery they had caused, for they had known he would ignore Dahae and knew that she would never remain with a human for long – child or no child.

Zohhāk left in the night, distraught and grieving, and the desert was not kind.  This trespasser had survived for too long, had even had the audacity to build a great city where none had ever stood before. Angry and hungry, the Daēuua whipped the sands into a fury that night and took Zohhāk into their gritty embrace.  But it did not end there, for their anger was great.

A storm like no other was called, the winds carrying the sand higher and higher, swirling and howling while the Daēuua laughed in the night.  They pushed against the shining walls of Aoudjila, splashing over them like water, filling the streets, burying the houses and the gardens so as to consume it altogether.

The desert reclaimed the great city of Aoudjila that night, and no trace of it has ever been found.

Yet still, on quiet nights, when the sands are still and the air is clean, a soft weeping can be heard.  Some say it is Dahae, mourning the loss of her husband, Zohhāk, and the child they made together…

Make me famous: