Simple Complexities Simplified

Here's another short story for everyone! Sorry I've been so slow on getting a new book project underway. With our current financial situation, it's not easy to get any consistent writing done. As soon as life settles into some semblance of order, I'll try and get to work on Shadow of a Juggernaut full time. I'm going to be submitting The Noble Fool to another agency here shortly, so wish me luck on that! Getting a publishing contract would really help get things in order for my wife and I. Right now I'm a terrible freeloader.

It had been a brutal reckoning. The terrible aftermath lay strewn across the street, a macabre semblance of celebration, as though a party had been thrown, and the decorator had gone mad, painting the muddy crevices of the narrow cobbled roadway in blood and limbs, the walls of the local houses and shops, in entrails and ichor. There would be no records at all of the events of that night, if not for the presence of a single survivor, a girl in her early teens who had been on her way home for the night when she decided to shorten her trip that evening by cutting across the bad part of town. Of course it would be years before she was willing to talk in any great detail about what she'd seen, and even then her story was scarcely believed, and certainly never recorded before my accounting.

Convincing her that I would listen to what she had to say, indeed, that I would believe what she told me, was no easy task. Had I not once seen them myself- the Demigods of Calan'aly- certainly I would have ignored her story as well. I have recorded every word she told me, written it into my mind so that not a single syllable will be lost, and then written it unto the records so that, should something happen to me, there will be some memory of what I've learned. This is her story, as cleaned and organized as I could make it. For the original transcription, with no interpretation from myself, see the tome Remnants of Calan'aly, pages 323-379. The only current copy is in the Great Retesian Library.

I was late coming home that night, though I scarcely remember why. Perhaps I had been out shopping and gotten distracted by the dresses in the windows along the boulevard, or perhaps I'd stayed too late with my best friend, gossiping about boys, and planning a wedding night that wasn't destined to be. I don't recall anymore what it was that kept me so late, but I do remember my decision to take the back streets home, in hopes of appeasing some of the anger of my parents by arriving as quickly as possible. I have looked back on that night many times, that decision to take an unfamiliar route, and wondered how my life would have been different had I taken the normal path. Would I be married now? Would my family still speak to me without averting their eyes? Certainly I wouldn't be what I have become, an outcast, pariah, a mad woman.

I have been told that what I saw was not real so many times, that I don't know if I believe what my memory tells me anymore. I would gladly erase it all from my mind, but I cannot free myself from the visions. They haunt my every dream, twisting hope into a spiraling nightmare from which there is no return. I was not a bad girl. I did not deserve this. Sometimes I wish that I had died with the others. At least then my life would have simply ended, and I would not see the blue lights every time I close my eyes. I would not need to know that monsters are real, and that they can breech our world at any moment.

The streets were alive with activity. The night had brought out its own denizens, creatures of the back alleys, conducting their evening business in the shadows. I passed through them quickly, only too aware of the warnings of my mother and father, warnings of things that men do to young girls who are caught out where they shouldn't be. My heart raced in fear, though I knew nothing of the word then. What did I fear? Certainly I knew nothing of what those men might have wanted from me. I was too young. Still, I feared some menace whispered about by my parents, and that consumed my young mind as I rushed on my way. I did not know that I was minutes from learning that “fear” could be something far more powerful then I'd ever believed possible. Even to this day, knowing the exact nature of the warnings given by my parents, I would have gladly taken such misfortune to avoid what I have seen. An injured body may recover, a scarred mind may heal, but those things written upon my memory will never go away, and having seen them I will never be accepted amidst my peers who believe me a liar, or at the best, mad.

The whispered voices of shadow-lurking men, and the patter of hurried footfalls filled the moon lit world, the sounds of a living city, asleep, yet teeming with activity. A low whistle sounded from somewhere ahead of me, changing and shifting like the song of some strange bird. I barely noticed that haunting melody at first, though it grew louder as I walked. Quite suddenly it exploded around me. It wasn't that it got louder. It was as though, instead, that it was coming from everywhere, originating from every object and person on the street. Everyone on that quiet road froze, looking all around. I met eyes with a young man who had been, seconds before, rolling dice with others his age. There was a fear in his features that I only realized, at that moment, must be reflected in my own. That song was like terror given a tune, and it wrapped its fist about my heart. I remember collapsing to my knees in the center of the street, even as others collapsed against walls, or stood shaking in place, some trying to cover their ears, some babbling to themselves to shut out the whistle that wouldn't be ignored.

The ground shuddered beneath my knees, the stone of the street reverberating with some great drum beat, and I looked up to see what horror might sew so much fear that even the ground would tremble. That is when I first saw one of them. It walked on two legs, as though it were some kind of man, but its movement was so smooth that it seemed as though it didn't touch the ground. It was a dark shape, tall, narrow of frame, with long arms that hung down to its knees. I don't know if it was wearing clothes, or whether it had some type of fur, but dark strands hung from its body, wrapping the true nature of its shape in a bizarre mesh of flowing scraps that seemed to tussle as if on a breeze. Where its face should have been, was only darkness punctuated by two blue eyes that shone like the hottest part of a cooking fire. All about the figure the air shimmered, again putting me in mind of a open flame, and the way the air ripples away from it.

As it walked down the street it peered over its shoulder, as if looking for a follower, and sure enough another figure soon appeared. When I say it “appeared,” I mean exactly that. It seemed to step out of nothingness, as if the worst of all imaginings had just spontaneously given birth to itself through the sheer tenacity of its malice. It looked much as the first did, maybe slightly larger.

The rippling effect around the first creature intensified, expanding out from its body. That rippling passed over an onlooker who had the misfortune to be standing close to where the two things had appeared. His body exploded, his torso shredding apart as though it were being sliced by a thousand perilously sharp blades. A gout of the foulness splashed me where I stood, though I was far removed from the two creatures.

I screamed, finding my voice for the first time since the strangers had appeared. I was not the first to give voice to my protest. I tried to push myself to my feet, but my legs were shaking so badly that I couldn't make them straighten. Suddenly people were running in all directions, screams filling the air. They died. As they raised voices in protest of the madness, their bodies began to split and rip, their heavy throated screams turning into gurgling protests of bile and blood spilled over ruined lips into a beautiful night turned vile and grotesque. I knew I was dead. I kept screaming, waiting to fall apart, waiting for the horrors visited upon the others to swallow me up as well. I watched the two things that stood upon the street as I counted the remaining seconds of my life.

The first creature was gazing about the alley, the wavering air had expanded to fill the entire street. It was all around me, that terrible whistling song dancing all about my body, through me, burning itself into my mind. I seemed that I could feel it inside my skin, behind my eyes, and I wondered if that was what it felt like before you began to die, before the quiver in the air began to cut you into pieces of dead flesh, obliterating the frail humanity that only minutes before had seemed so permanent.

A screech sounded from the first monster, a foreign sound. I couldn't begin to comprehend how such a voice was produced by a living beast. It seemed like the call of an animal that had never existed, and should never have been born, and yet I knew, without understanding how I knew, that I was hearing language.

The other creature responded in kind, and it raised its arm, a long, hooked claw pointing at me. The creature had only three fingers, I noticed, though I wasn't sure why I bothered to take in such a detail. The first creature screeched again, and then it turned to face me. It walked in my direction and I felt my bladder give out, though I hadn't been aware it was full. As my certain death drew nearer to me, I pieced the darkness and glimpsed its facial features, stark white and angular, almost like a mask carved of bone. Every step it took in my direction was accompanied by a metallic clank, but those blue eyes were alive, feral... My terror overwhelmed me and I lost consciousness.

She awoke in a haze of death, and though she told many people her story, none believed her. She insisted on her version of events for so long, that she was deemed insane. No better explanation ever came to light, but her retelling was simply beyond the imaginings of the town's people. I knew different, however. I still do not understand why she was left alive, as I do not understand why I was left alive. The only thing I know with any certainty, is that the Calan'aly's Demigods have not truly vanished from the world, but what does their presence signify, and why have they appeared to lowly humans? I fear this portends dark times.

This story is based in a world of mine that I tentatively call the Clan Holds. The Clan Holds are populated by various species of humanoid animals (wolves, bears, crows, lions, ect...) that maintain a diverse and politically complicated society fraught with turmoil and battle. Each race of the world has its own laws and ideals that often put them at one another's throats. This short story is a quick peak into the clan lands of the wolves. Art by Curio Draco. Without further preamble:

“Let my brother know I'll join him in a moment.” Teelin of clan Wraith growled the words between clenched teeth, his anger biting at the syllables and turning them into an agitated semblance of the Noble Tongue that was somehow both poetic and brutal. His attendant, a young wolf of clan Swift named Owan, bowed in acquiescence and departed with a whipping of his tail as he spun about, eager to be away from the young War Master who sat brooding in his chambers.

Teelin barely noticed as Owan departed. He didn't even hear the echo of expectant voices that drifted through his briefly opened door as the younger wolf, true to his clan name, vanished out into the meeting hall beyond. Barely into his adult years, Teelin looked at himself in the polished brass mirror that stood against the wall before him. The face peering back looked older than it should. There was gray at his muzzle, and scars crisscrossing his features, thin lines drawn there by sharp weapons, and blood caked claws. His left eye was cool gray, but his right was entirely white. He'd once been grazed by spell fire on his right side, and the eye had never recovered. His ears twitched in the silence of his room. One was pierced by three rings, the other held only one, and was missing nearly half of its length. He'd lost that one in a battle that had almost taken his life. He reached a clawed hand up to his chest and traced his fingers along the scar that ran from his left shoulder down to the center of his stomach. The fur had mostly grown back, but it had come in bright white, a stark and unavoidable reminder of just how close death had come on that day when compared to the rest of his dark gray coat.

Normally Teelin never went out in public unless fully clothed, so that he could cover up the majority of the maze of scars he carried, but he wore only a cloth of black linen about his waist as he watched his reflection in the mirror. He would not be dressing any further before he went out to face his brother. It wasn't permitted.

For four years he'd served his people, fighting for the clans, serving as their King in the place of his father, who had died in that same service, and now he stood at the edge of losing it all. His older brother had returned to take the crown, and with it, Teelin's place in society. The people rallied around Teelin's older sibling, Kreeg, because he was charismatic, and because he looked like his father.

Kreeg was a monster of a wolf. Some said that the family blood ties to the ancient Dire clan had shown through in Teelin's brother, because he stood a foot taller than even the largest warriors in the clan holds, and because he was stronger than any two of those same warriors combined. Even though he had chosen to leave the clan holds when his father died, Kreeg was still seen as a hero to the people, and Teelin, and all of his accomplishments, were forgotten in the shadow of his older sibling. For four years Kreeg had disappeared, and Teelin had finally had his chance to prove that he could be strong, that he could lead honorably. He had done well.

Then, out of nowhere, Kreeg had shown up at the clan council and demanded the Rite of Blood, so that he might take his place as king. The people had cheered, and though some few stood for Teelin, Kreeg had more than enough support to win his Rite of Blood. In the mind's of Kreeg's supporters, he was already king, and the same was true for those who supported Teelin. They considered the younger brother a lost cause in light of the splendor of the more impressive Kreeg. Though they might believe Teelin capable and honorable as a warrior and king, none of them believed him up to the challenge of defeating his older brother in fair combat. Rite of Blood would determine lineage and the right to rule, and only one brother would be allowed to stay when it was over, assuming the other was even left alive.

Teelin's eyes passed over his sword which lay, unsheathed, across the table before him. It was a standard issue saber, well maintained, the blade thin and razor sharp along the leading edge. Teelin's father had carried a legendary broadsword, Wraith, named for the clan, that was considered the rightful blade of the king, but Teelin had always preferred a more agile weapon. It wasn't that he lacked the muscle to wield the larger sword. Indeed, Teelin's body was almost entirely muscle, though he looked more lean and lithe than bulky. Wraith, for all that it was a beautiful weapon of Black Wyrm Steel, was not the tool of a graceful fighter. The legendary blade had been specifically crafted to allow a man with more strength than skill, to match paces with enemies that might otherwise have an advantage. It was almost impossible to parry Wraith because it weighed so much, and it was difficult to get in close to one wielding it because the blade alone was nearly five and half feet long. No, in the end, Teelin would always prefer his saber and claws.

The young king reached for his sword, taking the familiar hilt in his left hand. The leather bindings fit the grooves of his fingers, worn from years of use, and the heft of the simple mechanism of death was perfectly balanced from pommel to point. He let his hand fall to his side and turned to the closed door to his room. The time had come for him to face his brother, and the assembled heads of clans.

The minute the door to his room opened, he could hear the mixed murmuring of voices from the council chamber beyond. Their words swam through the air, rolling melodically in the tones of the Noble Tongue, a language specific to the upper echelon of clan households, reserved for alleged nobility. Teelin had grown to hate the sound of that language over the four years he'd served as king. That poetic whimper of the upper class was nothing more than another layer upon which they attempted to make an art out of their back stabbing and constant political bickering. Within the palace it was not considered polite to speak any other language.

As head of the clans, Teelin was in charge of mediating major clan disputes, and of maintaining the title of War Master, which meant that he must constantly keep in top physical form. For the purpose of serving the law, he had to master the Noble Tongue, but when he served his post as War Master– when he fought side-by-side with the ranks of his men, and spoke freely with them in the People's Tongue– that was when he felt most at ease. He had never played the political game well, and he suspected that, to some degree, that was exactly why Kreeg had received so many votes when he'd come demanding Rite of Blood. Despite four years of absence, Kreeg knew what to say to the politicians. He knew what they wanted to hear.

Teelin walked down the short hallway to the council room, ignoring the glances of the guardsmen who, despite standing fast at attention, couldn't help but let their eyes linger on the passing king. Those looks held barely disguised curiosity. Would they ever see him walk those corridors again? Without his armor, and with his scars visible to the world, Teelin felt truly vulnerable. The bare patch on his back, larger than two palms, where acid had spattered across skin and left scar tissue upon which no fur would sprout, seemed to burn under the gaze of his men. Teelin had no doubt that Kreeg, even dressed in the same basic loincloth outfit, was not having any of the same insecurities about his appearance.

As Teelin's padded feet stepped into the circular council room, the voices subsided. The one-hundred-and-forty heads of clans all turned their attention to the young wolf, looking down from their seats that sat on risers all around the walls of the room, but he barely noticed their attention shift as his gaze was locked on the massive wolf who stood across the circle from him. Kreeg was more than a foot and a half taller than his younger brother, and his fur pattern was much lighter, white in most places, with a mottling of gray, where Teelin's was dark gray, with black fur peppering his back and face. Kreeg's height wasn't the only characteristic separating him from his younger brother. He was also nearly twice as wide across the shoulders, a tower of rippling muscle and ferocity. In one of his great clawed hands he held their father's sword.

Teelin drew to a stop, nearly tripping over his own feet in his shock at seeing his brother carrying the royal blade of office. It should have been in the Hall of Champions, mounted above their father's sarcophagus.

“Brother,” Kreeg acknowledged Teelin, lifting the massive black sword until the point was facing his younger sibling's neck, a clear sign of challenge. “I hope you are prepared to fight with honor.” His words were a jibe, an insinuation that Teelin might be so shameful as to actually cheat in a Ride of Blood. It was a low blow, but one that made the heads of clans murmur in interest. Teelin wondered what lies his brother might have spread about him while his back was turned. He didn't believe Kreeg above lying to gain favor.

“I see you've brought father's sword. Is it not presumptuous of you to take the sword of the king, to fight the rightful king?” Teelin snapped back, almost forgetting to use the Noble Tongue in his anger.

Kreeg smiled in a way that was less about joy than it was about grim amusement. He hefted the blade and twirled the dark sword through the air with seeming ease before leveling it at his brother once more and speaking again.

“I had to wipe dust from the scabbard. It seems no rightful king has held this blade in the four years I've been away.” He answered easily, and a chorus of laughter sounded from the assembly. “It is well past time we correct that, little one.” Kreeg used the name he'd called his brother when they were still pups, scampering about the castle grounds, and getting into trouble with their teachers and caretakers alike.

Teelin stepped further into the circle of the assembly hall. It was a wide open area usually reserved for speeches, or trials, but now it stood empty, cleared of podiums and chairs. The wood floor had dark stains that most people never noticed when in the room, places where blood had seeped into the wood so deeply that it would forever leave its mark. The assembly hall was a place of business for the clan holds, but it was also the place where differences were settled by sword and claw. The building was nearly a thousand years old. It had a long history. Teelin never let himself forget that, and though he'd never seen swords drawn in the hall before, he'd heard of many varieties of blood rites, and he knew what was expected.

“You left your people for four years, Kreeg. When the Pride Lands attacked, you were nowhere to be seen. When the Ilkoid Scourge swept down from the mountains, it was not Kreeg of Wraith who stood at the front of the armies. I have fought for my people these four years. I am their king.” Teelin said, and this time he dropped the Noble Tongue entirely. It was the greatest slight one noble could show another. Teelin, in using the People's Tongue, implied that Kreeg was not a member of the nobility, and didn't deserve to be spoken to as a head of clan. There was a collective sharp intake of breath from the assembled clan leaders. A heavy silence fell over the room.

Kreeg's eyes burned in their sockets, gray-green, bright and furious, but when he spoke, he did so with a dismissive laugh. He turned away from his brother to face the assembly, rotating slowly as he spoke.

“Back him into a corner, and his true colors show through, do they not?” The great white wolf chuckled. “It's not I who is shown the lesser by his coarse tongue, it is only the little pup, Teelin, who looks the fool.” The clan leaders seemed to relax at his words, some few smiled, others openly applauded, some of them standing in ovation and tapping the claws of their feet upon the ground in a show of support. What little respect Teelin had for the assemblage trickled away with the thunderous reverberation of their clicking claws and clapping hands.

Teelin clenched his jaw. In the war of words he had faltered beyond redemption. His brother was too quick of tongue to be hampered by any insult he might summon up to use as a weapon. The weight of his sword in the palm of his left hand reminded him of why they had really come together. Words might sting, but it wasn't a tongue lashing that would decide the successor to the throne. The only question that remained, was whether or not Teelin would fare better with the sword than he did with the politicians.

The younger wolf raised his sword to his brother, and the heads of clans grew suddenly silent. The show they'd been waiting for was about to start. Blood would be spilled, and that was the only thing that really mattered to those who'd gathered. They all believed that Kreeg would slay his younger brother, but Teelin had fought hard for four years, and he swore to himself that he would give the usurper a fight to remember. Kreeg lifted his weapon back to the ready, holding it firmly in his right hand.

An old wolf with light gray fur, dusted white with age, stepped to the edge of the center circle. He was the Speaker of the Times, and it was his job to announce the business of the day, and to record the incidents of note in the clan hold's histories. He held up his ancient arms to silence the crowd, though it was unnecessary. No one had so much as whispered since Teelin raised his weapon. Both brothers stood with their blades lifted, ready for the fight to begin. Teelin wondered how much fatigue was settling into Kreeg's arm as he stood with his father's giant blade raised in front of him, held in only one hand. If it was bothering him at all, Kreeg didn't let it show on his face. He seemed calm, his focus resting solely on Teelin. His gaze did not waver for a second.

“Today, by the Wraith clan's Rite of Blood, we shall determine the proper successor to the King and Warlord of our gathered clans.” The old wolf spoke solemnly, his tone gravely with age. “Since it has been over 100 years since we have last witnessed such a Rite, I shall state the rules for all to hear, so that no question of the outcome's legitimacy need ever be raised.”

The Speaker paused for a moment, accessing memories he hadn't needed in a long while. He cleared his throat and began to recite, as if from a book. “Two, and only two, shall enter the circle. Combatants may wear no armor or cloth that might otherwise give unfair advantage, and may not carry any weapon other than a single sword with them. Once the battle commences, the fight will continue until one combatant can no longer raise their weapon in their own defense, at which time the victor can determine whether to banish, or slay, the fallen. If banished, the loser shall be stripped of his sword and his adornments and cast from the clan holds. He is given two hours to leave the city limits, and two days to get beyond the borders of clan lands, at which time he is considered an outlaw wanted for treason, and will be executed upon sight. Also, upon losing the wolf in question is stripped of all possessions and rank, and is marked as pariah. Any who aid the fallen shall be dealt with as traitors.”

The old wolf stopped his recitation and looked at the two brothers. “Do you both understand and accept the rules of the Rite?”

Teelin nodded, as did Kreeg.

“To death or dishonor, this Rite has commenced.” The Speaker's voice cracked like thunder as he spoke the final words and stepped from the circle, back into the seats where the audience waited with rapt attention. Kreeg charged forward.

Wraith, the great black sword, split the air before the older sibling's rush and it was all Teelin could do to dive out of the way before he was impaled in the very first pass. Kreeg was faster than the young king could have imagined. A tingle traced his spine, and Teelin dropped to the ground without turning. A wave of darkness passed through the space that had contained his torso not a moment before. It shouldn't have been possible for his brother to change momentum so quickly with a sword as big as the one he was wielding, yet he had done it, and instinct alone had kept Teelin alive. He pushed outward from his crouched position, forcing himself into a slide along the wood floor while twisting around to face his opponent once more. He'd barely centered himself again before the next attack came.

The older sibling pushed the attack ferociously, swinging the Black Wyrm Steel blade too fast for Teelin to even consider an attempt at a counter. The younger wolf's thin saber would not take the abuse of meeting the great sword in a clash of steel. Even if the sword held, and there was a good chance it would not, the reverberation of the strike would knock his arm numb and possibly break his left wrist. Instead of countering, Teelin rolled between his brother's strikes, avoiding the dangerous blade sometimes with so little leeway that he could feel his fur being shifted by the weapon's passing. How long could Kreeg keep his pace? Certainly his arms must tire eventually?

Five minutes passed, and Teelin had not so much as a single attack to his credit, but he was becoming better at avoiding Kreeg's blows. He wasn't sure whether his brother was growing weary, or he was learning to predict the muscular wolf's swings, but either way, he was beginning to see a way to turn the battle.

He waited until Kreeg swung a powerful strike from right to left, and just as the tip of the blade cleared his body, Teelin dove forward, pushing himself with all the strength in his legs, and thrusting his saber as far as his arm would extend. It was a long reach to clear the space between Kreeg and himself. Half way through the maneuver, Teelin realized his blow would not hit home. Kreeg's swing had taken his body out of the optimal striking position, presenting his much narrower profile, but Teelin's entire body was committed. Instead of trying to retreat, he pushed once more with his legs and dove further inside of Kreeg's field of range.

A moment of near triumph burned through Teelin as he felt his saber bite flesh, but the elation fell away almost as soon as it was born. A line of bright red appeared on his brother's left arm, but it was a shallow cut. That same arm was suddenly at his throat. Teelin had let himself get in too close to Kreeg. A monstrous hand clamped down on his neck, catching him up before he could even turn the momentum of his lunge. Kreeg's eyes burned with anger as he lifted his much slighter attacker from the floor. His left hand squeezed, and Teelin could feel his windpipe closing up, a wave of blackness passed before his eyes. His saber dropped from his sword hand.

In desperation the younger wolf lashed out with his claws, ripping away at his brother's arm and hand, but he would have had as much luck trying to tear his own sword in half. Kreeg raised their father's black weapon, awkwardly trying to find a good way to use the giant sword to end Teelin.

I'm going to die. Teelin thought, his vision all but gone as his lungs burned with a need for oxygen. A rush of desperation ran through his body, and a last fount of strength burst open. With everything he had left, Teelin kicked up and out, spreading the claws of his foot wide. He felt the blow connect, and suddenly the pressure at his neck was gone, and he was falling to the wooden floor. Someone was screaming, but it wasn't him, which meant it must be Kreeg. The king hit the ground running, not sure where he was going, but knowing that he needed distance to regain his composure. His throat burned as he dragged air in painfully through the bruised muscles of his neck. The darkness was beginning to clear from his vision.

The roar behind the fleeing fighter turned from a cry of pain to a bellow of rage, and Teelin knew that his short time of recovery was dwindling alarmingly fast. He scoured the ground with his still hazy vision, searching for his saber. A glint of silver caught his eye, and he ran in that direction, not even turning to see what his brother was doing. There wasn't time. Heavy footfalls sounded from behind him and to the left. The young wolf dove for his sword as he came within range. He grabbed the hilt and somersaulted quickly to his right. A thunderous crash sounded at his side as Wraith gouged into the wood floor of the audience hall, sending up a shower of wood chips.

Teelin twisted to the side and drew his weapon up before him as he spun to face his brother again. Kreeg was a ball of fury and rage. He held Wraith in both of his white-furred hands. There were four distinct claw marks across the right side of his face, deep wounds that had gouged out his right eye, and would no doubt leave scars Kreeg would have for the rest of his life. Teelin's good eye locked onto Kreeg's good eye.

At least now we have one thing in common. We're beginning to look more like brother's all the time. Teelin chuckled inwardly. He wasn't proud of the thought, though on some level it was satisfying.

Kreeg attacked again, his swing was wild, powerful, the heavy black sword was driven by both of his muscular arms, and it almost seemed that Wraith gnawed at the world around it as it cut a path through the air. Teelin dove beneath the blade, a reckless move perhaps, but some dynamic had changed in the battle between the brothers. Kreeg was no longer calm, and his fighting was suffering.

With a twist of his wrist, the young wolf struck at his brother's knee with his viciously sharp saber. He struck and blood spattered the wood floor, another black stain to add to the ancient decor. Kreeg roared once more and drove his blade down to cut Teelin in half, but the spry young king was ready. The nimble War Master dove between his brother's legs, letting the black blade cleave into the floor at his back. Teelin's blade cut into his brother's thigh as he went, and he was on his feet and turning before Kreeg could even react. His next cut took his older brother in the back of his right shoulder. Wraith clattered to the ground. For the first time since the battle had commenced, Teelin believed he would win.

Teelin's saber flashed forward, his opponent was empty handed, and halfway through the turn that would bring them face to face. The fight was over. His thrust was aimed for Kreeg's chest, but the larger wolf's hand struck out impossibly fast and deflected the blade down. The strike was still solid however, and the younger sibling's saber caught the white wolf in his hip and stabbed in deeply. Teelin was in the process of drawing the blade out when everything went wrong. Kreeg spun, and for some reason an impossibly bright red light seemed to come arcing around with him.

The king didn't realize what it was until it was far too late. Molten fire sprung from Kreeg's right hand, red, and so hot that it hissed as it flew through the three short feet between the two brothers. Kreeg had summoned spell fire. The bolt struck Teelin in the chest. If he hadn't had experience with the magical flame before, he might have simply let it hit him, but he'd dealt with magical fires, so he let his body spin with the impact, the molten ball of pain flowing across and off his chest, instead of straight in and through him. It took fur and flesh with it anyway, pulling the oxygen from the air as it moved by. Teelin fell to the ground, dropping his sword so that it clattered away across the floor. It just wasn't possible. No member of clan Wraith had ever possessed magical abilities.

Pain wracked the young wolf's body. He tried to reach for his sword, but the muscles in his chest were in ruins, and he could barely make his arms move at all. A clawed foot kicked him, knocking him to his back, before it stepped directly on to the burn in the center of his chest. The fallen king threw up. The pain was so violent, and so fast, that his stomach turned inside out. Tears of pain streamed down his face as he looked up at Kreeg.

The older wolf held another ball of fire in his right hand. It hung above Teelin's head, sizzling and crackling in the cool air. Magic was not against the rules of the Rite, but never had Teelin imagined his brother possessed such power.

“This rite is over.” Kreeg's voice was cold. The fire in his hand winked out. Teelin could hear the murmuring of the assembled heads of clan. He had to concentrate to stay conscious through the pain. As much as he wanted to continue fighting, he knew the truth. He was done. “Remove your vestments and leave. I will not give you the nobility of a quick death.” His older brother finished, removing his foot and stepping away.

Teelin's spirit was crushed, his body was twisted with pain. He dragged himself to his feet, the smell of charred flesh and fur filling his nose. He pulled the knot on his loincloth, and let the fabric fall away so that he stood naked to the world. He would have felt shame, if not for the hollowness that swept through him. His name, his rank, and everything about his life was gone. The country that he had fought for so many times, was not his country any longer.

“I recommend you run.” Kreeg said, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the man who was no longer his brother. “I will have the guards hunting you as soon as your two hours have passed.”

Teelin did not hesitate. He turned and ran for the doors, not knowing what he would do with his life, but also knowing that he had no other options before him. Each step caused his chest to ache and bleed, sending ripples of pain through his body. He wasn't even sure if he could keep going for a full hour. His arms hung uselessly to his sides, unable to move with the extensive damage to his chest. Cheers filled the hall behind him.

Teelin of clan Wraith was no more.

Thanks for stumbling on my page and offering words of encouragement! As a writer struggling to get published, it's far too easy to get discouraged, and having people randomly praise your work is a HUGE boost to the creative ego. I actually feel like writing again, and it has been a while since that has happened. So, thank you very much, and I hope those of you reading my books won't be disappointed!

Heath

The poll is closed, your votes have been tallied, and the next project I'll be working on is... SHADOW OF A JUGGERNAUT. Thanks to everyone who voted and helped me sort the tangle of the creative process. For those who voted for Cannibal, don't let yourself be too discouraged. I rarely dispose of an idea all together. While working on Shadow I will likely be taking a ton of notes for the further development of the Cannibal plot line as well. Most of what I have written for Shadow and Cannibal right now came about while I was working on The Hungering Saga. I have a difficult time keeping my mind focused on one project at a time. My thoughts like to meander about without aim or direction.

In other news, I'm giving away two copies of The Hungering Saga Complete. These are first prints and will come signed however the winner likes, with all shipping paid by myself. The contest is open to anyone who would like to enter. I will ship the books anywhere in the world. How do you win?

HAH! I'll tell you later. Keep an eye on this site, or follow me on Twitter ( offox ) to get the latest updates.

That is all.

Heath

This is a teaser for Shadow of the Juggernaut. It's far from complete and final, but it should give you an idea of what to expect from the rest of the story. After you've read this and the excerpt from Cannibals in the Woods, don't forget to vote on which is your favorite in the poll at the top of the right column! Thanks for your help and interest.

The battlefield was still with anticipation, the soldiers standing with their hands upon their weapons, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of the enemy. They had heard the tales of the Juggernaut's army, but they dared not believe the whispered words carried by “survivors” of other skirmishes with this new tyrant's forces. “Lies,” the Generals said with barking laughter. “they are just lies carried by agents of the enemy to instill fear in you and break your morale. We shall not be so easily broken!” The men tried to rally at such brave words. Surely the stories must be nothing more then tales told to instill fear. It was claimed the Juggernaut himself lead his men, a man of considerable age, with gray hair, and eyes that were an icy blue. They said he commanded the hammer of the sky, blue fire that would streak from the heavens and rip his enemies asunder, and that one swing of his sword could scatter tens of men. They said that his skin pulsed with sky fire as he fought, and that his fists could blow a man apart like the blast of a cannon. Lies, and yet not one man in the army of thousands spoke, or laughed, or clanged shield to sword. There was no fanfare, and no morale boosting singing, only a terrible silence. Lies, those stories must certainly be lies, and yet the Juggernaut marched on, unstopped by any who had stood before him. He had marched with his armies from the coast of the west, and was now marching upon the coast of the east, and none had stood him down yet.

Thunder shattered the silence, and the sky broke above, the gray seeming to deepen as it let loose the rains as though it were weeping for all that it was about to bare witness to. A horn sounded from across the valley, and a solitary figure crested the far hill. He didn't stop as he hit the peak, he simply began walking down the other side, a sword in one hand, and the storm hammering down upon him. Even from so far away his white hair was easy to see, blowing lankly in the rain and wind. He kept his head bowed to the rain, his free arm up and shielding his face from the pelting of cold water. Twenty yards at his back, just as he was halfway down the hill, a line of men crested the rise. They stopped as they gained the top of their perch, seeming intent upon a high vantage point. They did not follow the white-haired man into the valley. The waiting armies quivered. The Juggernaut had arrived.

Even dressed in heavy plate armor, dark gray, and glistening from the pounding rain, the man trudging through the mud towards the massive standing army did not look like anything other than a tough old man. One man. He was only one man, advancing alone across a stretch of open ground, his sword in one hand, not even raised for battle. Was he coming to parlay? Certainly he wasn't so foolish as to leave his military force behind him. A murmur of disquiet spread through the men who had been waiting for well over a day for their enemies to arrive.

“Is he daft?” One man would say.

“Maybe he's come to surrender?” Another would answer, voiced in a mixture of relief and halfhearted confidence.

“We should cut him down where he stands.” Was a general murmur.

Such was the anticipation and anxiety of the waiting army, that it seemed the white-haired man advanced in slow motion. Tensions were taunt. Archers readied their bows, stringing them, and knocking their arrows, yet the call to fire did not come. The Generals and their lieutenants were not sure what to make of the single man approaching them. He did not carry the flag of parlay, or the flag of surrender, but he was only one man. What should they do? Could they order an attack on only one man?

The decision was made for them in the form of a single arrow, loosed by fingers too wet to hold a draw any longer. It was a well aimed shot, though the one who'd let it fly had not intended to do so. The arrow clanged off the lone advancing man's armored chest and splashed in the mud at his back. The man's arm fell away from his face, and he raised his head, tossing his hair back and out of his field of vision. His sword, which had been almost dragging through the mud at his side, came up to the ready.

Those in the front line of the waiting soldiers felt it first. There was charge in the air, and then a terrible sulfurous smell, followed by a burning acrid wreak. Light ruptured the dark of the storm, so white that it was blue, and so bright that it was like the sun had taken root upon the lands, and then the army of men who had stood in wait for so long was blown apart, a beam nearly twelve yards wide cloven through their ranks from the front line all the way to the reserve, leaving only a charred black streak stretching from where the white haired man had been standing, and outward in a perfectly straight line.

He ran straight for the waiting army, his armor, heavy though it must have been, seeming weightless on his powerful frame, his white hair blowing behind him, and his sword up in front of him. As he charged, so too did the armies at his back. The forces that stood before him still hadn't recovered from the blinding streak of fire that had cut them in two when he hit their front line. Those closest to him only had a few moments to notice that the man devastating their army looked old and tired, easily well into his sixties, with a line worn face, and icy blue eyes that were beginning to go white and blind with the cataracts of age. There was a bald spot at the back of his head, breaking his otherwise perfect mantle of white hair, and his hands were gnarled on the grip of his sword. His age, though, mattered not at all. Energy crackled down his arms as he swung his weapon, blue light tracing the edges of his armor and the blade of his sword with every swing. Where his weapon went, death followed. Enemy weapons and bodies split, broke, and blew apart at his advancement. He was the Juggernaut, and no army would stand before his might.

The battle was done, and the Juggernaut stood at the east coast, the waves rolling over his booted feet, and bodies piled up all around him. At his back his men went about the grim work of finishing off the living soldiers who were bleeding out, or pretending to be dead, upon the field of battle. A sharp pain in the old man's chest caused him to reach up and clench at the armor covering that most vital of organs, the heart. He winced, and fell to his knees. His vision blurred, and he forced himself to breath calmly.

“Is this how it is to end, then?” He asked, yet there was no one around to hear him speak. “I have fought all my life, and I am to die, not by an enemy's weapon, but by my own frailty?” He spat the words out between clenched teeth. Again, he knew there was no one to answer him. He had no friends, and no one stood near him when the battle's fire was spent. The aching in his chest began to subside, but he knew it would be back again soon enough. Age was killing him.

“You know, you needn't die just yet.” A soft, feminine voice spoke from behind the Juggernaut, and he twisted in place, coming back to his feet to face this voice. A cloaked figure stood amidst the carnage, slight of form, dressed in a flowing green-hooded dress, with the hood pulled low over her face. Even with the hood concealing her features, the old warrior could see that the girl wasn't human. Two tails twitched behind her, red fur, capped with white ends, they danced to their own melody, twining and twisting as they swished.

“What are you?” The Juggernaut asked, weary of the strange newcomer.

“I am hope.” She answered, pulling back her hood with furred and clawed hands to reveal the sleek features of a red fox. “...and I've come to give you back your life.”

This is an EARLY teaser/opening for the project that is currently called Cannibals in the Woods. Hell, even the title "Cannibals in the Woods" is not a fixed thing at this point. What I'm hoping you'll get from this excerpt is a basic idea of premise and setting. Tomorrow I hope to post an excerpt from Shadow of a Juggernaut, and then I'll post a poll for people to vote on their favorite.

So, without further ado, I present a work of fiction for your consideration:

Men grow old and die. Gods live forever, but time wears even upon those elder beasts who have outlasted countless generations, those titans that men have called the Ageless and worshiped as deities. Yet the years gnaw at their bodies as well, and so too do they grind at their godly minds. Deep within the woods of Atryalis, the God of the Great Green has gone mad. Humanity turns their back on the denizens of the wooded lands, and borders off the knotted overgrowth of tree and weed. They turn to other Gods, and forget about the power that lurks within the earth of the forsaken lands. "Don't go into the woods." They tell their children, and call their problem solved, but the God of Root, the King of Branch and Bark, does not forget the face of man.

She dragged herself across the ground, towards the gate that bordered the Great Green and her village. Her fingers clawed deep into the earth with every painful foot of ground she traversed, and the muscles in her arms strained beyond the limits to which they'd ever been used. Whispering voices chattered in an unknown language from the moon-lit wood at her back, her attackers giggling and conversing as she fought to remain conscious over the pain and loss of blood. She was only a few feet from freedom, and if anything had remained of her legs she could have crossed the distance in a couple of easy steps. The denizens of the woods had seen to it that she would not ever move with the grace and agility of her youth again. A sob almost escaped her lips, but she bit it back, and crawled forward a few more inches.

The young woman did not know why her tormentors did not simply descend upon her and finish what they'd begun, but she would not give in as long as she could still move. With every flexing of muscle, blood gushed from the thousands of tiny tooth marks covering her naked body. She felt no shame in her exposure, as there was no shame left for her after what had befallen her within the depths of the old wood. She wanted only her freedom, or her death, which was, in its own way, just another brand of freedom. She pulled herself further, remembering the song that had called her into the woods, the beautiful melody that had enchanted her from her bed and out into the night.

How could any song so beautiful, she'd thought, be created by something of the dark. She'd been warned of the woods, just as all children were warned, but in her mind she had built a different image of the Great Green. To her it had been a place of unknown wonder. In her mind lay an image of a magnificent ball, taking place in a magical clearing in the forest, surrounded by swaying trees whose rhythmic rustling made the night seem a place alive with festivity. The music she'd heard, whispered on the midnight breeze, had only reaffirmed the image in her mind. She'd snuck out of the house in naught but her night shift. The climb over the gate hadn't been easy, but she was agile then, and eager to see the mysteries of the wood for herself. When she remembered her eagerness, a bitter, almost overwhelming, sense of humiliation and regret swept through her. Had she only done as her mother and father had told her, she would be laying in bed, dreaming of the summer dance only a few weeks away, and of Gimm Felds, the brown haired boy she'd fancied sharing a dance with. Who would want to dance with her now? Even if the healers could repair her legs, and that was unlikely, who would want the girl who'd been taken by the elves? She would be shunned, a stranger in her own homestead. That thought almost made her give in, but her left arm clawed forward, grabbing a fist full of dirt and dragging her another few inches through the dirt and weeds. She was close to the gate. She could smell the coating on the wood frame that sealed it from the effects of the weather. Would the morning watch be in place yet? The sky was still dark overhead, but a light bleaching of sun was at the horizon ahead of her. Hope?

A footfall at her back froze her in place, her arm muscle quivering as she stopped all forward movement immediately. A voice spoke, the language a rolling deluge of twisting syllables, higher pitched then most men's voices, with a musical subtlety to it that reminded her only too much of the song that had drawn her from her home in the night. She did cry then, the held in sobs breaking free from her. There was motion, and she tried to twist to see, but before she could right herself a strong arm pushed her head down, pinning it to the ground.

A figure crouched down beside her, lowering its head until it was almost level with hers. A set of deep green eyes stared into hers, peeking out from a face that was partially concealed by a cascade of hair so red that it seemed to glow in the faint light of the early morning. The figure was male, skinny to the point that its bones seemed about ready to punch though the skin, and elven in feature. The male elf smiled as its eyes met those of its captive. The expression revealed teeth that were long, slender and pointed, like a dark gash full of ghastly sewing needles. The elven creature's mouth was still covered in blood, the blood of the girl it had tormented all night long. With seeming little effort the slight bodied elf tossed the girl over onto her back.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and she gasped to regain her breath. Her breathing was further complicated when the elf placed its foot upon her chest and stepped down, pinning her to the ground once more. It was still smiling, and in that moment the young woman knew that her time had come. The creature of the woods was going to kill her. It had used her, tormented her, and stalked her through the trees the entire night, just so that it might finish her as her goal seemed so near at hand. The creature held out one of it's skeletal hands in front of it, cupping it as though it were grasping something small and round, its pale white skin contrasted with its black nails. An acidic smell filled the air, and an instant later green light flared up in the elf's hand, flickering and churning. It's grin, already impossibly wide and terrible, grew wider.

The young girl looked into the elf's eyes for what she knew would be the last time. It had such beautiful green eyes, and yet there was no warmth, and no compassion behind the beauty. The last of her hope fled at the flicker of the green flame. She welcomed the death that would take her.

Today I finished editing The Snow Song. This means that the entire Hungering Saga is now available for purchase in final form. Huzzah! In celebration of the completion of this project, I am releasing a three-in-one book featuring the entire series in one bound volume with a newly designed cover. The best part of this new collection is that I can offer it to fans for the same price as buying any two of the other books. That's like getting one book for free! I'm excited about that because it finally gets the series down to a more acceptable price point. The full three volume book will only set you back $24, which is far nicer that the $36 it would cost to buy them all individually. It works out to about $8 per book, and believe me, these books are worth the price of admission.

If you're a fan of fantasy fiction, or know someone who is, you can't go wrong with The Hungering Saga. Makes a great gift for the fantasy lover in your life! ...and it is apparently the season of mass consumer spending. Get out there and do your part by giving me your wonderful money!

The final edit on The Vengeful Malice is complete and has been upped to Lulu. Rejoice! It has been a long process, but I'm proud of the work we've done, and I think the final experience is a solid one. For those who have already purchased a copy of The Vengeful Malice, but are interested in having a final-edit version, e-mail me at fox - at - offoxsmind - dot - com to find out how you can get a free e-book, or a copy of the paperback version at cost.

In unrelated news, The Noble Fool has been submitted to the fine folks at The Donald Maass Literary Agency. Hopefully they'll like the first few pages of the manuscript and ask for more.

Thanks for reading folks!

Heath

My books will be displayed at Dragon Snack Games in the near future. Other than my nervous babbling, I'd say things went as well as could be expected. If you live in Western New York be sure to stop by Dragon Snack and have a look.

Heath

The editing of Vengeful Malice is progressing nicely. I'm taking a day off editing today to show the book to a local retailer. If all goes well people should be able to pick up copies of my book at their location in the future. Wish me look inter-webs!

That is all.

Heath

I ran my forefinger down the seem in the center of my chest. I could feel the heat seeping through the eternal wound. I snagged the flesh with that probing finger and pulled at the intersecting edges of skin. The red and angry scar would never fully heal. It tore apart easily, exposing the inferno within. Fire leapt from the open cavity, jumping out lustily, gasping at the air beyond the walls of rib and muscle in which it was contained. Blackened bones and charred organs sizzled and smoked, not being consumed, but constantly screaming in agony from the gnawing of the hungry flame. I felt my strength flowing out of me as the heat escaped, and I quickly resealed the burning compartment. Immediately strength rushed through my limbs and I breathed out a sigh that rippled the air with its heat.

I was cursed, a killer of men who had wantonly taken the lives of others until, finally, I held my knife to the throat of my own father. I remembered his eyes as they stared up at me in that moment I thought would be his last. They had been full of fear, but not for himself, for me. I had seen looks of fear before. Murder could be euphoric. Power. There is no statement of power more grand than when you look upon another life and know that its continuation is entirely in your hands. Denying that continuity is a rush like no other, and I fed on that exhilaration, but when my father looked up into my eyes, his brand of fear was an alien expression to me.

“Why did it have to be you?” He'd said, his voice a whisper, and at that point I said exactly what I'd planned to say to him. His words had been a wake up call, and for a moment I forgot his strange flavor of fear. After all, fear was fear no matter how you looked at it. I had searched too long, and fought my way up the ranks of killers for too many years to let a strange expression scare me off.

“You were no father to me. You're just one in a long line of men who had my mother.” I said, and I pulled the knife across his throat. Fire exploded forth from him, and I was blown back, my arms and torso consumed in terrible heat. The exterior layers of my upper half were gone in a flash, but for some small pieces of my face saved at the cost of my arms. The pain was beyond anything I'd felt before. My father stood up. He came to his feet, fire bleeding from his neck and searing the ground in front of him. He walked directly to me.

“You're worthless, boy. You've never been good for anyone, not your mother, and not your friends, but you're my son. I won't let you die here now, but you may wish I had.” His words were frightening as he spoke them, gurgling and rolling with the flame that seeped from his wound. He was a demon. For the first time in my life, I knew fear. I knew what it was to have someone standing over me with all the power in the world at their disposal. The pain and the fear took me away then. I lost my grip on reality.

I woke hours later. The smell of roasted meat filled the air, and my body was filled with terrible agony. I crawled to my hands and knees and came face to face with the burnt out remains of what I took to be my father. It was difficult to tell since little remained of his body other than a blackened skeleton and few charred pieces of meat. In one hand he clenched a slender silver knife. The blade seemed to gleam to my sight, though no light struck it in the small house to which I'd tracked the old man. That knife was the exact article my employers had asked me to recover, and so I took it. I staggered the rest of the way to my feet. Nausea swept through me, and I fell back down to my knees and vomited, though it was not my supper I lost. Molten flame spilled from my lips and hit the wood planking of the floor before me. It burned through the boards in seconds, smoke sizzling up into the air.

Terror gripped me. What had happened the night before? I realized my clothes were mostly gone, burned away, and I suddenly recalled the exact events of my confrontation with my father. I ran my hands over my body, looking for some indication of the damage that should have been there. That is when I found the wound on my chest. It was fresh then, unsealed. I ran my finger along it, and the flesh parted, showing me the storm of fire that had taken up residence in my chest. I had become the demon my father had been.

The site is up and running again. All the links should be in full working order. The only thing I still need to do is go back through the merchandise page and update it to show all the new shirts in the design catalog. Since I'm not particularly excited about doing that, it could take me a little while to get to it. If you REALLY need to look at the new shirts, you can find them RIGHT HERE.

In the mean time, feel free to browse around and get a feel for the the new site design. The functionality is close to the same, but I think we've got a much cleaner and more streamlined interface now. If you come across any bugs (other than the annoying little "A" symbol that is filling in for the second space in all my double-spaces in older entries), or have any issues with the page, let me know. I'd also like any feedback on what you do or do not like aesthetically, functionally, or otherwise. I can use said feedback to make improvements where necessary. . .or I can just ignore you. I have to admit, the second is more likely than the first, but really, isn't it cool to be ignored by your favorite author? No?

On a non-site related note, the proofing of The Vengeful Malice is coming along well. We're 75 pages through the process already. I don't have an exact estimate on when we'll be finished, but it won't be too terribly long at our current pace. When it's all nice and tidied up I'll be sure to let you know so that you can rush out to buy a final version, as I'm certain you're all exceptionally eager to get your filthy lecherous (note to self; consider not insulting your readers in the future) hands on one.

Once work is finished on Malice and Snow, I will start the process of deciding which novel project to work on next. I've got several different concepts, and I'm currently in the process of deciding which of them more urgently needs my attention. I'm still toying with the idea of allowing my readers to have some say in which direction I go next. If you'd like me to do something like that, I would encourage you to say so here, otherwise I probably will just go with my main idea and shelve the others for another time. Apparently I can only write one book at a time. I don't know why exactly, but multiple novels at once threatens to devour more life than I have to give to the task. Death by creative-implosion sounds interesting, but I'm not so curious as to give it a go. I'll be honest. It's the "death" part that upsets me the most.

That is all,

Heath

For those who may not have noticed, the site has been updated. Page links are still a work in progress, but they should be up in the next couple of days. Old entries have a few markup issues involved with the switching of databases. The most notable problem is that all my double-spaces after periods have been converted to a symbol, but I don't see this as a detrimental issue. It was a small price to have to pay in order to get all the old entries converted to the new format. That is all for now.

Heath