#SampleSunday – 29th May 2011

#

The biggest problem was that they wanted me to teach magic and I didn't have any to teach. I knew exactly eight spells. I remembered learning them, a loupe tucked firmly into one eye socket as I watched them cast by a sorcerer. This to make a light, this to warm a layer of air close to your skin, this to keep you dry if it's raining, this to make a flame. They were simple spells, easy spells, they were nothing. There cannot be a noble alive who didn't know them. If I cooperated they would soon learn that I knew nothing worth teaching, nothing they wanted to know. Then they would begin asking questions about the loupe; why did I have it? Where did I get it? And I didn't know what to tell them. They would not believe I'd stolen it.

I say that was my biggest problem. I'm not sure it's true. They'd let me keep my stone, after a fashion.

“We didn't think you could climb down. Didn't think you had it in you, frankly,” Ferrian told me when I was safely ensconced in my room, my cell. “I guess your dangerous-looking friend killed the guards. He'll be an asset, I'm sure, one way or another.”

I didn't see the point in responding.

“Larner put a ward over the window, so no going out there. It'll hurt and we will know.”

So Larner had been Turned. I'd started to think of it in that way, like a title. The Turned.

“He'll be along to see you later; talk to you, see what you know. We won't be seeing much of each other, I'm afraid. I have other duties. But I'm sure Larner will look after you admirably; he has one or two ideas.”

I didn't respond. Why bother? They would do what they would do and I would endure as best I could. Jocasta was safe, for now, and free. That mattered. It didn't much matter what happened to me. I was, after all, pretty useless.

He went to the door. “Relax,” he said, “take a drink,” and was gone.

I did. A small brandy. I sipped it slowly and fantasized murder.

Larner strode through the door some time Later. “Ah, our lost lamb returned to the fold. How are you feeling?”

I was sitting up on the bed, still imagining new ways to kill Ferrian. I didn't respond.

“Not very friendly, Sumto.” He crossed the room to stand by the bed, too close for my liking. “Here, I have a present for you.” He pressed his hand against my forehead, too quick for me to react, and there was a near invisible flash of light. I slapped my hand to my forehead as he stepped rapidly back. “There, perfect. Now we will always be able to find you.”

I probed at my forehead. There was something there, something small and hard and warm. A stone. The stone Jocasta had given me, or mine, it didn't matter which.

“It's embedded in your skull. I suppose you could cut it out, well...” he thought a moment. “Yes, I think you do have it in you to do that, so...” He leaned in again and I made a fist, waiting. “I could always bring the guards in here to hold you down. What do you think?”

No. I couldn't win this battle. No point in fighting it. I dropped my hand to my lap and relaxed.

He touched my forehead and there was another flash and pain, sudden flaring pain that was fading even before I could cry out. “Now if you remove it you will burst several blood vessels in your brain. Not a healthy thing to have happen.”

“What did they do to you?”

He shrugged, face suddenly bitter and angry. “Changed my mind. Opened my eyes, as they will open yours one way or another. It is easier to obey...” he trailed off, then suddenly came to himself. “Now, I have another present for you. Want to see?”

I shrugged. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really, no.” He crossed to the window, waved his hand to disable the ward and stepped onto the balcony. I could still see him when he turned back. “Come along, then.”

I followed him. They'd broken him. Somehow. He was not the man I knew, that was for sure. This crazy old man had nothing in common with the Larner I had known in the camp. His false cheer was grating, unnatural. I decided I didn't want to know what had Turned him. Some horrors it's better not to contemplate.

“There, good,” he said as I joined him. He took my arm and led me to the balcony edge. Once there he pointed into the courtyard. I looked down.

They might have been dogs, once. But the gods alone knew what they were now. They were in the hands of two handlers, and pulled at their leashes. Their fur had gone gray. Terror will do that to you. They strained toward me, snarling and barking madly, jaws spraying spit, muzzles wrinkled. Their handlers were having a hard time holding them back, and they were both big men.

“They don't like you much. Sorry there are only two of them. I suppose I could make more, but I think two will do, don't you?”

I nodded dumbly.

“They can smell the stone, you see. Smell it anywhere, no matter how far away you are they will come after you. You will hear them coming, the sound vibrating from the stone, into your skull and then to your ears. A reminder that they are out there, coming for you. So,” he said sweetly, “no running away it is then, okay?”

I just stared at them.

“Good,” he said as though I had agreed with him. “Inside now, and I'll see you tomorrow.”

I went inside. He restored the ward and left.

He took the brandy with him

#

Anyone who has suffered prolonged periods of inactivity will know how the time passed. Pacing, talking to myself, trying to sleep and failing, sweating, shaking, wanting a drink, pacing, breaking things, and so on. I went out onto the balcony. It hurt, like fire in my marrow, and an alarm sounded. The pain faded as soldiers spilled out into the courtyard and looked up. I gave them a cheerful wave and looked about. The view wasn't much but it was better than the four walls behind me.

The town took up much of it, a spread of buildings of various sizes, none bigger than this one. The streets were busy. Life going on as normal, or as normal as it can be under an occupying army. The bulk of the people had merely exchanged one master for another. The army will have soaked up their goods, taken their food stocks, stolen their treasures, filched their possessions, probably taken their women. Armies do all of that, usually. We had laws about loot, and we did not practice rape. Okay, if a legion were let off the leash they would loot and pillage till they were spent but it didn't happen very often. There would be reason for such retribution even if some of those who suffered it were not part of the decision that caused it. In any case the scene was remarkably ordinary. Beyond the walls lay the enemy encampment and I studied them for a while. There wasn't much to see. The army sprawled over a larger area than the city and they were a fair way away from me. Just movement and stillness mixed together. I left them all too it and went back inside.

I took my shirt off and tossed it aside. It was soaked in sweat. Lack of booze to an addict causes all sorts of physical reactions. I felt hot but shivered as though cold, for example. My muscles ached and my head throbbed. My mouth tasted foul and I stank of a sick, stale smell that offended me. There was nothing to do about that. I wasn't tired, not in the sense that I needed sleep at least, but I crawled under the eiderdown and tried to sleep. It was a long time coming.

When the mist swirled and thinned around me I knew what it was, but not where. I couldn't see much. A couple of shafts of light in which dust motes danced. As things cleared I could tell no more than that I was in a large, dusty, empty room. Empty of all but Jocasta She stood in front of me, anxious, her face a picture of concern.

“Why did you do it?” I said.

“What?” It wasn't what she had been expecting me to say.

“Why did you come after me?”

“Oh, that.” She frowned prettily, looking down. When she looked up she had made some kind of decision, her expression was challenging. “When you were courting my sister I was jealous.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course that's not all! Really, Sumto, do you think we should be talking about this now?”

“Yes. Why did you come after me?”

“It wasn't just jealousy. You talked to her. I liked the way you talked, what you talked about. She didn't understand. I'm afraid my sister is a bit foolish. But I understood, and I liked what I heard.”

I tried to remember. I can't have said much of importance. It was only one year we visited together, strictly chaperoned. “What, specifically?”

“You talked about truth. How all beauty comes from truth and all ugliness from lies.”

I remembered now. I had been pretentiously attempting to form my own philosophy. We do not use religion. The fact that we have souls is undisputed fact. But getting sense out of a spirit was like having a conversation with yourself. They turn your own ideas back on you as though deliberately forcing you to understand life, not what comes after it. Perhaps that was exactly what they were doing. In any case, without religion, and knowing that there is an afterlife, what is left as most important is a philosophy validating life itself. Leave the unknowable for when you experience it. I had not found any of the philosophies I had read satisfying so I had set about developing my own. Truth seemed a good place to start. Facts, actually. Well, I had been talking to a girl so beauty must have crept into the philosophy for her benefit.

“I was a boy. The truth can be ugly.”

She sighed. “I know that, Sumto, I am not a fool and I wish you would give me some credit. I knew you were wrong, but I also thought you were right, And it got me thinking, and also thinking about the kind of man I wanted for myself. One who valued truth, I reasoned, would at least not try and enslave me with lies.”

It was a phrase I could have used and I said so.

She nodded, smiling. “Good. Now, can we talk about how to get you out of there?”

“No. So you decided that I was the kind of man you wanted so you had better come get me?”

“Basically, yes. Done embarrassing me now?”

I smiled. I liked her. Well, I always had but now I saw why. “I'm glad, though I think you have made a bit of a bad bargain. Throwing away your place in society for someone who may not live to continue life as a bad drunk.”

For a second I thought she would slap me, but that would be pointless of course. “Stop it. You are better than that. You will find a way or I will find a way, and with your reputation what matters it that mine is in tatters?”

I grinned. “Not much,” I agreed.

“That's what I thought. Now, how are we going to get you free?”

“Did you think about illusory spell forms?”

“What are you talking about now?”

I sighed in exasperation, running my hand over my face. “I told you about this.”

“What's that?”

“What?”

She pointed to my forehead, coming closer. “In your forehead? What is it? A stone?”

“Yes. Mine or yours. They can use it to find me. And there are dogs; enhanced. I can hear them when they growl or bark or howl, but otherwise I forget it's there.”

“It's mine,” she said. “Can you use it?”

“Does it matter? Now, about illusory spell forms. I told you. It was an idea I had. Pay attention,” she was still looking at my forehead. “Spirits can see them and...”

I snapped awake. Someone was standing over me, shaking me. I slapped them away and sat up.

“Awake now? Good.” Larner had stepped back from the bed. “So, about teaching. Ready to start? I can't wait to find out what you know. Maybe learn a thing or two. I must admit I was surprised to be told you had your own loupe. Never would have thought it. With your reputation I suspected you were a waster; an idle, drunken waster at that. But all the time you were learning. What college?”

“Go away.” I told him.

“Well, I could, I suppose. But I brought you a present.” He pulled a hip flask out of his pocket and waved it enticingly just out of reach. “Want some? Just a sip in here but better than nothing, eh? Now tell me something useful and you can have a drop...”

I refused. He talked some more, pressing me. I got angry, impatient for him to go and leave me alone. Eventually he did and I was left to my miserable, drink-free existence.

#

Why did the Roman Legionary wear the gladius on the right hip?

Why did the Roman Legionary wear the gladius on the right hip?


Why is it a puzzle in the first place? Because a right handed man wearing a sword on the right hip cannot possibly draw and strike as one action. This simple and well known fact is why all other cultures wore the sword, regardless of design, on the left hip. Except the Roman legionary. To deliberately and consistently wear the weapon at the right hip there must be a compelling reason to do so. It is not a passive act. The discipline and organization of the legion does not permit that there not be a positive gain, advantage or benefit that enhances the effectiveness of the fighting force. And yet, there is no gain in that regard. No other sword-using military force wore the sword on the right hip, simply because there is no clear combat related gain to doing so. Accepting that, then perhaps the answer might be found in a non-combat situation.


A great deal has been written about the gladius elsewhere and I feel little need to recap, other than to make a few comments that inevitably lead to my conclusion. The gladius is used almost exclusively in organised warfare; gentlemen did not stroll around Rome wearing the weapon as an indication of status, means of protection, nor duel with the weapon. It is not a defensive weapon; the design of the gladius promotes a killing thrust. While the edges were sharpened, the length of the weapon and the standard grips do not promote a chopping action. Nor does the straight blade promote the slice. It is a weapon of war for stabbing and killing. Any successful strike is likely to be fatal. The weapon is not used to curb or suppress an enemy as with other sword weapons. There is little chance of inflicting a deliberately non fatal wound.


Now, lets just look at the single defining consequence of wearing the blade at the right hip. A right handed man cannot draw and strike in one smooth action. The problem, the very thing that causes the question to be asked, is the solution to the question. Why do Roman legionaries wear the sword on the right hip? They do so that they cannot swiftly draw the weapon and strike in one fluid motion in non-combat situations. The act of drawing the weapon is disconnected from the attack. It is impossible for the ranking soldier to draw the weapon and strike in one smooth action should tempers flare. There is a moment for him to regain control of his temper, and for the rest of the unit to react and intervene.


That tempers flared, that there would be cause for individual conflict, can hardly be in dispute. The body of work detailing camp life and the daily life of the legionary gives clear indications of potential sources of conflict. That the individual soldier was armed more or less at all times is also fairly clear from the material available. That tensions would often run high cannot be in doubt. That the punishment for killing a fellow soldier was death is known. That both deaths would cause further tension among the men who knew them and thus lead to further conflict is inarguable. One soldier killing another is bad for discipline and moral. That the unnecessary losses and damage to discipline and moral, plus increase in tensions among the comrades of the slain men, is detrimental to the unit is absolutely clear.


There is one further relevant point. The centurion wore the gladius in the left hip. If there were a combat advantage (and I think it is certain that there is no advantage to making a weapon more difficult to clear) to wearing the weapon on the right hip, why the change with the raise in rank? A further mark of rank, doubtless, but also precisely so that he could draw and strike in one movement; this to show that he was above the enforced discipline of the ranker, that he was now, instead, a responsible enforcer of that discipline. A legionary could not draw and strike in one fluid action, but a centurion or an officer could. I think that that fact alone is quite compelling.


The Romans were Stoics by nature; an incredibly practical and pragmatic people. This is a simple preventative measure, a pragmatic solution to a discipline issue. As theories go, I like it. I think it's true. With the theory in mind, there may even be some evidence found to support it. I would like to think so.


I'd like to refer you to the work which permitted me to make the Socratic leap to this solution. The piece by Colin Jensen can be found here:
http://www.colinjensen.com/blog/1999/12/10/anachronisms-of-roman-cruelty/

#SampleSunday – 15th May 2011

Something from The Key To The Grave. Concussion can be a nasty thing.

#

Looking at the confusion around me, I tried to think of a reason to move and couldn't think of a single one. It was cool here and something solid supported my back and pressed gently against my right arm. I had to concentrate to keep my head from wobbling on a neck that seemed too weak and brittle to hold it up. I found that turning my head slowly from left to right seemed to help. It was a gesture of denial but I couldn't remember what it was that I was saying no to. Something. A slow and constant no, no, no, as my head throbbed with an all consuming pain.

Several figures in a confused cluster moved across my field of vision, blurred twins twisting and struggling in the centre of a blurred group of men who dragged someone who kicked and screamed and begged. I tracked their movements without interest as my head tracked to the right, then lost awareness of them as I began to turn it slowly the other way. The slow shaking of my head merged with the shrieking hysteria of the voice that danced around the stone square, accompanied by weeping and wailing and gasps that susurrated through me like a blustery wind in a forest. The pale undersides of green leaves danced before my eyes and waves crashed on a rocky beach somewhere far away.

Someone was kneeling in front of me, knees planted either side of one of my long legs. I looked at how they stretched out in front of me. Bare toes of the one foot I could see twitching far away.

“I don't blame you,” the figure was saying. “Anything would have been better than this. Death would have been better. We were betrayed. It wasn't your fault. We fought but they were amongst us, inside the compound.” He was crying. I watched the tears track down his face, like drops of condensation. He must be cold then, I thought. The cold pulls water out of the air. How did I know that? I reached out unsteadily and dragged a finger over his face. Not what I'd intended. It didn't matter. “Patron? Can you hear me?”

A face loomed in my vision, filling the world, making me grunt in fright.

“Can you help us? You have magic, patron.” The voice hissed like the wind in the leaves and a hand spun crazily past the face, touching my forehead. “Is there anything you can do? They are going to turn us all into zombies,” the voice broke. “Do you understand?”

“What happened?”

I heard a sob. I wondered if it was me. No one answered. The hand went away. My head wobbled. My neck felt too weak and thin to take the weight of my head. I slowly turned it to the left and then slowly back to the right. There were people. Lots of people moving. The light was bright. It hurt my eyes, Maybe I should close them. No, I thought, no, no.

#

I wanted to move.

Something was stabbing into my head and making it hurt. I was cold. Sitting in a puddle. I wondered if I was all right. Maybe I needed help. If I moved, maybe I could find someone to help me. Meran was always there to help me get back home.

My hands were in my lap. My legs stretched out in front of me. My feet were bare. I watched my toes twitching. The light was too bright. I'd have to move. My hands were in my lap. Id have to move them. Slowly I dragged one heavy arm away from my body and set it on the ground by my side. There was something tight against my left side, holding me up. It was a barrel. I wouldn't be able to go that way. I'd moved the wrong arm. I moved it back. My arm would be more comfortable in my lap. It seemed to take a long time.

I watched the movement around me, there were people. Lots of people. Most were still. Those close by. There were many others. Some of them were shiny. Armor, I thought The shiny ones were wearing armor. I wished they would take it off; it was too bright in the sunlight. The sun was overhead and it beat down on my skull rhythmically, hurting, making me feel sick. I tried to think of a reason to move and couldn't think of a one. Where would I go? Why would I go there? Maybe I could get out of the light. I tried to move but my arms were weak and it seemed entirely too much effort. Something solid supported my back and pressed gently against my right arm. I'd have to give up that support if I moved.

A shiny group of men stepped out of the crowd that stood all around, seemingly very far away. I could tell they were upset. It was the wild cries, the sobbing, the stifled screams. Those closer to me were moving but not going anywhere. I wondered why they didn't just go if they wanted to go. The shiny figures closed in and dragged one man away. They dragged him as he twisted to break free. For a while they stopped and beat him. Then they dragged him away. I wondered why he didn't just walk.

I closed my eyes slowly. It was hard. My throat was dry. I wanted something to drink. The thought of beer made my belly lurch and I gagged, once, a painful choking cough that brought nothing into my mouth.

The light faded abruptly and I opened my eyes. A black robed figure stood there, looking down on me and a voice rang though my head. “Your woman is asking after you,” the voice said. “I said I would see and tell her of your condition. It isn't good, cityman. I will tell her. If she cooperates then maybe I will have someone do something to help you live. But no, no of course I will not. I will say that but I will lie to her. She is just one of the sheep, after all. We have great deal of experience with reluctant sheep, cityman; they bleat and mill and scheme and plot and plan and it is all the mindless bleating of sheep in the end; among them we have sheepdogs who watch and listen and herd them as needed and one way or another they are used to further our ends.”

I looked at him. Wondering who he was and trying to make sense of what he was saying. I could hear a babe crying, its primitive distress uncomforted.

“She may want to see you, I suppose. She is a stubborn one. Arrogant as all of you are. But she is mine now. Ishal Laharek will be upset. He will have to bargain with me.”

The babe was crying and crying and wouldn't be comforted. The dark figure before me sighed and turned to look over his shoulder at two figures hazy behind him. “Kill that noise.” He turned back as one of them moved purposefully away from us. “Don't fret. Not you. I hear you are useless but I have decided to let death decide your fate. If you live to see the dawn we will take you with us. If not, I will call you back and let the barbarian Dannat have you, as Ishal promised him.”

The babe went suddenly silent.

We looked at each other for a while. I couldn't decide why I was looking at him; didn't know why he was looking at me. After a moment he nodded. “Yes, I think I can describe you to her well enough to suit my purpose. Blood matted hair down to your eyes, sitting in your own filth like the animal you are. Doubtless she would be impressed if she saw you herself. Maybe I will treat her.”

Abruptly he was gone.

I closed my eyes against the light and tried. I tried to remember what sounds I should use to ask for something to quench my thirst. It raged. “Water,” I remembered, but then couldn't think what I wanted it for.

#

#SampleSunday – 8st May 2011

Part of The Last King's Amulet (books 3 is getting there, but is turning out to be hard work, I'm dancing as fast as I can).

On the march north, Sumto recieves some letters. (Orchids) is the daily password, and is obvious by this point but not if jumping in the middle like this, so I thought I'd just say that to avoid confusion. He has, I might also mention, sent Sheo (a friend and fellow noble) ahead of the army to recruit some troops for his own use... with dubious legality.

 

#

The next day was much like any other until the letters arrived. Two from the south with the same courier and one from the north. It was going to take me a while before I decided how I felt about the first two, the third sent me into an incandescent rage.

I was riding at the back of the crossbowmen, my men in a cluster behind and my charges following along nicely. That morning the thin mage, Ferrian, had been waiting for me to return from the morning briefing (Orchids). He had been formal and dignified, but even he could not quite hide his irritation at being in a position where he had to make a report about the doings of his fellows. If the battle mages and healers had complained to Tul he had not mentioned it. They were under my command. Though initially it had been meant as a sinecure it was still a fact, and they had begun to learn it. As long as they did their job I wasn't interested in how they felt, though for personal reasons I would rather be on good terms with them. If they didn't invite me to eat I would eat elsewhere, tonight I had asked to join Rastrian, phrasing it carefully so that he knew I would accept no refusal but so that it didn't sound like an order.

“Yes?”

Ferrian's features had pinched up a bit. “My superiors have required me to report on our activities regarding security.”

“Sir.”

His eyes nearly popped out of his head as he colored up.

“The correct form of address when making a report to your commanding officer is, Sir.” I explained it patiently and slowly so that he could understand.

He struggled with it for a bit. The colleges were powerful, personally the individuals were dangerous in a way that transcended politics, but in this circumstance I was making a point. Later, I might relax a bit toward the friendly cooperation that was more normal. There was a whole chapter on dealing with mages in almost every volume of warfare, and I was ignoring all of it. The arrogance of my class, I suppose.

“Yes, sir,” he relented but his voice was not much above a furious whisper.

“Your report?”

“My superiors asked me to create this for your use around the area, sir.” He held up a wooden stake split with precision into four and bound together by a ribbon.

I took it and looked it over. One stake split into four. “And this will...?”

He sighed in exasperation, back on top due to my ignorance. “You stick them into the ground in a rough square and when anyone passes he will receive a debilitating shock and there is an alarm.”

“What kind of alarm.”

“The sound made when a block of wood is split. Twice.”

“How loud?”

He shrugged. “I don't know.”

I just stared at him for a long, long moment until he realized what I was thinking and became embarrassed. No one likes their work to be treated with contempt.

“Perhaps we should test it, sir.”

“Thought hadn't occurred to me. Do it.” I tossed the stake back to him and he left.

I checked on my people and saw everything going smoothly. As I was doing this I heard two loud cracks, just like the sound of an axe hitting a tree but in quick succession. So. Loud enough then.

I mounted up and moved away. I didn't want to take charge of the stake device. I wanted him to do it if I decided to use them. I mean, people come and go in our area in the morning (me!) and at other times. I didn't want the damn thing going off all the time, so I had to give the matter a bit of thought.

“Your command, Kerral. I'll meet you on the road!”

“Yes, sir!” He snapped back and carried on about his business.

There were no gates for the temporary forts. We took craftsman in various fields with us on campaign. Some soldiers had come from the crafts and were used as labor in those areas where they knew what they were doing. Gates would be made for a more permanent fort, but for now we used a wagon at each of the four gaps where there would normally be gates. I headed for the southern gap as the east and north gates were in use.

I was just in time to meet the messenger, a fellow who had obviously passed back and forth between the city and the army more than once as he recognized me and called my name. His horse was lathered in sweat even though he must have changed it as little as eight miles back. He had two letters for me and didn't see why I should wait for them to pass through the command tent. I accepted it and then reprimanded him for doing it.

“All communications through the command tent.”

“Yes sir!” He saluted smartly and held out his hands for the letters.

“From now on,” I said darkly.

“Yes sir.”

I sat my mount in the open gateway and cracked the seal on the first, larger letter and scanned the contents. It was from Orelia.

My dearest Sumto,

How glad I was to see you again. It grieves me that my family chose against you. I always felt we would be a perfect match but I cannot go against the will of my family.

It frightens me that you are going into danger. Tahal Samant is the choice of my family, and seems a good man. For his sake I hope you are successful in your mission. For mine, I hope you return to us safely, to a hero's welcome. I believe none of my family would frown upon my giving you a chaste kiss on your return. I prey you will accept all I would wish to give you in that single kiss.

I fear for you both and pray you both return whole and well.

My fondest regards

Orelia Isaula Habrach

I tucked this one in my saddle bag with the mental equivalent of shrug. The second was from Jocasta The message tube also contained a minute cloth bag. I shrugged and read the letter.

Sumto,

My sister is sending a letter and I think if I hurry I can catch the messenger without being seen. For some reason she is jealous and might intercept it.

I have been listening to the news from the north and collecting gossip. I do not know what your situation is there but can guess that you are not being told everything by your commanders. Jealousy does not only exist between sisters.

From what I can piece together I am certain that the Orduli and Prashuli tribes are joining with the Alendi in a mass uprising. The smaller tribes in the foothills beyond may also be involved but to what extent I cannot say. There are rumors of a rogue mage among the tribes, this I can only infer from some of the rumors I have heard from letters received by friends from the north. The tribes obey him from fear. There is talk of severed heads screaming all day and night, a chieftain who resisted his instruction to rise against us now walks the streets of his settlement as a dead man. The witnesses to this were quite graphic and there can be no doubt that she and her husband saw this thing.

I am afraid that the whole north is going to rise against you. You are in more peril than you know as are all our men. Please be careful and take such action as you can to safeguard yourself and your army. I will do what I can from here to rouse public opinion to act. Accept these gifts to aid you in the spirit they are intended.

Jocasta

I read the letter again. Dead men walking? Screaming severed heads? A rogue sorcerer? Gifts?

I looked at the bag, tucked the message away to read again later and opened the small black velvet bag. Inside was a two carat stone of brilliant vermilion. I closed my fist on it. Felt its warmth. Focused my thoughts on it and felt an awareness of its existence nudge itself into my mind alongside my own. It was a gift of great value. If only I had the knowledge to use it.

I stuck a finger tip into the tiny bag. There was nothing else. Peering into the message tube I could see a small glint in the bottom of the tube. So, there was a second gift. Opening the other end I eventually managed to prise it out. It was a small tube of varnished wood with two glass lenses, the larger edge ridged slightly and rounded. I recognized it at once. It was a sorcerer's loupe.

“How in gods' name did you get that?”

I never invoke the gods. And I mean never. Only when seriously, genuinely shocked.

All sorcerers of a college had a loupe, and students at the college were permitted to use one in order to learn spells. With it you could see magic, pure and simple. The longer you looked the more you saw. The college specialists made them, and damn few new how. Owned by the college, used by sorcerers and loaned to students. This one must have been stolen. I had never ever heard of a loupe being found outside college premises. I would bet everything I would ever own that none of the mages or healers here had one on him, or those with Orthand, no matter if he had twenty of each.

This was not merely a generous gift. A sorcerer's loupe was priceless.

#

The march was proceeding well, I thought. The men were standing up to the forced pace, we were still in friendly territory and we were making good time. My command was under control and I thought all was right with the world. Then the letter from Sheo arrived. I saw the messenger coming down the line, though I didn't know he was looking for me, I certainly hoped he was. I had been concerned about Sheo's lack of regular reports so I was glad to receive the letter and read it at once.

Sumto,

I am taking the cohort north east to the border with the Orduli.

“What?”

“What?” Kerral echoed me, surprised.

“Nothing!” I went back to the letter.

I have received word of the sacking of a border town of Pulindus by a large force of barbarians. The lands between there and here are pretty well populated but there are no forces to stand in their way. Don't be angry with me, please. I am not trying to steal your thunder or use your men for my own self-aggrandizement. I simply feel that this needs to be done and there is no one else to do it. I'm sure you will use my intelligence well.

In haste.

Sheo Tetris Fuliat

“Bastard!”

“What?”

“You have the command, Kerral!”

I didn't wait for his answer but pulled out of the line and galloped my surprised mare to the head of the cohort, calling a warning of my reckless pace as I did so. Pulling up I saluted Tul with the letter clenched in my fist.

“You'd better read this, sir.” My fury sounded clear even in my own ears and I struggled to get a hold of myself.

“Yes,” he said, mildly. “I suppose I better had.”

I gave him the letter and waited while he read it, keeping pace all the while, my mare skittish and anxious under me.

After reading it twice he made to pass it back, then changed his mind. “No. I'll go.” He steered his horse out of the line and galloped off.

I watched him go. A little let down by his mild response. But he was acting. I just had no clue what he intended and there was nothing seemly I could do but wait. After a while I realized I had no further reason to be there and steered my mount off the road, walking her back down the line.

“Bastard!” I whispered fiercely to myself every now and again.

He had taken my command into danger without so much as a by-your-leave. It was a clear breach of discipline for a start. And he knew damn well I wouldn't... I held that thought. I might order him to act, but I wouldn't like it. In fact, I would have had to do as I did with the letter containing the fact of his actions even if it had only contained the request. And the request might be refused by Tul or Orthand. Needs doing, I thought, large force, no one else between them and us. Bastard. He might be right. How large a force? How the hell did he know where they would be when he arrived on the scene? How did he hope to stand against them if he found them? He was throwing my men away for nothing. He should have marched when he heard, but not north and east. He should have marched south, to us, to join our force with his new information.

When I pulled back into the line by Kerral I was still white-faced with anger and swearing under my breath. He raised an eyebrow but wisely didn't say anything.

“How far to the border?”

“About a hundred miles, I'd say.”

Four days to get to where he had been. Too late to be thinking about it. He was gone and lost. Forget it, I told myself, forget your cohort they are dead and gone.

“Bastard.”

Kerral didn't say a word.

#

#SampleSunday – 1st May 2011

A short piece from Prison of Power.

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     Allay Yhar’sharem had not felt the attraction in thirty years and had not expected to sense it ever again, not since the last of Liandis’ line of bastard heirs had been found in Jervak. Thirty years of fruitless journeying from kingdom to kingdom, town to town and settlement to settlement. Decades of fruitless searching. Now Allay sat on a crumbling wall in a side street beside a disused and overgrown plot of land where Oran hunched over a side of rotting meat. He found the tearing and slobbering as noisome as ever.

     “You are a loathsome creature, Oran.”

     “Yes, master,” Oran slobbered. “But useful. Very useful.”

     Allay stood and walked a few steps to the mouth of the side street. On the far side of the road and a short way down the street stood a large dwelling, mostly on one level but with a defensive area that rose two floors higher. Inside, Allay thought. Somewhere inside there is one of the blood. A descendant of Yhar’Harran. An Heir. The sensation of the presence tugged at his consciousness, an almost physical thing, demanding action. He repressed the desire to seek out the chosen one. He had no knowledge of who the Chosen One was, or of what friends he might have. He alone might not be strong enough to simply take the chosen one if opposed. One thing he did know for certain, and that was that he was the only one who knew; his kind were sensitive to the blood of Yhar’Harran, able to feel it calling out for over a mile. But this one he had stumbled across by chance, had felt nothing and then had felt the blood calling from less than a hundred yards away, strong and clear. The conclusion was obvious. Someone had shielded the chosen one from him, from all the Yhar’sharem. Someone didn’t want him found, and thus must know what was being hidden. So he must be cautious. In some way he must make contact, get on the inside, where he could appraise the situation. Then cut the chosen one free of his companions, friends and family, cut him free of any allegiances he might have, from whoever had hidden him. Somehow he must get the Heir alone. He would wait and watch. An opportunity would present itself. He returned to Oran, secure in the knowledge that should the chosen one move he would know it.

     “Go to the inn and fetch our belongings.”

     “We are sleeping in the cold?” Oran was reproachful.

     “Yes, we sleep here if we sleep at all.”

     “I don’t like the cold, master.”

     Allay said nothing, and after a moment Oran wilted under his gaze.

     “I am going, master. I will get our possessions and bring them.”

     “Yes, Oran.” Allay said. “I know you will. And while you are at the inn find out whose house this is.”

     “The one we watch, master? Yes, master.”

     He watched his tame ghoul scamper off down the side street, admiring the illusion that he had created and which allowed the atrocity to mix with people unseen. The foul stench of him would be enough to tell his origin if Allay had not hidden it under an avalanche of scents. After a moment he returned to the main street and watched the house of the chosen one through a thin fall of snow. It was going to be a long, cold night.

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