Tongue of Hauden, book three in the Harmony of the Othar Saga, has finally made its way through all the distribution channels, and print and e-book versions are now available from your favorite retailer.  The process of getting all the documents formatted and the supporting materials together went pretty well, with the exception of a text wrapping issue with the printed version that I did not catch until the proof copy.  Better than afterwards, I guess, but it delayed the print version availability by about a week.  That is what I get for not reviewing the entire document again after my last typo correction.

It really helped that the process for book three was a repeat of book two, and the learning curve for Adobe’s InDesign was greatly reduced this time around, relying more on my memory than trial and error and research.  Of course it helped that the layouts for the cover and the interior matched book two in style, and it became more of an exercise of plugging in text than anything else.  The e-book versions remain fairly straightforward as well, since the Kindle source is an html document that gets transformed via MobiPocket, and the Smashwords document is an MS Word file.

Over the next few weeks, I will get the materials off to Amazon and Barnes & Noble for their “Inside the Book” features, but other than that, its time to turn my attention to book four, Blood of Hauden.  In the past, the cover art has been one of the first things to take shape, and as I write, I am continually on the look out for that eureka moment when the proper cover images jump out at me.

Progress on book four, Blood of Hauden, is going very well, and I have been able to maintain the pace of about three-thousand words per week that I was achieving while writing the final chapters of book three.  Of course it is way too early to even begin to contemplate a release date, but I will be wrapping up chapter four here in the next couple of days.  It has been pretty easy to move right into Blood of Hauden by continuing the threads from Tongue of Hauden, and in many ways, there really is not a demarcation between any of the books since I see them as simply parts of a whole.  In fact, when I started the Harmony of the Othar Saga, it was really envisioned as one story broken down into eight parts.  This would make for one very long book, although I have often thought a much better reading experience would occur if the story was read without the gaps inherent with publishing each part as a separate book.  Perhaps there will be an e-book version someday that combines the whole story into a single eight part book.

After taking a hiatus from all writing activities that did not focus solely on completing Tongue of Hauden, I am happy to announce that I have finally finished.  This was the most productive six weeks I’ve had in quite some time, facilitated by the nicer weather that allowed me to reoccupy the three-season porch, my favorite writing spot.

Book three turned out to be nearly thirty-five percent longer than books one and two, and while I don’t think this is abnormal as a series progresses, it was about ten thousand words longer than I had anticipated.  Part of this length might have resulted in many of the ending chapters requiring me to move main characters to certain points in the plot, but I was also conscious that many of the scenes would be the last for the characters in book three.  Whatever the case, I’m very happy with how it turned out, and after rereading the entire book again to perform final edits and continuity checks, I’m confident book three will provide a nice sequel and progression to books one and two.

My next steps will be to go through the text one more time in preparation for final formatting and layout, for both print and electronic versions.  I also have back cover material to write as well as additions to the appendix.  As of now, I don’t see anything that will hold up a release by August first.  Sadly, I will have to move out of the porch and return to my den since the desktop is where the InDesign and graphics software are installed.

Chapter 8: Spiders in the Brothel

The door to McGowan’s burst open as the man exploded into the street, scattering a group of three men with his angry elbows and shoulders.  No one could mistake the fury of a Dropper clouding his face, and none protested as they gave him a wide berth.  With his hands clenching and opening, he stood for a few moments in the street, and I knew beatings and curses were in store for many of the whores and serving girls tonight, especially once he started on his liquor.  My mechanical glove tightened into a fist to control another shudder as I watched him from the safety of my lamppost, but I rubbed my tongue on the inside of my bruised cheek to focus my hatred and resolve.

He finally moved down the street toward the river, and I cautiously followed, not at all surprised when he pushed his way into a loud establishment frequented by the riffraff that scratched out a living along the river.  In there, he would be king to bully and beat as he pleased, and he could drink and whore all night on a handful of small coins.  I claimed another lamppost and waited as the night filled with the raucous sounds of revelry and bellowing drinking songs.

Sometime after midnight, I watched the drunks get thrown back into the street, and when the dim lights started to wink out in the dingy windows along the second floor, I snuck into the alley and climbed the rickety stairs.  The lock easily fell away at my touch, and I slipped inside and climbed a short set of rotting stairs before stepping into a rank hallway.  There was no need to worry about being seen or caught since what went on behind the closed doors had succumbed to liquor and the fatigue of ill-use.  Methodically, I cracked open each door and peered inside until I found what I was looking for.

Under the dim glow of a lantern, the glass stained with smoke, my quarry lay sprawled across a disheveled bed.  The whore had moved herself to an old chair stuck in a corner, and I quickly dropped to my knees and opened my bags.  I touched the scar under my chin and renewed my vow to avenge my parents as I deftly unrolled the mechanical spiders.  I tossed the bags behind me, and then animated each spider in turn, sending them clacking across the floor and up the bedpost.  I shut the door and jammed the lock just as the shouts and curses started.

I pressed my eye to the crack under the door to watch as additional screams from the whore started.  The man rolled to the floor, blood already streaking his flesh where the razor sharp legs of the spiders crawled over him, and he bellowed in fury and fear when each spider started spitting oil across his wounds.  The woman screamed louder as a spark ignited the first patch of oil on his legs.  Flailing wildly, he tried to pry off or swat away the spiders that were not crawling up his back, but most of them stuck fast, as I knew they would, the sharp barbed legs and razor pinchers sinking deeper into his skin.  I smiled when another patch of oil lit up his undershirt and his face twisted in pain as he scrambled on his hands and knees.

He suddenly stood and threw himself to the door with a thud, and I lost sight of him as he pounded and twisted the doorknob against the jammed lock.  Giving up on the door, he leapt back across the bed, and grabbed most of his clothes to smother the flames.  His hair caught fire anyway, but his cursing stopped when he slammed into the window to save himself, and when he began smashing out the panes, it was my turn to panic.  I could not block that escape route.

The whore was still shrieking, and when I heard doors opening along the hall, I knew it was time to flee.  However, I was held transfixed when the whore picked up the lantern as a dislodged spider skittered toward her.  Shouts rang out in the hallway, but I didn’t move as the man continued to shatter the thin windowpanes, ignoring the flames that blistered his skin as the whore continued to screech. Then, the stupid bitch flung the lantern at the spider, and I barely jumped back from the door in time as glass exploded in a ball of flame, the oil drenching the floor and spraying under the crack into the hallway where it immediately caught fire.

I ignored the shouts yelling fire and the instant panic around me as the trample of feet scrambled for the stairs, no longer interested in me.  My only thoughts were on how to reach the man before he jumped to the safety of the street.  I hadn’t expected him to wake from his drunken stupor so quickly, and the cuts and burns that the spiders had inflicted might not be enough to kill him.  Flames were already licking up the outside of the door, the old wood quickly catching fire, and I bolted for the stairs, dodging the legs and arms that fought to escape the inferno.  I would have to kill him in the street, but first I would have to get there before he jumped from the window and got away.

Chameleon: Stowaway

(Episode 1)

Termination

“She is a mule,” black-hair said, jerking his hand off the collar of her jumpsuit.

His fingers clenched into a loose fist before his arm froze, caught between the desire to punch her in the face or to pull away in revulsion after having brushed the red ident chip on her neck.  The stupid bastard could have just scanned her and avoided grabbing her collar to verify her answer; although, had he done so, the look on his face would have been fear rather than disgust.  He should have just shot her in the back once he’d stepped out of the doorway and started following her.

“The name is Kay, K87564.  And I prefer hybrid; mule implies sterility, and I can assure you, I’m anything but sterile.  Are you taking me in?” she asked, sliding a hand to her hip, tilting her head to black-hair’s partner.

Sandy-hair wore the security uniform, but despite his training, he only saw a hip thrust rather than a shift in stance.  She hid the hyper burst of a chemical release behind a seductive smile, knowing that the look would only produce a brief hesitation; sandy-hair’s hand was already moving to the pistol holstered on his belt.  He should have approached with weapon drawn and also shot her in the back.

“No,” sandy-hair said after looking her up and down one more time.

That was all the time she needed as the chemical release was followed by a rapid cascade of gene resequencing that nearly stopped her heart, her mind violently fighting the blackout induced by the backlash from the burst.  A rebounding burst of adrenalin nearly blew her heart out of her chest, clearing her vision.

Now, sandy-hair’s arm was moving very slowly, his mouth still open, the throat tense as the vibrations of his vocal cords continued to work.  She didn’t need to hear his next sentence anyway, the muscles on his face having already said they were there to kill her.  She’d been surprised he’d even asked her to identify herself.  He and his partner should have known who she was, and they should have been briefed on the danger of getting this close to her.  Even the fifteen meter range of their shock pistols may not have been far enough away once they’d hesitated and allowed her to transmogrify.

Her eyes darted across the open clearing of the deserted park again, scanning the dark allies and hidden doorways at its edges.  Park was an odd name for the metal and stone in the middle of a city cube.  She had never seen a picture of a real park, not having ever bothered to hack one from the secure archives, but she knew a real park did not look like this.  Catwalks instead of sky, dust instead of earth, liter instead of vegetation, dim yellow lamps instead of stars; no, this place only carried the label of a park.  It was just an address, a point of reference in the center of the fifteen kilometer cube.  It was nothing more than a deserted open space, the perfect spot to surround her at range.

She continued to scan.  Still nothing moved.  She should have been less casual and shifted her vision into the infrared as soon as these two had started following her.  She hadn’t, since initially this encounter hadn’t the markings of a termination.  The lack of containment had momentarily lulling her into thinking these two were nothing more than a bored security patrol looking for a little ass.  If she had been marked for termination, these two would surely have known that backup was required, not needing to know her identity.  They would have kept their distance and shot her from behind once their containment was in place; they were not following proper termination procedures for one of her kind.

She looked again at sandy-hair, his thumb just starting to flip open the snap on his holster.  She wondered what the look on his face would have been had she answered truthfully after he’d barked at her to identify herself.  Had she added the C to the end of her number, would he have still tried to draw the pistol?   Or would he have attempted to flee instead?  Probably draw, wedded to the power of the shock pistol in his belt, blind to any caution those weapons always seemed to subdue.  And he was quick on the draw she saw, his hand already on the weapon.  It was not fast enough to matter, though.

An explosive reflex threw a ridge hand, catching him in the temple and killing him instantly.  Finally she noticed, catching movement out of the corner of her eye as sandy-hair’s shattered head hung at the end of her hand, his mouth still open and his hand still on the shock pistol.  These two had miss-timed their containment and engaged her too early, not that it mattered for her, other than that now she would have the satisfaction of killing these two before she was terminated.  She shifted her stance, and her same hand took out black-hair with a palm strike to the nose; his pathetic reflexes hadn’t even caused his still poised hand to fully clench in defense.

She watched the two slowly fall to the pavement and waited for the terminating shot; death had never been a thing she’d been overly concerned about.

She did have another thirty seconds before the muscle spasms started, though.  A sprint would have her out of the center of the park in a few seconds, and she could scale a wall to a catwalk in another two.  She might even be able take out a few more security thugs, depending upon how many pulse rifles were trained on her.  She could probably evade the pursuit for a few minutes if the initial pulse blasts didn’t hit their target, but they would track her, and she wouldn’t have time to remove the ident chip in her neck.  Besides, once the spasms started from the reaction of such a rapid gene alteration, she would have difficulty staying mobile.

Termination was inevitable for her kind anyway, and she’d only hastened this day of reckoning; it had only been a matter of time before she’d failed to completely modify her records, causing her movements to be flagged as suspicious.  They wouldn’t have needed proof of her activities; suspicion was all they needed to terminate a number.  So she stood still, choosing to die here, not that this spot held any significance to her; the final entry on her would read: K87564 (Chameleon) – Terminated, Central Park, Cerulean City Cube 8B367, Sol 27, 2236.  File Closed and Locked.

The two bodies had almost hit the pavement, and she scanned the perimeter again, looking for the yellow flash of a pulse blast.  She could dodge a single shot, but they had her surrounded, and if they were following procedure, they would lay down a pattern of blasts that would be difficult to evade.  Surely, after seeing her dispatch these two, one of them would have been quick enough to drop a laser dot on her skull and pull the trigger, causing the others to lay down a lattice of blasts that would cut her apart.  They had to know hesitating would only get more of them killed.

The seconds ticked by, seeming like minutes to her, and still no terminating shots came.  She felt the first twinge of a spasm.  She scanned the perimeter again, this time turning over her shoulder, trying to get a count of their numbers.  Six had moved, giving up their positions, and she assumed four times that many had surrounded her.  She glanced over head just as two dozen figures moved in unison, stepping out of the shadows.  Panic consumed her as another small burst of adrenalin thwarted another spasm.  None of them were carrying blast rifles.  She sprinted for a wall, frantically looking for any open doorway or window.

Flashes lit up the park, and she felt the static discharge from the shock nets, the smell of ozone sharp in her nose.  An eruption of mini lightning blasts lit up the ground in her path, and she jumped sideways.  Another set of blasts turned her back to the center of the park, and her mind was almost unable to count the two seconds she had before those weapons recharged.  Both her legs jerked violently, and she stumbled, falling to her hands.

Fighting the cramping pain that had started rippling through every muscle, she fought off another blackout just as the shock pistol still in sandy-hair’s holster came into focus.  She crawled to it, dragging her useless legs behind her.  She had to reach that weapon and stick it in her mouth before the shock nets immobilized her.

Welcome to the April 2011 issue of the Musings of the Othar.  This month’s Feature Article will be examining Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games.  It seems there is a lot of hype surrounding this book, and for the most part, it is justified.  Well written, controversial and enjoyable aptly describe it, and I will add to the hype and recommend it with enthusiasm.

The Pocket Watch continues this month, and I would again like to remind everyone that you can easily catch up with the series if you have missed an installment or two.  Each chapter is intentionally short, and they are designed for quick easy reading on a PC or a mobile device.

The Fayersae Histories is actually going to be a little late this month as I spent most of my writing time this month working on Tongue of Hauden, Book Three in the Harmony of the Othar Saga.  As usual, each of the previous chapters can be found in the Full Fayersae Histories link at the top of the page, so while this month’s installment is a little delayed, this becomes a good time to catch up if you are a new visitor to the blog.

Clarice Publishing and Othar Saga updates are also available, and I would like to remind everyone that the book trailer is now up on Barnes & Noble here: Othar Saga Trailer.  Please have a look if you have not had the opportunity yet.

Anyway, again I am hoping that my busy schedule allows me to continue the decent progress I have made on book three, Tongue of Hauden, over the last few weeks.

Yours Truly,

P.A. Seasholtz, Editor

This month’s Feature Article will be looking at Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games.  Usually, I choose my books a little less randomly than I did The Hunger Games, which I just bought off the recommended list from Amazon via my Kindle.  I was in need of something to read, and I did not have access to my PC to do any type of pre-review or research on what to read next.  What this meant was that I was unaware of the hype surrounding Collins’ novel while reading it.

The only thing I really knew about The Hunger Games was that it was classified as young adult literature.  I will be honest here, I am not sure what the specific distinctions between young adult and adult literature are exactly, although in my mind, I just break them along the PG-13-rated and R-rated lines.  Consequently, as I was reading, I was continually asking myself if I thought The Hunger Games was appropriate for my seventeen year-old daughter, and if so, would she even like it.  Essentially, was the subject matter that had an authoritarian government running an ultra-reality show that forces twenty-four teenagers to battle to the death something I even wanted her to read?

Now, I cannot make any predictions whether she would like it or not, but I have decided that despite the subject matter, it is appropriate.  I had just finished rereading Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, mainly because it is on my daughter’s curriculum this spring at school, and The Hunger Games is certainly no less cruel and graphic than that timeless classic.  Therefore, I would ask that anyone objecting to the subject matter of The Hunger Games to simply check out the reading list at your local high school.  In fact, I would even recommend reading a few of the titles you find there yourself.

This, of course, brings up an entirely different question concerning young adult literature in general and The Hunger Games in particular.  Was it appropriate for a middle-aged man?  Before you raise your eyebrows at the question, let me explain.  What I mean here is this: Am I even able to understand how a book like this is perceived and interpreted by a teenager?  Could it be that adults have more of an issue with the subject matter than the intended audience does?  I have tried to think back to all the things I read as a teenager, and I have tried to step back and view The Hunger Games in that context, and in so doing, I have decided that adults and teenagers may not view Collins’ work the same way.

First, while I see an incredibly high hurdle to overcome in even believing the geo-political context that is the basis for the story, I suspect that my teenage daughter, who has no real interest in politics, would simply find it unnecessary to question the absurdity of such a society.  Now I know there are many adults who seem to think aspects of our government are degenerative toward authoritarianism, but let us be realistic here.  The depth of callousness and cruelty exhibited by the government in The Hunger Games far exceeds the limits of credulity in my opinion.  However, I have decided to allow Collins this construct in order to tell her story, which I suspect is exactly what a majority of her teenage audience will do, albeit in many cases, they will be doing so unconsciously.

Now, moving on to the actual story of teenagers being forced to fight to the death, I begin to wonder if adults and teens even view this the same way.  While it is distasteful and controversial, and a bit disturbing, especially as a father, I am not sure teens have the perspective to be touched the same way I was.  This is not meant as a knock on their empathy or depth of feeling, but simply on their perspective of death.  What I am raising here is this: Does the supposed “invincibility” that we always hear about concerning their own mortality cause a teen to view this life and death struggle differently than adults?  Perhaps I have degenerated into too much psychoanalysis here, but I wanted to raise the point that perhaps teens would not come away with the same revulsions and qualms regarding The Hunger Games as an adult does.

So now that I have touched on a bit of the controversy surrounding the subject matter of the book, let us turn to the writing itself.  Aside from the aforementioned forced suspension of disbelief regarding the geo-political context for the story, I found it to be an excellent read.  Collins’ writing style was clear and fast-paced, and I connected with each of her characters immediately.  What I found amazing was how she kept up the suspense, even though there was little doubt regarding the outcome since it was written in the first person.  I especially thought Collins’ ability to connect the reader to Rue so quickly was brilliantly crafted.  I did not count the pages, but it seemed like a very short amount of time to have pulled that off so successfully.

I am not really going to comment on my thoughts regarding Katniss, other than to say that you should read the book.  She is definitely one of those iconic characters that simply needs to be introduced via reading rather than getting anything secondhand; and on that note, I am not sure I can give Collins any better compliment on the job she has done with The Hunger Games.

I would like to add that after finishing The Hunger Games, I discovered that it is in the process of being made into a movie.  This is intriguing because I think so much could go right or wrong with the adaptation to the screen.  It will be very interesting to see how all the inner-dialog is presented, as will the degree of graphic violence that finds its way into the screenplay.  I do not see a lot of movies, but this is one that I will make an effort to go to since I am very curious to see how it will translate to the screen.

Fayersae Histories

Second Battle of Jent

Chapter 19

“Before you abandon me, answer my question,” Cettan commanded his young nephew.  “Would you have me abandon my son?”

Byldan stiffened in the saddle, stopping his horse.

“No,” he finally said in a low voice.

“I would never ask you to take my side against your father,” Cettan said.  “I would, however, ask that you counsel him to leave enough men behind to safeguard the countryside here.”

“I cannot speak that boldly to my father,” Byldan said, his voice barely audible as he finally turned in the saddle to look at his Uncle.

Cettan looked at Stannen and Scieden who were quietly listening to the conversation.

“You and I have never let the rank between us alter our discourse,” he said to Byldan.  “What counsel would you give us then?” he asked, gesturing to the group.

“I have already given it, Uncle,” Byldan said more loudly.  “Your exile will be lifted once you turn away from your march to Torbod.  I would advise you to reconsider that decision, and to reconcile with my father and stay here, convincing him to leave enough men to protect the countryside.”

“And why do you think that is the best counsel?”

“It is the best way to honor your son,” Byldan said, again more softly.  “He is Bruchmon, and you would be protecting his people.”

Cettan raised his eyebrows to Stannen and Scieden.

“Wise counsel, my young Lord,” he said with a tired smile.  “And I would advise you to speak your mind more often, especially to your father and grandfather.  They are in no less need of your thoughtful opinions than I am.  What say you, Stannen?” Cettan asked.  “Does the young Lord make a strong enough case to remain here?”

Stannen took another long look at the ridge.  He knew that the terrain that had allowed so few to defend against so many would provide a strong bulwark against the Dasyu, and it would become a strong haven to the Bruchmon soldiers and citizenry in times of strife, both now and in the future.

“Fortifying the ridge and winning the battle here might allow us to protect the entire area between the river and the mountains, which would be no small feat,” Stannen said.  “It may not relieve the assault on Torbod, but it may force the Dasyu to the west before they head north to the Jent Pass after they break off their assault on that city.  We would then save the folk here from the pillaging fires and give the armies more time to assemble at the Pass.  It is a fair trade.”

“And?” Cettan asked, prodding him for more.

“And our chance of success is much higher than if we try to fight our way into Torbod, My Lord,” Stannen added after a short pause.

All eyes remained on Cettan.  He stayed silent while everyone waited for him command further dialog or to make a decision.  The surgeons, who had been trying to coax him out of the saddle, stopped their fussing, and they stood quietly while the minor cuts and gashes continued to bleed.

“My mind tells me you both speak wisdom, although my heart still yearns for a different course,” he said at last.  “But I can no longer ignore the plight of the people here to satisfy my selfish desires.  I will accept the providence that has brought us together,” he said to Scieden.  “We suffered exile to come to the direct aid of Bruchmon, and we will not diminish that noble sacrifice by staying here.”

Scieden dipped his head in thanks, but said nothing.  It had been his duty to protect the people of this province, and although no one could blame him for the dire state of the defenses given the numbers of Dasyu that had come, he was tremendously thankful that aid had come in time.

“Leave your horse, and lead your tired uncle to your father then,” Cettan said wearily to Byldan.

Cettan grimaced as he shifted in the saddle to dismount, and the nervous surgeons jumped to assist him.  Seeing the pain and fatigue of the battle finally consume his uncle’s face, Byldan jumped to the ground and ran to help.  The surgeons caught Cettan as he slipped off his horse, and they eased him into a sitting position.

“Find my father, and have a tent brought here,” Byldan said to Stannen as he knelt beside his uncle.

“I’ll go, My Young Lord,” Scieden answered.

Byldan nodded, and Scieden urged his horse into a trot and moved away to find Lyhtan.  Byldan stayed kneeling beside Cettan, but he let the surgeons do their work.

“It’s an ugly business, the sword and mace, isn’t it?” Cettan said to his nephew.  “You know, you should have stayed at Troth with your grandfather.”

“Do you think my father will leave enough masons to begin fortifying that ridge?” Byldan asked in response.

“You mean, do I think he will allow you to remain here to assist with that construction,” Cettan said.

Byldan nodded, taking Cettan’s jacket from the hand of one of the surgeons.  He folded the bloody and torn garment before setting it neatly on the ground.

“Perhaps,” Cettan said.  “Yes, I think he could be swayed,” he said after a pause.  “Stannen will stay, of course, and your father will listen to his counsel.”

“I would insist that your expertise is needed here, My Young Lord,” Stannen said, taking the hint.  “Begging your pardon, but your father will be hard pressed to deny me that request.”

“Besides,” Cettan said, “I fear there will be enough fighting in this province to satisfy your father’s desire to see you learn the art of warfare.  If he has reservations, they will come when he realizes that you will be in more danger here than at the back of the lines with the command at the Pass.”

“I am not afraid to defend our people from these vile Dasyu,” Byldan said.

“No, but you should be,” Cettan said.  “Even the Ealders become somber with doubt and misgivings when the Dasyu armadas darken our shores.  This is a foe that none should underestimate.  Many will fall before they are driven back to the sea.”

“My grandfather says they are always driven to the sea in the end,” Byldan said.

“Yes, they are always defeated.”

“Why do they come then?” Byldan asked.  “My grandfather would not answer that question, although I suspect he could have had he chosen to.”

“They come to kill,” Cettan said, not surprised that his intelligent nephew posed that question.  “But if the Ealders know of a deeper reason, I do not know of it.  My father has never offered a better explanation, and I have never been bold enough to ask that question of him.  There are many things the Ealders keep to themselves, and our duty is to simply honor and obey their wise wishes.”

Byldan frowned.  Cettan knew his young nephew’s insatiable thirst for knowledge was not satisfied with that answer.  Byldan spent endless hours in the dusty archives at Troth studying the history of House Haelanhon, and despite his young age, he had earned the trust and confidence of all the master artisans serving his grandfather, Haelanhon Ealder.  His ability to translate book knowledge to practice had earned him the respect of men many years his senior, including Stannen.

“I would stay focused on the situation here,” Cettan said, hoping to take Byldan’s mind off the deeper unanswered questions of why.  “Apply yourself to fortifying that ridge and giving Bruchmon a bastion to hold this province.  That the Dasyu have come is really all we need concern ourselves with.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Byldan said, although he did not look satisfied.

They stayed silent as the surgeons finished their work, and soon Scieden, followed by men carrying a tent and supplies, joined the small group.  The bustle from the pitching of camp ended the conversation, and Cettan reached a hand to Byldan who jumped up to assist his uncle.

“Unfortunately, there will be little time for rest,” he said, pointing to his jacket as he leaned on Byldan for support.

“I’ll have it mended, even if I have to do it myself,” Byldan said.

“No need,” Cettan said, forcing a smile past the pain.  “Likely as not, the Dasyu will soon enough add more holes to it.”

A servant scooped up the jacket anyway as the tent started to go up around them.  Byldan eased his uncle on to a stool, and a brazier was soon heaped with fuel to remove the morning chill.  Cettan took a mug of warmed wine and let the men work.  After a few minutes, the fatigue caught up to him and his head drooped despite the commotion.  The sound of horses followed by shouts forced him to open his eyes, and he lifted his head to see that his brother had returned.  He sighed, knowing that as his exile was officially ended, his wife and son were still in Torbod.

For information on Heart of Hauden, Book One of the Harmony of the Othar Saga, or any of the books in the series, please visit http://www.otharsaga.com/.

Unfortunately, very little was done regarding the publishing side of things this month.  Most of my time was spent working on final edits to the opening chapters of Tongue of Hauden as well as finishing the final few chapters.  I would have liked to spend more time on marketing endeavors, but sadly, there are only so many hours in the day.

I remained pretty focused this month on making progress on Tongue of Hauden, and for the most part, I met my goals.  I’m into the final chapters now and have completed final edits on earlier material, barring of course any need to alter anything in the open third of the book.  I feel this is getting less and less likely, as the remainder is outlined and plotted.  Still, there could be some twists that require slight rewriting, but any minor adjustments should not negate the polish that I have applied.  My goal in April will be to continue the progress, and hopefully I should solidify a release date.