Well that tower’s gone.  But what the heck is that green thingy?  Guess we’ll find out next week!

Mage’s duel! There’s some very aggressive sorcery going on up in here. The spell book page was partially inspired by those ol’ illuminated manuscripts (history!).  I’m sure some of you may have tried to read the actual text and was disappointed to find it was illegible.  Unfortunately mystical documents are quite hard to read, and those of us of this world can’t quite decipher them.  Don’t feel bad, I don’t even know what it says.

Next week everything blows up.  Promise.

I’d say her offer was revoked.  The elfheim seems to be holding a grudge against our intrepid Algerbane.  Will Mayatha be able to fend off this evil sorcerer’s attacks?  What tricks might be up her sleeve.  Mage battle royale coming up next week!

Whoa.  What’s going to happen now, huh?  Mayatha totally turned the tables.

Find out our nameless Elfheim’s response next week.

In other news, don’t forget to check out my ongoing tumblr blog http://somefiction.tumblr.com/.  I update it almost every weekday with new short stories.  Fun times!

On with the books:

Musashi by Eiji Yoshikawa.  Really interesting fictionalized account of the legendary samurai.  I haven’t read that
much Japanese literature, but I do know a bit about the history of feudal Japan (the Edo period at least).  This book is beautifully translated into English, is engrossing, engaging, and punctuated with satisfying violence.  An epic is all respects.

A History of the English Speaking Peoples, Volume 1 – The Birth of Britain by Winston Churchill.  I actually didn’t know Churchill was a writer, but apparently he wrote quite a bit, including an exhaustive history of England.  I have always wanted to know more about the history of that country, but never knew where to start.  Churchill’s Britain is pretty comprehensive, and follows the history of the settlers and re-settlers of the Island quite closely.  Very fascinating and enjoyable.

The Medieval Warrior: Weapons, Technology, and Fighting Techniques, AD 1000-1500 by Martin Dougherty.  This is my jam right here.  I wish this book was around when I was a kid.  It covers the tactics, types of soldiers, armor, weapons, machines, everything to do with medieval warfare.  And its got illustrations!  I can’t get enough of this stuff.

The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights by John Steinbeck. It’s basically Le Morte d’Arthur but in updated English, for us yokels.  Wonderful and exciting.

Of course there is a stack of other books, I’ve been “nibbling” on, but have yet to sink my teeth into.  If anything captivates me, I might share it.

I’m quite curious to see what happens next. I hope you are too.

Elves are extremely hard to kill and I’ll leave it at that.

So is Mayatha done for?  What will this mysterious being do to her?  More will be revealed next week.

On another note, I started Jury duty today.  As you read this I will be sitting around hoping to get dismissed.  Stay tuned to my Twitter feed for all the exciting details (it will be exciting).

Jonas Stone stayed at Willow’s Creek for a time.  It was a quiet, dusty sort of town, named after a tributary that never existed.  Water was rare in that desert and the people felt the burden of the heat everyday.  Jonas arrived at the height of the dry season.

“You ever been in a drought like this?”  An old man sat on a front porch stretching out a piece of leather.

Jonas turned around.  “My homeland was a dry place,” he said.  “It never was this hot, though.”

The old man chuckled, it was a deep, cackling sound.  “Get used to it.  The suns of this world will bake a cow in its own skin.”

“Speaking of, where did you get that leather?  I saw no cattle when I rode in.”

“There are none no more,” the old man said.  “Used to be a climate-controlled ranch about ten miles yonder.  Bandits took it though.  Destroyed the ranch, scattered the animals, and killed the family.  This was the last of the cattle.  I found it a few paces west of town.  Pour thing was almost picked clean.”

“Bandits attacked the ranch?” Jonas said.  “What for?”

The old man stopped and thought.  “I’m not sure.  Usually its rustlers who go after ranches.  They swoop in and steal all the cattle—put them in refrigerated ships—and disappear.  Mighty queer these bandits didn’t do the same.”  He hummed and when back to this leather.

“Bandits don’t attack for no reason.  There must have been something they were after.”

“The Peabody’s were wealthy, of course,” the old man said.  “I heard they kept all their coin at the ranch.  They didn’t bother with the bank.  But they paid generously for an armed gunman to watch the ranch.”

“Where was this gunman when the ranch fell?”

“Hmm, he must have been killed,” the old man said.  “Say you’re mighty inquisitive.  Why don’t you just go see the ranch for yourself?  Its north of town.”

“I just might do that.”

More coming tomorrow…

I don’t think anyone was expecting that reveal, least of all me.  This certainly raises a lot of question, eh?  Hopefully they will be answered soon enough.

We’ve never talked about that huge sword Mayatha suddenly started to carry (since this issue).  You’ll notice she started using it after visiting her hometown.  Barrowedge was her family’s sword.  It was passed down to each baron of Hilome.  After discovering her father’s secret, Mayatha decided to take it as a reminder of her family’s shame.

As an aside, I made a fun wallpaper for iPhone and other smartphone doohickeys.  Check it out if you’re into that sort of thing.

Since the fall of Fort Haddoch, we have been fighting a losing war.  The land we acquired from out hard-fought conflict with the Normans are all but lost, as this ghost army and its cult of human followers snatch it from us.  Only our capital city is completely safe, thanks to the tireless efforts of our fighting men.

It was a cold spring during the first year of the war.  I was stationed at Gamling’s Hold.  The southern fortification had seen little action, but we were taking no chances.  Two thousand men—a pair battalions—were present, both at the garrison overlooking the falls and at the fort proper.  Gamling’s Hold was positioned in a wide valley beside the Singing River, a major artery to the capital.  If it fell, and with it the river, our country would be soon to follow.

We had few advantages against our enemy.  No weapon, forged of steel, could harm them.  Only the light of a full day could hold them back; they were powerless before the Sun.  In the day only the cultists could fight for them, and they fell like any other man.

At night we were in the most danger.  We had taken to burning great bonfires before our gates.  The heat and idle light seemed to keep them away.  But an army of soldiers gain no honor by burning wood, no will we free our people by hiding behind our nightlights.  We must fight, and at all costs find a way to drive back this unholy Ghost Legion.

I stood atop the gates of the Hold, peering into the night.  The rocky land of the valley rolled out before me, but even by the light of two bonfires I saw very little.

“You’re  not on duty at this late hour, Galair, are you?”  Lieutenant Brendil was climbing the steps to the wall.

“No,” I said.  ”But I cannot sleep while we wait for our enemy.”

“Sleep is what you need most,” he said.  ”You appear weary and drawn to my eyes.”

“Ah, I’ve looked this way since the day of my birth.”

“World-worn coming out of the womb, eh?”

A horn call reverberated from the heights.  It was coming from our tower at the river falls.  Brendil and I turned to look out from the wall.

“They see something we do not,” he said.

“The enemy approaches,” I said, “out of the darkness.”

They appeared on the Green Marches.  We had a garrison there, with over one hundred well-trained soldiers stationed within a newly built log fort.  The land had been abandoned for many years, but by the valiant effort of those men, we had gained a foothold.  On that night the watchmen saw them coming: a group of no more than twelve, marching on foot in double file.

Their skin was pale and they wore little armor.  There were women among them, armed even.  The captain did not believe it until he climbed up to see for himself.  They carried six torches that burned with blue fire.  They reached the fort’s gate and waited to be addressed.  Captain Haddoch called down from the wall.

“Hey now!  Who are you and why do you approach a fort of the Scyon Kingdom?”

One of the men stepped forward.  In the queer azure light he appear gaunt and ill.

“We are messengers of the Draugmar,” he said.  ”This land we have claimed as our own, from these green plains to the Hollow Sea.”

“The Draugmar?  I have never heard of such a kingdom.”

“They are a mighty legion,” the spokesman said, “long lost from this plane, but now they have returned.  They sorely desire their ancient home.”

“This is preposterous,” the captain said.  ”King Bryan has fought hard to secure these marches for his people.  We will not surrender them to strangers.”

“You will abandon this land and return to your king or else suffer our wrath.”

The soldiers atop the gate laughed.  ”Your wrath?” the captain said. “You greatly overestimate yourselves.  I advise you return to your masters before I order my archers to volley.”

“So be it.”

The blue torches went out.  A shrill cry filled the darkness.  It echoed in the soldiers’ ears.  Thousands of new lights appeared, pale yellow flames in the form of men.  They dotted the peaceful countryside around the fort.  The sound of many swords unsheathing could be heard as a dark, booming voice cried out to charge.

Our men fought bravely, but they were soon overwhelmed.  The nightmarish horde poured over the walls, unhindered by sword or barrier.  In the early morning hours the fort was taken.  Every man was slain.

To be continued…

This artwork is also featured in a new series of ads for the site I’m rolling out over the Project Wonderful network.  I plan to make a full desktop version, as well as a high rez iPad one, soon.

And about about the pie?  My guess is he can do it.

She ran through the forest without looking back.  Her heart was beating against her chest and she could barely breath.  It was too dark to see and she frequently stumbled over rocks and brambles.  Stray branches scratched at her face.  She didn’t care.  She had to get away.

Somewhere in the distance a column of smoke curled up into the sky.  In a broad clearing a quaint, little cottage crumbled into rubble.  Slow, heavy footsteps walked away from the ruin, towards the wall of trees.  Even deep within the forest she could hear him coming.

Her lungs were burning; she could run no longer.  She collapsed beside a great oak tree, struggling for breath.  Branches cracked and underbrush was trampled somewhere behind her.  She hugged the tree, whispering a tiny prayer and began to climb.  She summoned what little strength she had left and reached the top.  Above her was the naked sky.  The moon was pale and all the stars were alive.  She cried out to the heavenly bodies, another prayer for deliverance.

Like a hound catching a scent he found her.  He stood beneath the tree, a shadow among the shadows.  A sinewy mitt grasped an ax.

“I know you’re up there, Yliandrai,” came a hard voice.

She was silent, paralyzed.  She clung to the swaying branches.

“This wood cannot save you.” he said.

She pressed her lips to the leaves, muttering as many prayers as she could remember.

“If you refuse to come down,” he said, “I’ll have no choice.”  He raised the ax and brought it down against the tree.  It cut deep into the bark.  She cried out as if in pain.  She let go of the branches and fell to the forest floor.

“There you are.”  The dark figure stood over her.

“Please don’t kill me,” she said, her voice quivering.

“What am I to do?” he said.  ”You destroyed my home.  My wife and I took you in, raised you as our own—and this is how your repay us?”

“I am sorry,” she said.  ”I thought I could change my nature, but I cannot.  It is the way of all forest folk.”

“Then I must do what I must do.”  He raised his ax.  She pressed her eyes shut and uttered one last prayer.  There was the sound of branches snapping.  The ground shifted.  The trees moved.  When she opened her eyes, the man was gone.  His ax left on the ground.

Yliandrai touched her lips and touched the ax.  She stood to her full height, finally shedding her human form.  She thanked the trees.  They took her up in their arms and she disappeared.  She had returned to the forest.  She was home.

You can read more of my fiction at my tumblr page or by searching “writing.”

No, that is not the same “Boom” we saw last issue, this one’s much too small.  Ah yes, Mayatha is a girl who likes to get her hands dirty.  There is something cathartic about seeing a monster die, especially the cruel blackorcs of the Northern Mountains.