And so, without further gilding the lily, and with no more ado, I give you Ancient New.

Once Ellgis had healed sufficiently to use an axe, he set about building a raft, while Fryca organized their notes and belongings. Once both tasks were complete, they set out in the skiff, towing the raft north and hoping to find a village where they might stay.

Their trip was long and arduous, for both Ellgis and Fryca grew ill at various points along the way. Only the supreme luck that sickness did not affect both of them at the same time allowed the technologists to continue their journey. Many days they made little more than a mile’s distance in the swamp, for they had to navigate around fallen timber and the deadly animals that dwelt in the pools of open water.

Meals were few and far between, only what little food could be hunted or scavenged. Water they boiled when they could, and strained through layers of cloth when they could not.

When at last the skiff bumped against the shore, they sighed with relief, staggering to their feet with the strange gait of one who has spent too much time upon the waters. From there, the technologists scouted the area, stealing a horse from a farmer in order to carry their belongings to the nearest village.

Instead, Ellgis and Fryca found Abboddóm, the seat of Baron Inswán, and a place that accepted them without compunction. They were given an empty hovel, a remnant from when the town had been populous. Now it was but a shadow of its former size and glory, and weeds grew upon the streets.

The first task the partners undertook was to restore the horse to its owner, for they could not deprive a man of his livelihood. They left it staked outside his house one night, none the worse for the use it had seen.

Ill news circled the town when the experimenters returned. A vulture from the north, a bastard by the name of Iudas, had come south, bandits and soldiers at his command. The townsfolk of Abboddóm had been ordered to pack their things, for if Baron Inswán was unable to halt the foe, he would at least buy his people enough time to flee.

The worst came to happen, and Ellgis and Fryca fled with the rest of the town, into the swamp.

Weeks passed as Ellgis and Fryca hid in their hut, nursing their wounds. Ellgis had been struck in the meat of the shoulder as he lay on the skiff, and the impact had cracked the bone. His was the better of the two, for after a week he was all but his old self, although his left arm was close to useless for the time being.

Fryca writhed in her bed as the red heat of infection clawed at her wound. Dipping in and out of fever dreams, she ate little more than thin vegetable broth, for Ellgis would not leave her to hunt meat.

One night Ellgis was forced to carry her into the water of the swamp, holding her beneath the cooling water for hours as marsh creatures circled near, and insects stung at their hands and faces. Fryca shivered in his arms, and Ellgis wept, for she moved not.

A shudder rippled through her, and Fryca turned in his arms, seemingly in a deep sleep and not a faint. Relieved, the technologist carried his partner back to their small hut, washing her and laying her in the bed.

The next morning saw Fryca wan but smiling. “Food? I’m ravenous!”

Ellgis wept as he pulled her into his arms, and the two stayed like that for a time. He then headed into the swamp, lines trailing from the skiff while he hunted with a spear. That night they roasted fish over a small flame, and had their first meat since Fryca had gone to rescue her partner.

“The Knights know we’re in here, and they’re going to come after us.”

“Of course. So we go after them instead.”

Ellgis blinked. “We do what?”

“We go after them.” Fryca gestured at the marsh about them. “You want to live in here for the rest of your days? Our experiments fail because of the damp, we have little more than a rotted hut and some paper, and we eat swamp grass and small animals.”

“Fryca, they’re an organization and an army. We’re two jumped up peasants with some smarts.”

“And that organization and army is on another continent with plenty of troubles of its own. You think they sent twelve Knights here because they thought it was enough, or because that was all they could spare? I’m going to bet on the second.”

“And the townsfolk? Whose side will they be on? They’re afraid of the Knights, and have tried to turn us in multiple times.”

“So we start small. We help out a village, and begin slowly picking off Knights.”

Ellgis shook his head. “That won’t work. If we pick them off slowly, they can report. We’ll need to get them all in the same day.”

“Now you’re getting ambitious. I like that.” Fryca chuckled. “We’ll need time, tools, and quiet. I think we move north for a time, find a village beyond the range of this set of Knights. They won’t have heard of us, and if we’re smart, we can prepare.”

Her partner stared upwards for a moment, thoughts racing. “You know… if we do this right, we keep the Knights out, we might be able to found a technologist republic. The Knights are far enough away we can do it without information slipping out for a while.”

“You really are getting ambitious. Now we have work to do.” Fryca struggled to her feet, hand on Ellgis’ shoulder.

Together they walked into the hut, to heal and to plan.

Fryca slipped past the inn, stepping around peasants forced to sleep outside as she made her way to the stable. There, she looked for a Knight’s warhorse, for she would rather steal from them than a villager. Finding none, she saddled a draft horse and muffled its hooves.

There should have been guards at the town gate, but with the Knights in town, the few sentries slept in their homes. No bandit lord would risk the wrath of the Knights of the Broken Wheel for a few petty trinkets.

The horse protested mildly as it was lead away from town, more from being asked to work at night than any true tiredness. Scrub farms slipped past on either side, and soon Fryca was searching the edge of the swamp for the skiff she had tucked away.

Good, it was still there. Smiling, she lifted the heavy crate onto the pommel, then strapped it down tightly. She swivelled it about a few times, seeing that it moved smoothly, before stepping into the stirrups and onto the horse’s back.

Seated there, she slotted two crank handles into the case, one on either side, and let her knees guide the horse at a gentle amble back to town. Fryca chuckled and shook her head. Not her first rescue, and likely not the last. Ellgis was always getting himself in trouble.

The Knights guarding Ellgis looked up as the horse clopped into the square. One grabbed at the sword next to him, the other raising his lantern to see the rider’s face. Fryca waited a moment as they came towards her, shields at their sides. The tool in the crate worked better at close range.

She turned the crank handles, taking up tension on a spring inside the box. The motion set the Knights running, their armour slowing them just enough. A dull thud sounded as Fryca finished the rotation, and a bolt appeared in the chest of the closer Knight. He died with surprise on his face. The second Knight shouted, his lungs good and strong. He dodged and rolled, and the next two bolts missed. The third took him in the leg, the fourth the head.

Fryca jumped down from the horse, grabbed a dropped sword, and slashed at the bonds holding Ellgis to the stake. Pulling him into her arms, she tossed him over the saddle before climbing aboard herself. A quick cut sent the bolt-thrower tumbling away. A painful loss, but they needed speed more than anything else.

Shouts echoed through the town as Fryca kicked the horse into a gallop, holding onto Ellgis with one hand and the reins with another. The horse snorted and took off, thundering down the dirt street. Their only chance was a head start, for although this was a healthy horse, it would be no match in speed for the chargers of the Knights.

Urging the animal on, Fryca bent low over its neck as they raced from the city gates. The shouts behind them grew more frantic.

In the scrub farms, she looked back to see four Knights pounding after her. No armour on, for they had been roused quickly, but she no longer had a weapon, and to fight four without surprise would be a fool’s task.

There! The edge of the swamp! Fryca prodded the horse into a final dash. They should make it. Maybe.

Shoving Ellgis to the ground, she dove from the horse, dragging her stumbling partner to the skiff, kicking him into it as she pushed the boat off the shore. He lay in the bottom groaning as she jumped in, grabbing at the oars and pulling.

Thunk. A scream of pain had Ellgis writhing on the floor, and as Fryca bent to look, she felt a searing anguish in her thigh. An arrow wound was already staining her clothes red.

The archer stood on the bank, taking aim for a third shot. He let fly, but only hit the gunwale. Another strong pull and Fryca disappeared into the mists and tangled woods. Then she slumped over the oars.

Choice #4: Capabilities – What are the natural characteristics of a given fantasy race, and what can they actually do?

The classic example of this is a dragon, specifically, the type that exists inside the world of Dungeons & Dragons. They can, variously, fly, breathe fire, cast spells, change form, and perform all manner of other unusual abilities inherent in their being dragons. All manner of fantasy races have capabilities somewhere along those lines, but the question to decide when creating one is how powerful should an individual of that race be, and how does that relate to the setting as a whole.

For instance, dragons are exceedingly powerful creatures, regardless of the setting in which they are seen. This is almost always counterbalanced by the fact they are rare, and constantly in a form of limited civil war within their race. Which means that the rest of the setting never entirely has to worry about dragons becoming too powerful. They are a self-policing entity in that regard.

But what happens if all dragons suddenly acquired a hive-mind type ability, where all dragons acted with one mind and one intention? In most settings where they existed, they would be capable of wiping every other civilization from the map. This, then, is the problem of capabilities: There needs to be checks and balances.

Now, as to the actual types of capabilities that a given race might have. Some of these will have been determined by the physical design of the body. Avian races generally fly, and so on. But many of them relate to the nature of magic and religion in the setting. A god might bless every thousandth child, or the race as a whole might possess some form of telepathy or other mental power. Or perhaps they can innately cast spells with the strength of their will. Each of these will increase the power of the race in the setting.

There is no limit as to the type or nature of capabilities that a race can have, provided there exists within the setting a justification such that the reader will believe them. However, if the race with these capabilities contains the protagonist, there is something to remember – the stronger the protagonist is, the stronger the antagonist must be to provide a credible threat. In general, the antagonist is a good deal stronger, meaning that whatever capabilities he has, either personal or racial must be greater than those of the protagonist.

Whatever the capabilities might be, make sure as a writer to enumerate them up front in a story, either through the main character discovering them, or by them being described by a knowledgeable character. This is because first mentioning any capability in the heat of the moment feels very much like a deus ex machina, a saviour created to bail the writer out of a sticky situation, rather than the main character.

In terms of the total number of capabilities, I personally generally assign one or two per race, interlinking them in such a way that they both add flavour and uniqueness to the race in question. For instance, a race that has the physical ability to regrow lost limbs might also have the magical ability to partially or completely shape change, while a race that lives underwater might be telepathic and telekinetic, because the environment and the physical form required for aquatic life makes communication and tool use difficult.

Finally, I would recommend that no two races in a setting share the same capabilities, unless those races are closely related. And even then, I would suggest they be similar, but not the same, allowing each fantasy race to retain its own uniqueness.

This wraps up the series on Creating a Fantasy Race. I hope it proves helpful in your writing endeavours.

Fryca knew she had a few days before the trial. Well, farce. The Knights would accuse Ellgis of trying to create another cataclysm, and nobody would say a thing. They’d all be too scared of the Knights.

Chuckling to herself, she lifted a heavy crate into the skiff. She’d need a horse to use what was in that box, but she and Ellgis had been stealing the goods they needed for a long time. With luck, she’d sneak a Knight’s warhorse from the stable.

The skiff bumped gently into the harder ground that marked the edge of the bog, and Fryca hopped out, dressed in peasant rags and carrying a sickle she’d taken from the dead villagers. Soon she fell in with the thin stream of peasants heading down the single track of mud that led to the small town that squatted on the outskirts of the swamp.

The lands hereabouts were poor, blessed with little more than scrub farming. Once it had been a lush forest and bounteous plains, but the forest had slipped under the waters and become the salty swamp, while the rich topsoil had faded into a thin dust, stolen away on the winds. From the tales told, this land had been spared the worst of the plague, only to see famine wipe away all but a few of the populace.

The terrain had never recovered, which was why the technologists had chosen it as a place to work. Here, they had thought themselves safe from the prying eyes of the Knights, but in every community a peasant had become frightened of the new villagers and their experiments, and told the nearest protectorate.

She shook her head. Bastards couldn’t see that if Ellgis and she were left alone, they’d create tools that helped people. As it was, much of the time they spent constructing elaborate traps and defences around their homes. And portable devices, like that crate she’d hidden in the skiff.

Fryca was passed through the small gate in the town wall with nary a glance from the Knight at the entrance. He took in her simple attire and farm tools and waved her on by, his attention clearly elsewhere. She pushed her way through the jumbled mass of humanity to the little patch of trampled dirt that called itself the town square.

Ellgis was there, guarded by two Knights in gleaming armour, the Broken Wheel symbol stamped prominently on their shields and helmets. He looked much the worse for wear, staked to the ground, and it was clear the Knights had beaten him, although whether for interrogation or their own amusement she did not know.

A meander about the town showed her three other Knights, making a total of six. Usually, the inquisitors came by twelve, which meant the other six were either rounding up people from the outlying villages, or still hunting for her through the swamp.

As she’d expected, the Knights had stabled their horses at the one inn, and taken it over completely. The thieves probably weren’t even paying the owner. They usually didn’t, self-righteous ingrates.

With the town scouted, Fryca settled down to wait, tucking herself in a dim corner near the inn. Soon, others began to settle down as well, and the town grew silent as twilight cast a blanket upon the populace. When the stars spoke of midnight, she would begin.

This time around, we’ll be tackling culture, and how it relates to a fantasy race.

Choice #3: Culture – How much has the civil society in which the fantasy race lives dictated its behaviour and capabilities, as well as norms of action.

Art and High Society – Every culture, from the very earliest we humans can trace, has in some way had a form of art and high society. Originally, this was cave paintings and oral recitation of ancient tales, and has evolved from that all the way down to the mass media of today. But what’s important about art and high society is not the nature of its delivery, but more the norms that it engenders. For modern examples, the movie Avatar provoked common and wide ranging discussion, such that almost everyone in a given local had either seen it, or heard about it.

And that right there is what a race needs to have – certain subjects or stories that are so common everyone knows them, without ever having actually witnessed them. They are the mental furniture of a culture, be it that every knows a certain city is ‘The City’, or parables and fables that characters can mention or quote to one another.

When writing a fantasy race, these are the sayings and texts that are foreign to a reader’s understanding of the world, but treated as normal and every day within the culture of the setting. They have to be relatable enough the reader can acquire a knowledge of them quickly, but not something that shares more than a passing basis with the society the reader is from.

What they do for a reader is to make the setting seem alive, to hint that there are the myths and legends and every day knowledge that humans take for granted, without overwhelming the reader with so many of them that they become bored or bewildered.

Religion – Culture, as humanity has demonstrated time and again down the ages, is very often dictated by the strictures of the religion which a society practices. Most world religions prohibit the eating of certain types of animals, be it because the animals are holy or unclean. They also state what days are rest days, whether prayer is to be at dawn, high sun, or dusk, how one can be married, and a whole host of other restrictions and proscriptions.

These need to be equally apparent for the fantasy race being constructed. Perhaps they can’t go to war in high summer until they have completed their religious festivals (This is a problem the ancient Spartans dealt with). Perhaps the women of the culture can’t marry until they’ve killed someone in battle (Sarmatians).

In general, the approach that I use to creating religion for a fantasy race is to decide up two sets of items. What is the focus of the religion (a pantheon, spirits, the elements, a living being) and what are the strictures that the religion places upon those members of the race. In general, it is better to focus on four or five (the number can vary, obviously) strictures that distinctly impact the way the race behaves, rather than to have too many. It is better to introduce a reader to a simple system, and let his imagination make it complex, rather than to introduce him to a complex system, and let him become frustrated.

The form of the religion is somewhat less important, although generally it will dictate the nature of the religions hierarchy, and the amount of power that hierarchy wields. The more that priests and shamans are needed to communicate to the holy powers, the more money and strength will be concentrated inside the religious bureaucracy.

I hope this has been helpful to you in creating new races for your fantasy fiction. Next time, we’ll look at the Capabilities of fantasy races.

Instead of being allowed to bring relief to those in need, Ellgis and Fryca are attacked by the Knights of the Broken Wheel, a far-reaching organization born in reaction to devastation caused by magic. Seeing any attempt by man to use forces beyond their own limbs as an assault on the sanctity of life, the Knights have dedicated themselves to purging magic and technology from the world.

Baron Inswán has a more prosaic problem – his nearest neighbour wants his barony. Unfortunately, his nearest neighbour is both bigger and stronger than Inswán is. And so he is forced to use every ounce of his skill and fighting ability to defend his lands. But whether he succeeds or fails, he at all costs will save his people.

Splintered Lands Volume One is for sale now, on Kindle and Nook.

Kobo and other platforms will arrive shortly.

The skiff bumped land, and Ellgis crept from it to peer through the tangled brush. Little stood of the hamlet now, with stumps showing where the huts had once perched. The stench of the swamp clawed at his nostrils, but underneath it he caught decay. Some of the inhabitants had not fled the Knights in time.

A tap on his arm spun him round, but it was only Fryca, come to see what had happened. They watched as birds fluttered across the village, and vermin crawled forth from the wreckage with strange prizes in their teeth.

Satisfied the ruins were empty, the inventors clambered from their hiding place. A short stroll brought them to the door of their hut, which stood erect and undamaged, tucked away in a dell some distance from the ruined homes.

Ellgis glanced about, and waved Fryca back. She snorted, and strode into the building only to come out fuming moments later. “They took everything! Everything!”

“They took it? They didn’t burn it this time?”

She gestured irritably at the doorway, and Ellgis stepped inside. The hut was empty, cleaned of anything remotely mechanical. Only the beds remained, those and the small table and chair at which both had worked for hours upon hours.

Ellgis slumped to the ground. “I had hoped…” His head sunk into his hands.

“We knew the Knights would destroy what we built. At least we have our notes, and plenty of supplies.”

“Supplies? Bah! Nothing ever works right in this swamp. The wood’s too wet, it won’t burn, it’s weak, cords rot and fail, and we can barely perform a third of the experiments we can think up. We should be in another kingdom.”

“You mean one where we can’t hide from the Wheelies? Where we end up hanging? No thanks Ellgis, I’ll take the swamp.”

Clank.

“Go!” Fryca ran for the door, tumbling at the last moment as a mace swung through the air. She rolled to her feet and sprinted toward the skiff. A glance back showed Ellgis on the ground, bleeding slowly. He hadn’t ducked the weapon.

Knights pounded after her, but in their armour they were nowhere near as fleet of foot as she, and she pushed the skiff into the swamp with several feet to spare. A spear sailed past and ploughed into the front of the boat, but she was away, pulling strongly at the oars.

Fryca’s last image of Ellgis was of him bound over a horse, being led away by the Knights of the Broken Wheel. She’d have to see if she could rescue him, the poor fool.

Current totals for my novel writing is ~475,000 words of first draft material, and only eighteen chapters in use. I guess they just annoy me somehow.

Click on the image for a larger look at it.

  Ellgis cursed long and loud as the bucket of stones was hoisted into the air, his back bent into a curve from the strain. Fryca watched anxiously, slowly paying out a guide rope that kept the counterweight hidden from the path.

The hourglass sitting on a rock nearby had almost run dry by the time they finally got the weight into position. Pinning it with a release catch, they fled. If the ropes broke or the traps didn’t catch the Knights of the Broken Wheel, so be it.

At their home outside the village, Ellgis stuffed books and scraps of paper into a bag. Experiments he could rebuild if he had his notes, but without the notes? All his work was lost. Fryca grabbed food and tools. As they exited their house, a massive thump echoed through the swamp, followed by shouts and curses.

Maybe the trap had caught the Knights, maybe not. The two experimenters ran anyway, rowing a small skiff deep into the bog, following a twisting path they had marked out when they first came to the village. It was different now, for the swamp changed like a living thing, but they had left signs amongst the old trees, and enough remained that they were able to find their way to a mound rising out of the murky water.

On top was a simple hut, one room, nothing more, but it had enough supplies within that they could stay for a time. The waters about the camp had fruitful fishing, proven during one of their past sojourns. This was not the first village they had been forced to flee from, nor would it be the last. The Knights of the Broken Wheel were persistent in hunting down those accused of heresy, accused of bringing back the old ways that had shattered the world and brought down a plague upon the living.

No matter that sorcery had been responsible, and not knowledge. The Knights discriminated not at all between magic and technology, and so Ellgis and Fryca moved from hamlet to hamlet, staying only long enough to be spotted by some Wheelie sympathizer and forced to flee.

That had happened once again, and if any of the Knights had survived, the village would be put to the torch. Or more likely hacked apart with axes, for nothing burned well in the swamp.

The two technologists waited a week in their refuge, and only after the glass had turned over for the eighth day did they venture back towards the village and their traps.

With a twang, the rope snapped, and Fryca cursed. “The bloody thing broke again.”

Ellgis patted her on the shoulder. “We’ll have it mended soon enough.”

“We’ve got Knights of the Broken Wheel breathing down our necks. We don’t have time for soon enough.”

“We’ll flee again if we have to.”

“I don’t want to flee again. I want this buggered contraption to kill them all.”

Ellgis glanced over the path, where dead logs, hidden trips, and pressured stones covered the ground. If the devices worked, they were supposed to fire spears, swing logs across the causeway, and drop mud on those knocked into the water. He was sure the Knights of the Broken Wheel had never seen anything like it. And the Knights still wouldn’t if he and Fryca didn’t get the counterweight working. The technologists had attached it three times, but each time the ropes had failed.

They’d used stronger weaves and more of them, but still the massive basket of stones tore away. If this contraption didn’t work, the technologists would have to flee deeper into the swamp. Which meant losing all of their inventions.

To Ellgis, the machines were more important than the village where they lived. People could be replaced. Years of experiments could not. Fryca felt the same way, and so the two of them were here, trying to fix that blasted basket. If they saved the villagers as a result, well and good.

The technologists fumbled in the darkness for some time, resulting in failure after failure, until Fryca threw her lantern into the swamp and stormed off. Ellgis retrieved it before following.

The next morning they found the basket of stones had sunk into the bog. By the time they were ready to lift it into the air again, the Knights of the Broken Wheel had arrived at the edge of the swamp.

Thus there was no hardships aside from the regular ones of military life for the Kindred as they passed onwards towards the Coastal Kingdoms. Indeed, compared to their prior existence it was one of some relaxation. There was food and drink, enough shelter to stay dry, and where once their discipline had been shoddy, it was now much better. Although given their small numbers, Nietan spent most of their training time on the art of skirmishing, of engaging from the flanks and retreating. They were too small for all but the most necessary of line warfare.

Especially after losing some men while stationed in Ceaster. Nietan had been forced to eject the worst troublemakers, including a bonded pair that would not stop arguing about the Kindred being allied with another mercenary company. The unbonded men could be replaced easily enough, most likely, but replacing a pair-bond was going to take time. And had upset both the wolven and the humans, but there had been little choice, so great was the level of disruption.

He refused to recognize what was good for Kindred.

“True, but to eject someone from his home and family hurt. He’d been a brother for thirty years.”

And in all that time, never learned wisdom or the ways of the pack. Whatever bitch whelped his wolven needs lessons in motherhood.

“Whoever it was is dead, Ær.”

Ær turned his muzzle to stare at the horizon for a moment. Why do you pair bond with us? Barring you dying in battle, you’re going to outlive me. And the next wolven as well. Why do you bind yourself to us knowing you will bury our corpses?

“Because what we get in return makes the payment seem a paltry thing.”

Is it really though? Some never bond again.

Nietan sighed. He wasn’t qualified to speak on this matter. Ær was his first companion.

“You’ll have to ask the Beastmaster. He has to know., as much as any one person can.”

The man who can bond us all, but never himself. I wonder how much regret he feels over that.

“A great deal, I should think. But in some ways, he is bonded to every wolven in the Kindred.”

And watches them all die. Burying the unbonded with his own hands. You humans pay too great a price for our support.

“We made our choice Ær. You’re going to have to live with that.”

Irrational to the end.

“It’s the only way to get through life.”

Ær whuffed quietly, then curled up against Nietan as they waited for the main body of their forces to catch them up.

Chloddio: The second book of The Four Part Land arrives in April, and follows the exploits of the ex-safety engineer Chloddio as he joins the army, and then finds himself embroiled in subterfuge, revolution, and hidden societies. Around him swirl a cast of characters and soldiers based out of the city of Tri-Hauwcerton, together marking the beginning of the second trilogy set in The Four Part Land. And for those of you wondering what happened to Tarranau, don’t worry, he’ll return in Læccan Waters.

Wolven Kindred: A standalone ebook, Wolven Kindred follows Nietan, a human skirmisher and mercenary, and Ær, his bonded wolven companion, as they seek to rescue their failing mercenary group. Holy berserkers, undead priests, and howling barbarians become unlikely allies and implacable enemies as the Wolven Kindred engage in a desperate hunt for coin, and for their long forgotten honour. Wolven Kindred will appear in March.

Splintered Lands: Volume One: Yes, the first book of the long overdue Splintered Lands series will appear shortly, containing a trio of short stories entitled Into the Swamp, Kingdoms in Conflict, and A Baron’s Return. Together, they detail the arc of the southwestern lands, and the great swamp that dominates that tip of the continent. Lands rise and fall, struggling against the ever-present devastation of the Breaking. And yet somehow, there is hope, if distant and faded. Look for this ebook in April.

Ancient New: An anthology I am the editor of, Ancient New is a Deepwood Publishing book exploring the world of alternate history, of a Victorian Internet and an Aztec empire beyond the stars. Comprised of fifteen short stories written by rising stars from the fantasy and science fiction universe, it will capture the strange beauty of future technology, and the lost nobility of the past, and sweep them together into a tremendous mixture that delights and endears. Ancient New will appear at the end of March.

And if you’re curious what else is on my plate and underway, well, there is Læccan Waters, which sees the return of Tarranau as he heads north over the mountains beyond Tri-Hauwcerton, Splintered Lands: Volume Two, following the exploits of terrible thieves and long forgotten wizards, and an unannounced short project.

Finally, later this week, you should expect to see excerpts from the various stories start to appear, little teasers to whet the appetite before the tales go online.

They arrived at the edge of the docks to find them strangely empty, although there was one small boat beginning to row out into the harbour, and it was stuffed full of Áðexe.

Tarranau muttered, and made a slapping motion against the water, the others watching as a wave suddenly appeared out of nowhere and flipped the boat, dumping all the Áðexe over the side. Being excellent swimmers, once they had got their bearings they ignored the boat and continued towards the vessels in the harbour.

The watermage cursed. “Well, that was a bloody stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?”

“You had better fix it before Á?ðan finds out. He’s going to be very unhappy if we lose some of the boats.”

“No, he’ll just say something about life being interesting, then hiss a lot.”

“Well, there is that too.”

Tarranau waved them to silence, and then began skipping razored discs of ice across the water, slicing them in at head height. One after another, crimson stains began to bloom in the water, and with it the increasingly frantic motions of the sailors trying to reach their craft. But none ever did, although the last had been within touching distance of the bow line before Tarranau had been able to slay the creature.

As he turned his back on the sea, he could hear the fish biting and chewing at the corpses as they floated. Life, at its end.

“Sawwaed, what’s your nose smelling?” Bwyell had his helmet off and was sniffing the air.

“Blood, death, broken things. The usual after battle…” He paused. “And smoke. There’s smoke somewhere.”

Atyniadol looked at them both. “We’re in a town, why would the smell of cook fires be that strange in the morning?”

“I don’t think it’s a cooking fire.” Bwyell glanced up and down the docks, then began trotting off to his right.

The others followed, somewhat bemused by his antics. He was certainly convinced, wherever he was going.

After a few minutes of searching, Tarranau waved at Bwyell. “Are you sure there’s anything?”

“I know I smelt wood smoke back there, wood smoke with the tinge of varnish and the like. Not the kind you’d toss on a fire.”

“Well, there’s doesn’t seem to be any.”

Ceinder pointed to the farthest end of the docks, which they could now see. “Tarranau, Bwyell was right.”

Flames leapt from one of the seashore warehouses, and were quickly moving to engulf one of the others next along. Áðexe ran from the flames, but some of those running carried burning brands.

“Some bright officer is burning down the harbour before we can use it. Atyniadol, Sawwaed, can you stop them? Bwyell too. Ceinder and I will deal with the fires.”

Sawwaed nodded, and set off in a jangle of armour, the others close behind.

As the mages ran, Ceinder glanced over at her husband. “How are we going to put out a fire that’s already that big?”

“A lot of water and a lot of dust and earth. Unless you have a better idea.”

“I was hoping you did. Your intellect isn’t impressing me right now.”

“Well, it’s a little stressed out.”

“Why? It’s only a battle.”

The work of cutting through the forest went on unabated, day by slow day, as the army of Hálsiend dragged itself closer to the seashore and to Hádsw?pa, the small town from which Þracian’s assault had been launched. There was little in the way of entertainment, and at any one time perhaps a tenth of the army was engaged in hunting, foraging, and scouting. The humans and the airmages regularly lead those excursions, as their ability to pierce the trees with their magical sight allowed them unique advantages when hunting for game. As did their ability to bring down the game at a great distance. Still, it was dull, tiring work when it came down to it, and they would return to their tents at the end of a day to find they had moved but a mile or two, still in terrain that was beaten muddy by the passage of so many claws.

Tarranau was busy cleaning his armour, as best he could in the circumstances, when Ceinder came to sit by his side. They remained quiet for some time, until the watermage broke the silence.

“I still wonder about Ddif and Fyn. About whether I could have saved one of them, or both. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering, either. I think it’ll be one of those memories that just stays around, all through my life.” He paused, before continuing. “Have you ever noticed how our failures dog our steps, and our successes flit away on the wind? It’s like that damn incident at the mines. I killed miners, innocents, but I saved you, saved my friends. But I never remember that, I just remember the faces of those I killed, the aftermath of my actions.”

“Tarranau, if you’re going to turn into that mopey sot who nearly got murdered because he was too drunk to defend himself, I’m going to kick your ass from one end of the campground to the other.”

Despite his mood, the watermage chuckled. “No, no, I’m well beyond that. I hope, anyway. I just wish my successes were what came to the fore when I thought about something, rather than my failures. I have to live with the absence of my friends every day, knowing I can never see them again. I don’t want to dream about it as well.”

“Then don’t. You’re worrying about one of the things you can change. Why do you think Á?ðan is compulsively happy all the time? Because of his perspective on life, on his view that everything, no matter how trivial or dangerous, is a new adventure for him to explore. There’s always something over that horizon, and it’s rushing up to meet him. He’s looking to the future. You’re looking to the past. The past is dead and gone, immutable. You can’t unsay words, undo actions, so give them a rude gesture and turn towards the rising sun.”

“You know, you always have the right things to say to cheer me up.” Tarranau wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“Yes, I also remember having to tell you to marry me.”

“Hey now, I asked you.”

“After I’d given you the kind of hints even a toddler could understand.”

“The kind of hints that involved the words ‘I’m coming with you’. You didn’t really go for subtly, dear.”

“I didn’t want to have to wait the rest of my life.”

“I’m so glad you treasure my intellect.”

“Your intellect, yes. Your common sense wandered off when you were a small boy and never came back.”

“And yours didn’t? I at least have the excuse I was being forced to come over the mountains to Læccan. You volunteered for it.”

“I had my reasons. Even if most of them involved an oaf.”

“There you go with the flattery again.”

“If you like, I have a whole list stored away against those times I might need it.”

“I think I could do without you trying to sweet talk me any more, my dear.”

“Good, because I think there are other things to do aside from talk.” So saying, Ceinder pulled her husband to her feet and led him away.

I’ve just finished rereading all of the material I’ve got in place for my story, and I’m sort of hoping today is a really really long day. Like the rest of my life long. For some reason the nerves are quite bad with this whole picking a story back up thing. With luck, it’s just anticipation being a pain in the ass. Either way, we find out tomorrow.

***

Nietan glanced up at the banner fluttering overhead. Death before Dishonour. His company’s motto, supposedly. One they had long ago ignored. Dishonour had come in many forms, but mostly taking bribes and violating contracts. Honesty was a paltry thing to cast aside for money.

The Wolven Kindred had once been better than that. They had made kings, affrighted armies and shattered empires. But that was long ago, when the Kindred numbered five thousand or more. Now, they were down to a paltry two hundred, at best. A number that was only lightly bolstered by the sixty wolven still with the Kindred. Once, there had been one of those great predatory beasts for each brother-in-arms, but like the Kindred themselves, the wolven had diminished.

“At least I have mine.” Nietan ran his hand along the thick fur coat of Ær, the wolven who had fought by his side for more than sixteen years.

Ær glared up at him. You don’t have anything. I chose you just as much as you chose me.

Nietan chuckled as Ær’s thoughts rippled across his mind. Despite the outwardly bestial qualities, wolven were almost as bright as the humans they partnered, and often larger. Certainly, when both human and wolven were covered in the banded scale armour that had long been their hallmark, most opponents would say they feared the wolven more.

Would have. These days the Kindred had such a poor reputation that they were only paid to fight bandits. Or by the desperate.

The skirmisher wandered through the Kindred’s camp, Ær at his side. Around him was a desultory mess of tents, camp-fires, and refuse heaps, the layout haphazard and crowded. What little discipline there was in the camp could be seen on the edges, where the wolven were left to rest. There, the Beastmaster had organized the company’s stores, and the little pens that housed the wolven.

The men that sat in front of the tents stank, of drink, of filth, of encrusted blood. They had fought that morning, driving raiders away from a village at the behest of the local noble. For once, they had won with no casualties, although that had been more to do with the poor quality of the bandits than any skill on the part of the Kindred.

Yet victory had not brought peace, but was instead a reminder of the legendary history of the company, and how it had fallen. And so the brothers drank, and gambled, and played idle games doing whatever they could to dull their minds. Many of the soldiers simply flopped about, trying to sleep.

Despite his status as one of the older heads in the camp, Nietan did not remember the beginning of the fall. That had happened long before he had joined the Kindred, although in the years since he had seen further degradation and despair. The Packmaster of that time had harboured grand thoughts of revitalizing the Kindred, of growing the ranks and making of them once more a force, but he had bet poorly on the victor in a war, and the Kindred had been broken on a battlefield, remade, and broken again. When the remnants had fled, and reformed afterwards, they had numbered perhaps four hundred. In the decade since, they had shrunk to their present number, through death, desertion, and all manner of leave-taking.

Nietan yelped as teeth closed around his palm. If you keep this up, I’m going to wet your bed in terror. Ær’s eyes held a twinkle, but one with too much depth to be called happy.

“What do we do, then?”

Ær shrugged. Your race plans ahead. Ours does not.

Nietan knew that to be an out and out lie, at least as far as Ær was concerned, but he let it slide, as he had ever since they had been pair-bonded almost two decades ago. Although at the moment it appeared that neither race planned ahead, for now that the bandits were defeated, and pay received from a grateful earl, the Kindred had no plans, no road ahead.

Eventually, one of the packs of wolven would decide to strike out in a direction. Their companions would follow closely. Other humans would then bestir themselves to march after friends, and thus would the camp slowly disintegrate and stream in a certain direction. But it would be uncertain, loose, and poorly organized, and one or two would wander off along the way, or decide not to bother.

But that was all some days in the future. Until then, the Wolven Kindred, kingmakers, would sleep in their own filth and vomit.