Pushing Past 50K

Dang if it isn't happening.

For a couple of reasons - sickness and family being two, the holidays being the third - NaNoWriMo turned out to be a wash for me, but it did encourage me to write, which is a Good Thing.  I mananged to just about double my word count this month, which is a cause for rejoicing.

So, with that - here's another snippet for you, discussing long life, memory, and personality.

---

The walked along the edge of the tarmac towards the main building, Mike leading the way with she and Sophie trailing along on either side.  She couldn’t help but notice that spite of his even words, Mike seemed annoyed.

“Is he always like this?” she asked.

“Coy?”  Mike shrugged. “Yeah.  Pretty much.  He’s…” he trailed off for a second, thinking.  “Not flighty.  That’s not the right word.  Easily distracted?”  He shrugged again.  “Don’t know how to describe it.  Sometimes he just gets an idea in his head, and he goes after it.”

“Sounds like ADD,” said Sophie.

“Maybe,” said Mike.  “That’s just he way he is.”

She frowned, trying to recall… “You said something like that at the diner.  Has he always been like this?”

Mike stopped walking, and she and Sophie stopped as well.  He gave her a long look, considering, before he spoke.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly.  “I can’t remember.”

“How…” she stopped, shook her head.  “What do you mean?  I got the impression that you two have been friends for forever.”  Mike raised his eyebrows, and for some reason, she found herself blushing.  “For a long time, I mean,” she said.

“I know Coy’s talked doing stuff out in California with you during the gold rush days,” said Sophie. She cocked her head inquisitively as she spoke.  “I thought y’all went back even further than that.”

Mike sighed.  “We do,” he said.  “Weren’t aways friends, but we knew each other.  Thing is… Me and Coy, and folks like us.  The long-lived ones.”

“The Methuselahs,” she said.

“Yeah.  See, when it happens, you… you don’t always know right away.  Sometimes you do.  Take Alexi.  He knew right away that he had run into something that changed him.  It’s not always like that.  It wasn’t that way for me, at least.  Not for Coy, either, from what I gather.”  He jammed his hands in pockets, and looked down at his feet.

“You just kind of… live longer, at first.  I just thought I was in good shape when I was younger.”  He glanced at her and gave her a wry smile.  “Young men are stupid.”

“Amen,” said Sophie, emphatically.  Amy chuckled, and Mike’s mouth quirked up in a small smile.

“Guilty as charged. Of course I was stronger, of course I healed faster than most people, but when you’re young, you just figure that you’re lucky that way.”

He pursed his lips and looked off into the distance.  “Then you start getting older,” he said quietly. “Folks tell you that you’re aging really well, you don’t look a day over thirty.  That sort of thing.  You just figure you’re in really good shape, really lucky… then the people around you start dying.”

She glanced at Sophie.  The sasquatch shook her head slightly, and said gently, “That must have been hard.”

Mike snorted.  “A bit.  That’s when you get a clue that there’s something different about you.  You’re sixty, seventy years old, and you still feel like you did when you were twenty-five.  Maybe the people around you start noticing, start giving you odd looks… so you move, maybe.  Pull up, find someplace new to settle down.”

“Then, around the time you’re hitting the century mark, you realize that you can’t recall some things.”  He half turned to look at her.  “What your dad did for a living.  What the color of your sister’s favorite dress was.”  As he spoke, he seemed to shrink into himself.  “Your mother’s name.”

She opened her mouth, decided that there was nothing she could really say to that, and chose to remain silent.  In that brief glance from him, she had seem the same look in his eyes that her Dad did when he was remembering Mom.  The pain of loss.

Mike was silent for a second, then sighed and straightened up, taking his hands out of his pockets. “Coy’s got some thoughts about it, and from what I can tell, it makes sense,” he said in a more normal tone of voice.  “We live a long time, but we’re still human.  Only so much space up here,” he tapped his head, “and it eventually gets filled up.  So whatever it was that you haven’t thought about in a long while starts getting dumped out, so you can put new memories in those buckets.”

“That… that sounds a lot like Alzheimers,” said Sophie.

Mike nodded at her.  “Yeah.  I think that’s the way it works for most people, actually.  It’s just more noticeable with us.”

“So… what?” asked Sophie.  “You just forget things?”

He grimaced and started walking again.  “As time goes by, yeah.  You get used to it, eventually.  You compensate.  Coy and I both keep detailed journals, for instance.  It helps fix things in your memory longer - you remember doing something, then you remember writing about it, then you remember reading about it.  Even with that, though, you find you can go back maybe forty years or so before things start getting fuzzy.  Past seventy, and it gets really sketchy; you recall the big things, but little stuff is pretty much gone.  Past a hundred, and, well,” he spread his hands, “that’s why we keep journals.”

“So you don’t know why Coy’s the way he is,” she said, slowly.  Mike looked at her and gave a tired little chuckle.

“Know why he’s the way he is?  M’am, I couldn’t tell you why I’m the way I am.”  He shook his head again.  “I’ve forgotten the things that shaped me, made me who I am today.  I couldn’t tell you why I like horses, why doing things right and proper is important to me.  I just know that that’s the way I am.”

“Isn’t that true for all of us, though?” said Sophie thoughtfully.  “One way or another?”

“Might be some truth in that, Miss Sophie.”

They walked for a few seconds in silence before she put her hand out and touched Mike’s shoulder.  He stopped and turned his head to look at her questioningly.

“That’s why you’re, I don’t know.  Forgiving?  Willing to give Alexi some slack,” she said, as she dropped her hand.

“Not sure what you mean.”

She frowned, trying to put the thought in order.  “Empathy.  Something… happened to him, but he can’t remember it.  It changed him, though.  And now he’s got to deal with being who he is, even if he doesn’t remember how he became that person.  Kind of the way you and Coy have to, just on a smaller scale.”

“Huh,” said Mike.  “I don’t think I would have ever put it that way.”  He frowned, then nodded.  “Probably pretty close to the truth, though.  Mind you,” he continued, “it doesn’t mean I like him.  He did break my nose, if you recall.”

She raised her eyebrows.  “Oh, believe me.  I remember that.  I’ve got my own bone to pick with him.”  Her leg was still sore from the pummeling Alexi had delivered the night of the election.

“Still,” rumbled Sophie, “Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend.”  Mike looked at Sophie quizzically, then back at her as she chuckled.

“If not, you can kill him without hate — and quickly,” she said, finishing the quote.  “Heinlein,” she said to Mike by way of explanation.

“Hm.  Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, then,” said Mike.  “And let’s get something to eat.  I’m starving.”

NaNo NaNo

Since I've got a novel in flight, as it were, I decided to officially participate in NaNoWriMo this year.  If you're so inclined, you can find me registered here.

At the start of NaNo this year, I had about 30k words written.  I figured participating in NaNo would be a great way to push myself to bang out another 50k words, which should (hopefully) get me close to something that might resemble a finished story.

First week went really well.  I was more or less on track, and ended up about 1k words short of my goal.  Not to bad, considering that means I'd written 10k words (woohoo!) even in the face of having to take a couple of nights off for various activities, including our annual bonfire.

Then, of course, the election hit.  If you've read my blog for any amount of time, you can probably guess that following the election coverage and the aftermath was a bit of a time sink for me.

Just as that started to settle down, I got hit with a head cold, which pretty much left me wishing I could just sleep for 48 hours.  I actually gave that a pretty good shot over the weekend.

None of that was especially conducive to the idea of "butt in seat, writing".

So as of this morning, I'm currently sitting at 15k words worth of progress on my NaNo goals, which is around 8k short of where I want to be.  Not bad, but I can do better.

One thing that I've learned from participating in NaNo this year: writing and editing have to be separate activities for me.  When I started, I was researching and editing as I went, which meant that I was managing to write about 500 words/hour.  Overall, they were pretty good words.  Nice.  Polished.  They pretty much said what I wanted to say.

For NaNo, I've had to move to just writing - I pay attention to my use of the backspace key, and unless it's to correct a word or a misspelling, I force myself to skip it.

Sentence seems a bit awkward?  Ignore it - I grok what the meaning was, I'll clean it up later.

Need to know what type of four passenger plane a private pilot might own and fly?  Just make a note, come back and fill in the details later.

Can't quite figure out how to join these two passages?  Eh.  Make a note of that, forge onward.

Stalled wondering where this scene or conversation will go?  Switch over to something else.  Write a snippet that may or may not fit in elsewhere.

Whatever happens, just keep writing.

Just by making that effort, I've managed to come close to doubling my output - I can manage about 1k words per hour.  It's difficult to sustain that pace - I can do 2-3 hours before I need to take a break and recharge - but it has definitely been worth it.  My prose isn't as complete or as polished as I'd like, but the important thing is that the story is progressing.  I can see things moving,  What has been living solely in my head for the past year is now making it on to the page, and even if it isn't as nice as I want to eventually make it, it's there.

That's a good feeling.

What's even better, I think, is that getting my editing brain out of the way is helping me to realize things about my characters that I didn't even know were there.  My writing brain says, "say this", my hands go tappity-tap-tap, and I think, "Where did that come from?  I mean, it makes sense..." and now I have a reason why Coy's a flirt, why Mike is willing to give Alexi the benefit of the doubt, why Amy is unwilling to just pack up and go home instead of going on a wild goose chase down to North Carolina with a couple of folks she just met.

Long story short: NaNo is helping me, not just in terms of discipline in time spent writing, but in learning how to write in a way that I've not ever really tried.  And I'm kind of excited about that!

Prospero and Cara Have a Chat

Goal: 11,670 words.

Achieved: 4,235 words.

A conversation that takes place later on in the story, where we learn a little more about magic, the Empire, and the Legion.

---

Prospero pursed his lips and thought for a moment.  “Say you show some inclination, some talent, when you’re young.  There are tests for that, you know.  Anyplace that isn’t a complete backwater has its administrators, its priests, its guards.  They’re trained to look for certain things.”

Cara nodded.  “That’s how I ended up in the Empire school.  Padre Sanda said he thought I would do well there, and that if I passed the entrance exam, they would teach me and give me a job.”  She paused for a moment, looking off into the distance, then shook her head.  “My parents were excited for me.  It wasn’t until later that I realized what kind of job it would be.”

“A lifetime under examination.  Yes.”  Prospero looked down, and idly scratched lines in the dirt with the stick.  “The Empire tolerates magic, and even encourage it.  It will use it - but will not trust it.  Or those who practice it.  Not entirely, at any rate.”  He stopped for a second, and tapped his stick.  “They don’t worry quite so much if you’re a ayloshea - a world magi.  That type of magic is tied to a particular part of the Real.  So long as those folks get Empire training, and take work that’s approved, they’re fine.”

He bent over and wiped away his scratchings.  “If you’ve got a certain kind of talent, though… that’s scary.  That’s a problem.  If you can change the Real.  If you can enter the Far Lands and change it instead of letting it change you.  If you can make things that are not be, and things that are be not…”

“If you’re a lamoshea,” she whispered. 

“If you’re a magi.”  He nodded.  “Then, it’s a different school.  It’s education, sure.  But it’s also magical training, and it’s military training, and it’s hard training, because you will be going into the Legion.”  He hesitated for a moment.  “Your class at the Empire school.  How many graduated?”

She snorted.  “We all did.  Eventually.  Some of us did it on time, some of us took longer.  The worse ones got the lousy postings out of school.  I heard Maga Krstol got sent to some Heaven-forsaken hinterland where they needed help learning how to raise goats.”

Prospero gave her a slight smile.  “There were a dozen of us who made it.  Out of four times as many that started.”

She frowned.  “What happened to the rest?”

He looked at her.  “Hard training.”  When she still looked puzzled, he sighed.  “We lost some as part of Legion exercises, but most didn’t make it through the advanced magi training.  When you push against Creation, and try to change it… if you don’t know what you’re doing, it can push back.  Hard.”  He looked her in the eyes.  “And the only way to learn how, is to learn by doing.  You push, and you’re careful, and you pray to God that you do it right, so that you don’t end up… gone.  Vanished.”  He looked up, stared into the night.  “That happened once.  Two set themselves on fire.  One drowned himself on dry land.  One…”  He shuddered slightly, looked at Cara.  Her mouth was open, as if to speak, but she said nothing.

“He pushed too hard.  Creation pushed back.”  He shrugged.  “Hard training.”

He shook his head, looked at her, and continued.  “Sometimes, though, someone doesn’t get identified early on.  Maybe there’s nobody around them that knows what to look for.  Maybe there’s somebody, but they’re just bad at that part their job.  If they’re a witch or a warlock, they might end up not ever knowing.  They just… have a particular things that work better for them.  Tending horses.  A green thumb.  They never get lost.”

She nodded.  “Right.  Folks with a knack.  The Empire doesn’t really even care about them, do they?  They’re too old.  They didn’t stretch their skills when they were younger, so when they get older, they can do one thing. Sometimes.”

He pursed his lips, nodded.  “It happens that way with magi, too.  Or with those who would have been magi, if they were trained when they were young.  Only… their knacks tend to be stranger.  More worrisome.  More dangerous to themselves, and the ones around them.”

“Scary”, she said, eyes wide.

“Yes.  When the Empire finds those types, they get conscripted, if they can be of service.  Or killed, if they can’t.”  He chuckled briefly.  “It’s a life sentence, either way.”

She put her hand to her mouth. “That’s…”

One corner of Prospero’s mouth twisted into the shadow of a smile.  “A bit morbid?  Perhaps.  You’ll hear more of it.  There’s not a Legionaire alive who doesn’t like to laugh at death, loudly and often.”

He gestured at where the men were setting up camp.  “I went through the Legion magi school.  These men… well, they got conscripted.”  He nodded as he saw the realization wash over her.

“They all have certain talents”, said Prospero.  “The Twins… they’re good at finding ways through things.  A forest, a city.  Put a door or a lock in their way, and if there’s a way around it, they’ll find it.  It doesn’t even really matter if it’s something they want to open.  It’s enough that it’s just there.”

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then spoke. “Those don’t sound too scary.”

Prospero raised his eyebrows.  “Doesn’t it?  If you think about it a bit, there are a lot of places that we try to keep the wrong people out of.  Banks.  Vaults.  Buildings.  The Far Lands.  Government offices.  Legion posts.”  His brows furrowed.  “More places than you’d think, at first.  All of them secured for good reasons.”  He shrugged.  “All of which might as well be sitting out in the open if those those two living incarnations of chaos wander by and decide they’d like to take a peek.”

Cara sat back, looking thoughtful.  “Huh.  Yes.  I think I see what you mean.”

He nodded.  “Exactly.  Bear and Valish are talented in their own ways as well.  Ways that make them useful to the Empire.  Thankfully, they’re both good men, and loyal.  They were more than willing to join, especially knowing that they would be able to serve the Empress.”  He smiled.  “They’re all good men, in that regard.”

Cara hesitated for a moment, then said, “And… First?  Kellan?  He has a talent, as well?”

Prospero was silent for a moment.

One Chapter Down...

Goal: 10,000 words.

Achieved: 3,160 words.

Though I might try to bang out another small scene or two later tonight.

---

“We’ll get him seen to, First.  We might as well bunk you all in the infirmary for now, unless you will need more permanent quarters…?” Adem said, cocking his head.

Kellan knew the officer was fishing for information.  “I expect the infirmary will be fine,” he replied.  “Valish can get seen to, we’ll roll the Twins into bed, and as soon as everyone is back in shape, well.  We’ll be moving on.”

As he spoke, Bear and the Twins moved across the shimmer of the gate, and emerged into the courtyard.  Daleb and Kosheb stopped mid-song and gasped at the change in temperature, and shook themselves like a pair of wet dogs coming in from the rain.  Bear grunted, and gently nudged them off to the left.

“Here, now, ala-ala. Off it is, to sit,” he said, nudging them with his shield.  Now that they were closer, Adem could see that their broad faces were flushed, their shocks of brown hair matted with sweat.  Brothers, he thought.  Relatives, at least.  Each had the same broad lips and flattened nose, set under wide, bloodshot brown eyes.  As he watched, their mouths opened and closed, and the one to his right gulped.

“Don’ feel good, Ber,” he said.  “Spinin!”

Bear placed an oversized hand on his shoulder, and gently turned him to the left.  “Which is why it is off with you, to sit,” he rumbled.  “The both of you, now, it is.  To sit, and to be waiting.  The Captain comes.”

“Ah, ah!” said the one on the left as leaned on his companion and they shuffled off.  “The Cap’n comin’!  Ber, you tell the Cap’n we did good, right?”  He patted at the arm Bear was using to steer him.  “You know we did good, right, Ber?”

Now clear of the gate, Bear lowered the two gently to the ground.  “The Captain is knowing you did good,” he said in a slow, even voice.  “I will be reminding him, for the sake of you.”  As he spoke, the two leaned on each other, nodding once, twice before their heads sunk to their chests and they began to snore softly.

Bear turned to Adem and Kellan, came to attention, and saluted.  Kellan returned the salute, and motioned to the Twins.  “At ease, Bear.  Have a seat and keep those two from falling over.”  He gestured at Adem. “Centurion Adem has said we’ll be bunking down in the infirmary, so you’ll be able to keep an eye on these two while they sleep it off.”

Bear nodded and slowly lowered himself next to the Twins.  As Kellan finished speaking, an older man in a plain set of brown cotton pants and a matching shirt strode over to meet them. He carried a large leather valise in his left hand. His hair was more grey than black, and cut short, as was his beard.  Bright eyes adorned with crow’s feet moved between the men and the gate, taking in the scene.

Adem nodded at him.  “Magi Dell.  Thank you for being prompt.”  He gestured at the standing stones, just as the last two men were approaching.  “Here come the last two.  Once they’re through and their Captain confirms all present and accounted for, close it.”

Dell nodded.  “Yes, sir.  The Commander has asked me to let you know that he will see their CO in two hours.  Said that should be enough time for them to get settled, get something to eat, and get cleaned up.”  He turned to the gate and stepped off to the side, the put down his valise.  As he opened it and began withdrawing various items, the last two men stepped through the gate.

Both Adem and Kellan came to attention and saluted.  “Captain,” said Adem.  “Welcome to Fregyr.”

The redhead in denim nodded, and returned the salute.  “At ease,” he said, “and thank you.”  His voice was a pleasant baritone, though touched with weariness. “Valish, go give Bear a hand with the twins.  First, report.”  Valish nodded, and limped over towards his fellows.

“Sir.  All present and accounted for.  The Twins have already fallen asleep, and Bear is looking out for them.  Centurion Adem has offered us room to bunk down in the infirmary.  Commanding officer will meet with you in two hours.”

“Good,” said the Captain.  “Centurion... Adem?”

“Yes, sir?”

“All present and accounted for.  Though you have ears, you already knew that.”  He gestured behind him.  “The gate can be closed at your convenience.  I wouldn’t recommend keeping it open any longer than you have to.”

“Magi Dell,” said Adem.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

Dell nodded.  “If you would move out of the way, then…” he said.  As they stepped off to join the other men, he began muttering in a sing-song voice, gesturing at the gate.

Prospero motioned to Bear, who rose.  “First, lend a hand with the the principes.  Centurion, if you can show us to the infirmary, a bed and a meal sounds good.”  He paused, and suddenly yawned.  “No, I lie.  A bed and a meal sounds wonderful.”

Fires at Midnight

Busy day today - work, contractor putting in underground downspouts, church, then what may be the last campfire of the year as a date night with the lovely Mrs. Robb.

All of which is to say... No update on the Sweepers today; which puts me at negative 3600 words.  Tomorrow is hapkido, which makes for a late night... So, by Friday, I will owe about 7200 words.

Man. "Butt in the seat and writing" is hard.

Still... There is a story to tell, and a world to explore.  I want to finish up the first chapter, at least.  Introduce you to the Twins, Bear, Valish, and the Captain.  After that, I might skip around a bit.  There are some scenes from later in the story rattling around in my head that I want to get down that develop the characters a bit and explain the worlds the Sweepers inhabit.  The connecting bits will get filled in later, as time allows.

Wait... What Time Is It?

Ten thirty already?  Sheesh.  You get what you get, tonight.

Goal: 5k words.

Achieved: 2300 words.  (Well, actually, 3000, but the first 700 don't count.)

---

“Jens.”  Adem motioned for his aide, who placed his firing rod in the brazier and trotted over.  “Find Magi Dell.  He should be with the commander.  Let him know that the gate closing will happen immediately, and he should attend.”  Jens saluted, and trotted off towards the main entry to the courtyard.

“First Mate Orelley - fall out, but remain with me.”  At those words, Kellan sighed and relaxed slightly.  He turned to face the gate, peering into it along with the centurion.

“Ah, there we go,” he said after a moment.  “I can hear them.”

Adem cocked his head, listening.  There was a distant sound from the gate, almost imperceptible.  As it grew, he could make out the tune of a Legion cadence.  The words, though, eluded him, until he was able to make out a group of figures stumbling through the heat shimmer of the gate.

Adem frowned slightly.  “That is not a cadence I recognize, First,” he commented.  “Was that something about a hedgehog?”

Kellan grimaced.  “Yes, sir.  That would be the Twins.  Principes Daleb and Kosheb.”  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “About three days ago, we ran into a small shedeem hunting part in the Far Lands.  They were friendly enough, but claimed that we had disrupted their hunt with our, um, ‘foul stench’, and issued a challenge.  I think they were hoping we would back down and pay a ransom.  The Captain took the challenge, and the Twins went up against their hunt leader in a, um.  Contest.”  He sighed.  “A drinking contest.”

Adem blinked.  “Seriously?  First, you are not pulling my leg?”

Kellan grinned.  “We cheated, of course.  They expect it, after all - it’s the only way they get a good contest.  Plus, the Captain always has a trick or two up his sleeve.  Stuffed the Twins to the gills with something foul that soaked up most of the alcohol.  Even with that, two on one, it was a close thing.”  He sighed.  “As soon as the hunt leader passed out, we left in a hurry.  So sorry, got to be off.  They were impressed enough that they let us go without protesting.”

“Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “most of them were already so drunk they couldn’t stand, so it wasn’t much of a daring escape.”

“Those two are going to be hurting once they get through the gate and all that arukh drink hits them at once,” Adem pointed out.  “Should we send for a physician?”

Kellan waved his hand.  “No, no.  Bear checked ‘em out, said they’ll be fine.  Though with any luck, they’ll just pass out once they get here.  It looks like Bear is herding them in the right direction, at least.”

They could make out five figures approaching through the gate now.  Two were out in front, dressed as Kellan in Legion leathers.  They were staggering and singing at the top of their lungs, obviously trying to march together, and just as obviously failing.  Behind them came a mountain of a man, carrying an oversized scutum.  His dark skin was topped by a shock of white hair and a disapproving fown.  As they marched, he used his shield to prod the two in front of him, or corral them so that they continued to move in a straight line.

Just behind him were two more.  A short, broad fellow with red hair and a red beard trimmed close walked slowly.  Unlike the others, he was wearing a denim shirt and pants, with a scout’s vest as an overgarment.  The final man was slightly taller, and carried the only weapon that Adem could see, a short bow slung over his shoulder.  He was leaning on the redhead, limping slightly.

Kellan muttered something under his breath, and turned to Adem.  “My apologies, sir.  A physician might be called for.  Valish twisted his ankle yesterday.  Nothing serious, but once they’re through, I know the Captain will want it seen to.”

Take Two

It was a cool fall afternoon, but the air was still in the courtyard of Fregyr Keep.  Soldiers moved purposefully across the hard cobblestones of the court, their boots occasionally making a dull thud as they trod on the iron spikes driven between the stones.  Their actions were tense and purposeful as each man sought out his station.  Mixed cohorts of archers and musketeers filed onto the battlements surrounding the yard.  Men checked each other’s armor and equipment, making sure that chain hauberks were settled properly.  Junior centurions kept a watchful eye on the proceedings, barking out the occasional order or stepping in to correct those problems that inevitably reared their heads when you tried to get ten score military men to perform a complex evolution.  Senior cannoneers argued with each other, gesturing expansively as they directed their loaders to make minute adjustments to the artillery pieces they serviced.

All attention was focused inward, on the standing stones at the center of the courtyard.  Stones that normally stood silent, but now seemed to shimmer slightly, as if they were trying to hide behind a heat mirage.

Stones that had woken up.  Or been awakened.

At one end of the courtyard, senior centurion Aras Adem stood silently by one of the larger cannons, counting time silently as the bustle of activity wound down and men settled into their final positions.  His ades, legionnaires Jens and Varys, stood by, busy stoking the charcoal brazier that held their firing rods.  One by one, senior centurions strode purposefully over to Centurion Adem to report their men ready.

As the last centurion reported his men in position, Adem dismissed him, he grunted.

“Three minutes.  Not bad.  Not good, either.”  He turned to check his men, saw that they already had their firing rods ready at hand.  “Remind me to order a drill again next week.  We should be able to manage this in two.”

“Aye, sir,” said Jens.  “Still have a minute, though.  Takes at least four for something to make it through from the Far Lands.”

Adem frowned.  “That we know of.  One of the Mazi might make it faster.  We don’t know.”  He turned and stared at the standing stones for a moment before muttering under his breath, “And I hope we never find out.”  Adem had studied Legion history as he moved through the ranks.He knew that the damage that a true Mazikeen could do to the Real was immense.  Even on Abshya itself, heart of the Empire.  Of course, there, the great Gate to the Far Lands was not hidden away inside a keep like almost every other standing stones.  Instead, it was in the middle of an immense plain.  Ringed by bunkers bristling with coherent energy weapons, railguns, and soul cannon, the Empress had stated flatly that any adrukh who so much as stepped foot on her world would be exterminated in the Real.

So far, at least, that assertion had not been tested.

From the battlements behind him, a horn sounded, followed by a cry.  “Movement in the gate!”

Adem stepped forward, drew and checked his flintlock pistol in his left hand.  “COHORT, ATTENTION!” he bellowed.  With a clatter, every man in the courtyard came to attention.  After a moment of silence, Adem’s voice voice rang off the close walls of the courtyard.  “COHORT, ATTEND THE GATE!!  Observers, report!”

Above him, a young scout with a spyglass peered over the battlements at the standing stones.  As he adjusted his glass, he called out his reports.

“One figure, sir.  Man, or at least it looks like a man.  I can… wait… yes.  Wearing legion colors.  Not moving too quickly.  Looks tired.”

At the mention of colors, Adem could feel a infinitesimal reduction in the tension of the men arrayed around him.  Almost as if the cohort had - as one man - released a held breath.  A lone figure was good.  Every man there knew that Legion protocol called for a single representative to exit the gate and coordinate exit of additional forces.

Still, it could be a trick.  The adrukh of the Far Lands were nothing if not crafty.  Even if the approaching visitor was who he appeared to be, some of the smaller spirits might try to take advange of a moment’s inattention and slip through.  That happened regularly around the commerce gates, of course.  Couldn’t be helped.  Adem was determined that particular manner  of incursion, however minor, was not going to happen on his watch.

He drew a deep breath, and raised his right hand in a fist as his voice rang out.  “COHORT, READY!”

With a clatter, every man in the courtyard moved to prepare their weapons.  Archers readied their bows, broadhead iron arrows laid and ready to fire.  Musketeers went to one knee, braced their gun and sighted them upon the standing stones.  Cannoneers took their red-hot firing rods and held them carefully above the firing ports of their artillery, ready to unload tons of iron balls and stone shot at whatever exited the gate, if needed.

Adem stepped forward to stand between the cannon and the standing stones, his hand upraised and fist clenched, and watched the gate.  After a moment, he could make out the indistinct figure of a man, as if through heavy fog at a great distance.  Moment by moment, the figure appeared to move closer.  It became more distinct, until Adem could see what the scout had reported: a lone man in Legion leathers, head down, trudging towards them wearily.

With a final step, the man stumbled across the threshold of the standing stones, a looked up, blinking.  His hair was brown with dust, and his face tan and lined.  He carried no weapon, but an iron medallion with a raised sigil dangled from a fine chain around his neck.

Adem raised his pistol, and aimed at the medallion.

The visitor glanced around and took in the sight of two hundred men aiming various weapons at him, seemingly nonplussed.  Taking a deep breath, he straightened himself, and somehow managed to march the last few steps toward Adem crisply, where he came to attention and snapped a vigorous salute.  When he spoke, his voice was low and even, but with an edge of weariness.

“First Mate Kellan Orelley of the Thirteenth Legion, reporting under orders, sir.”

Adem opened his upraised hand.  Behind him, Jens called out, “Cohort, remain ready.”  After a moment, Adem slowly lowered his hand, and returned the salute.

“By whose authority do you report?” Adem asked.

“Under the authority of Empress Katarina the Last,” he responded. “May Heaven bless her reign.”

Adem nodded almost imperceptibly.  “And may Hell tremble at her Name.”

With that, Adem broke his salute, and the visitor did likewise.  Adem called out, “Cohort, the visitor is recognized!  Cohort, at ready ease!”  

There was a susurration as the legionaires around the courtyard relaxed from the ready.  Unlike the rest of the men, Jens and Varys kept their attention entirely on Adem and the visitor.  They had standaing orders from Adem in these situations: If this was some sort of adrukh trick, they were to do their duty, fire the cannon, and drink to his memory.

Adem stepped forward and murmured, “At ease.”  As Kellan relaxed, he said, “First Mate?  You’re a bit far from the sea, sailor.”

Kellan allowed the corner of his mouth to turn upward, just a hint.  “The unit started in the navy, sir.  Been years since then, but they’ve kept the ranks.  Tradition.”

Adem chuckled.  “Tradition, indeed.  You look like rode hard and put away wet, First.”  He raised an eyebrow, inviting a reponse.

Kellan’s small smile disappeared.  “The last few days have not been entirely uneventful, sir,” he responded, his voice carefully neutral.

Adem looked at him for a moment, then shook his head.  “They rarely are, First.  They rarely are.  You have orders?”

Kellan nodded, and reached into his jacket to pull out a bundle of papers bound with wire and sealed with wax.  Handing them to Adem, he said, “Sir?  The others will be close behind me.  They were supposed to wait five minutes before following, but... “ He inclined his head towards the standing stones.  “You know that time doesn’t always work out smoothly when you’re moving between the Real and the Far Lands.”

“We’ll clear out the courtyard in a moment,” Adem said.  He hesitated for a moment, then sighed, “I hate that I have to ask this, but… First, how many men should we expect?  We received a dispatch though the HQ in Canedella telling us you would be arriving, but they didn’t bother to tell us how many men we would be dealing with.  Just that a contingent of the Thirteenth Legion would be coming through from the Far Lands, and that we should render assistance, per your orders.”

Kellan nodded.  “Additional details are in the orders, sir.  Our Captain requests a meeting with your CO at his convenience, as there are specifics he wishes to discuss with him in person.  As for men, there are six of us, all told.”

Adem harumphed.  “Six hundred?  Hmm.  Well, we can house you for a while at least, if we double up on…”

Kellan cleared his throat quietly.  “Sir, beg your pardon.  Not six hundred.  Six.”

Adem blinked once, twice, and spoke slowly.  “You mean… six in the advance party?”

Kellan shook his head.  “No, sir.  Six total.  We are… a small unit.  We’re all that’s coming.”

Adem shook his head bemusedly, then turned around.  His voice rang out in the courtyard.  “COHORT, STAND DOWN! Centurions, muster the men in the outer keep for review and training!”

Even before he finished, the legionnaires had started to shuffle along the battlements.  The cool air was filled with the low murmur of military men critiquing one another, or their commanders, or the weather, or whatever struck their fancy.

Changing Perspective

One thousand, six hundred, sixty seven words a day is... quite a bit, actually.  Especially since first person doesn't really feel like it's going to work for me.  I was mulling over what I had written last night, and frankly, I think it would flow better in third person.  I'm going to re-write it and see how that works out.

Lets see if I can catch up (or at least get closer to the Day 2 milestone of 3300 words).

Seven Hundred And Seventy Eight

The cool air of Vallence was a shock as I stumbled through the standing stones and into the courtyard of Fregyr Keep.

I have been on the other side of an Entry once or twice, so what I saw waiting for me was no real surprise.  High walls, surrounding a wide courtyard.  Rough cobblestones underfoot, red with rust from the iron spikes driven in the spaces between the stones.  Openings for cannon in the walls.  High platforms on the battlements for archers and musketeers to look down upon whatever poor fool wandered in through the standing stones at the center of the courtyard.

All of them occupied by armed men looking inward.  Scores of archers readied their bows. Dozens of musketeers drew a bead. Even though I expected as much, that much attention can make a man a bit nervous.  I straightened a fraction and gathered myself.

Protocol must be followed.

In front of me, the largest cannon I had ever seen was pointed directly at me.  Three stern faced soldiers in iron half-helms and rusty chainmail stood behind the cannon.  Two of them held an iron rod glowing cherry red, obviously just taken from the glowing brazier before them.  The glowing ends of the rods hovered over the firing hole of the cannon, waiting.  The third was dressed similarly, but had a officer’s badge over his shoulder.  He also carried a flintlock pistol in his left hand.

Pointed at my heart, of course.

I saluted the men on the cannon, and in my best parade ground voice, stated, “First Mate Kellan Orelley of the Thirteenth Legion, reporting under orders.”

The pistol-wielding cannoneer carefully returned my salute without letting his aim waver.  His voice was steady and deep, with a slight hint of tension. “By whose authority do you report?”

“Under the authority of Empress Katarina the Last,” I responded. “May Heaven bless her reign.”

All three of the cannoneers responded, “And may Hell tremble at her Name.”  With that, the officer broke his salute, and I did likewise.  He took a deep breath, then bellowed, “The visitor is recognized!”

There was a noticeable relaxation among the men on the walls pointing their weapons at me.  That suited me just fine.  Unlike the rest of the men, the cannoneers kept their attention entirely on me.  As their officer lowered his pistol and stepped towards me, they each took the opportunity to exchange their firing rods for a new one taken from the brazier.

Coming up before me, the officer murmured “At ease,” and I allowed myself to relax.  “You look rode hard and put away wet, First.”

“The last few days have not been entirely uneventful, sir,” I responded, deadpan.

His mouth quirked into a half-smile, quickly, then he was back to business.  “Orders?”

I reached into my jacket to pull out the paperwork he needed.  Handing it over, I said, “Sir?  Permission to signal through the stones?”

He took the papers from me, examined the seals, then nodded.  “Permission granted.  Corporal Jens!  Visitor will be signaling through the stones, by…” He paused and nodded at me.

“Red painted wooden ball,” I said.

“Red painted wooden ball”, one of the cannoneers repeated.  Jens, I assumed.  “Aye, sir.”

While the officer waited, I fished the ball out of my pocket and rolled it back through the standing stones.  It clattered and bounded over the cobbles before taking a final bounce through the stones and out of this world.  I turned back to the officer, and saluted once again.  “Signal sent, sir.”

“Very well,” he said.  He hesitated for a moment, then said, “First, how many men should we expect?  The dispatch we received only specified your unit.”

“Oh.  Yes.  Six, sir.”

He frowned.  “Six hundred?  Hmm.  We can handle that, if we double up on…”

I cleared my throat.  “Sir, beg your pardon.  Not six hundred.  Six, total.”

He blinked once, twice.  Looked at me again.  “Six? You mean, six in the advance party?”

I kept my face carefully neutral as I shook my head.  “No, sir.  Six total.  We are… a small unit.  We’re all that’s coming.”

Sweepers

The north wall of the great hall was a ruin, the blocks tumbled outward, as if a siege engine had been fired from the inside of the room. The cold wind came howling through it, stirring up snow and sending stinging flecks of ice into the patches of exposed skin around my eyes.  Show piled in banks against the heavy furniture that the wind had tumbled and scattered across the room.

Crouching down in the lee of an overturned table, I found a bit of relief.  A sudden gust swirled the snow on the floor away, uncovering a body both preserved and mummified by the cold.  Sightless frozen eyes stared past me at some unnamed horror.  The  tip of a blackened tongue peeked out from the corpse's open, snow-filled mouth.

There was a soft crunch of old snow behind me as the prefect eased himself down behind the table with me.  Janus was as bundled up as we all were, in heavy cold-weather gear and a balaclava pulled up to leave only his eyes exposed.  His gaze flickered across the room, checking on the rest of the men before focusing in on the body sharing our temporary refuge.

I gestured at the body, and whispered just loud enough so that Janus could hear me over the noise of the wind.  "Died screaming."

He nodded, and leaned past me to carefully brush more of the snow away from the corpse.  A few passes, and he had revealed the corpse's hands, clasped together over its heart.

Clasped so tightly that the jagged ends of broken finger bones jutted from the dead, twisted hands.

Janus closed his eyes, and I heard him sigh out a soft word in a language I wasn't familiar with.  While I couldn't understand he said, I knew exactly what he meant.  A corpse in this place was bad enough, but a corpse in this condition?

I had not found a happy thing.

Now that I knew what I was looking for, I peered around the room.  There, over by where the Twins were making their way down the right hand side of the hall - more bodies in a pile of snow and broken chairs.  To the left, where Valish and Bear had slipped off to flank the broken oak door leading off to an adjoining room, another mound that had to be at least a dozen corpses, piled up against a raised stone platform.

We were silent living men, moving among the screaming dead.

Not the sort of thing that a recruiter for Her Majesty's Imperial Legions would ever bring up, I don't think.  Not that I got to talk to a recruiter, mind you.  If I had, though, I'm pretty sure that they would have left out the bits about traveling through the Outlands to the dead keep of a mad baron.  No, they would have told me that every day in the legion was a day filled with wine, women and song.

By pure coincidence, in my case, they would have been absolutely correct.  It's just that in the 13th Legion, the wine tastes of wormwood, the women are hags, and the song is a funeral dirge.

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NaNoWriMo begins today. I'm not participating, but I thought I'd take the opportunity to at least put something creative down on paper. Or... magnetic media. You know what I mean.