National Novel Writing Month – Chapter 3 of Son of Helios
Continuing on with National Novel Writing Month… I’m way behind, but that’s pretty typical for me at this stage. I’ve cleared 5000 words but should be around 12K. 🙂 We’ll see, but for now, here’s chapter 3.
Chapter 3
The clamor of battle echoed through the fog all around Peleus. Shadows of men with swords and spears appeared and disappeared in the thick mists, illuminated by unseen firelight. Above, a baleful moon glared down, larger than Peleus thought possible. Cool air caressed his sweat-slicked skin, and as this realization crossed his mind, he saw that his own sword was drawn and covered in bright red blood.
“A dream… this must be a dream,” he said, and it seemed to him that the mists devoured his words, lending truth to them even as they did.
The shouts and warcries changed to shrieks and screams. A terrible cracking sound that seemed to belong between the horrific sound of a snapping mast, the terror of all sailors, and Zeus’ fearsome thunderbolts made him whirl about and set his heart racing.
Someone cried, “Nooooo…” until the word died in the wet noises of the red ruin of war.
His hair stood, and his muscles tightened. His fingers grew white around the hilt of his blade. With his left hand, he drew his shield up and felt a sense of hope from it. “Helios, protect me from this nightmare,” he whispered.
The sounds and images continued, but slowly, ever so slowly, he heard the clamor grow quieter. As it did, it sounded less like war and more like torture. Peleus swallowed hard, then forced himself to inhale and exhale slowly, willing his heart to slow.
He tried to concentrate on battle, turning, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, shifting to confront whatever enemy would step from the shadows to face him. He reminded himself that his armor was strong and blessed by the gods. He had trained for war, he had fought in war, and he would find courage to face whatever was to come.
The cracking sound occurred again and again, growing louder with each strike.
The wait seemed to take hours. He constantly kept up his guard, even as the sounds of terror grew louder. Men cried for mercy, begged for their mothers and pleaded for their lives, yet he saw nothing of them, not living hoplites or dead corpses. He moved cautiously, always at the ready, through the fog, hoping that he would come to an end of this field of battle. He hoped all the more that he would wake up, for this dream was unlike any he had ever known.
Finally, as all about him fell silent, even the horrid cracking sound, he found his own courage. He knew Achelos would call it foolishness, perhaps hubris itself, but he could no longer endure waiting. If he was to die in this place of nightmare, he would do it with honor as a warrior of Corinth.
“I am Peleus, son of Helios, soldier of Corinth, face me, vile spirits or begone!”
The shadow of a hoplite appeared with shield and blade, and when he saw the image, Peleus’ heart rose. He was willing to face a foe on the field of battle, even if it was one of the greatest warriors of Sparta. As the mists parted before him, he faced no son of Sparta, Athens, Thebes or any other city-state.
A tall helmed woman stepped from the fog. She wore the armor of a hoplite, but instead of fabric or bronze, it was a metallic crimson set off by her ivory skin which caught the strange moonlight and seemed to glow. Her shield was mirrored and within the reflection, Peleus saw not himself, but the image of his blade driving into Iphicles. The woman’s sword shifted into a long barbed whip, or perhaps it always had been a whip – Peleus couldn’t be sure.  Her eyes burned with rage and anger. She shook the whip, and he heard the terrible cracking noise. Blood red lips parted and she spoke, “Peleus, you slew your own father. You belong to us.”
Peleus stepped back as she advanced on him. The whip lashed out, and he barely brought his shield up to deflect the strike. Although his shield took the strike, he felt pain tear across his left forearm. It was as if his muscles had torn away from his bones.
“Fight,” she hissed, “try to win. Struggle and hope. It will make your defeat all the more painful.” She laughed coldly. She lashed out at him again, and this time he stepped to evade the lash, but he was too slow and it caught his thigh, flaying the skin and leaving a bloody gash.
The pain made Peleus clench his teeth to avoid crying out. He channeled the agony into action and thrust his sword at her chest. The point of the blade hit the center of her chest, but as it struck, a shock carried back through his arm, knocking his backward. The suddenness caused him to yell out, his voice now sounding like so many of the other cries that he had heard before.
His mind raced as fast as his blade struck and his shield blocked. Each of her blows sent pain through him even as he deflected them, yet none of his strikes, even one that should have cut open her pale forearm did anything to her. He had never fought a woman, but during the briefest of thoughts that he had as she advanced and he retreated, he thanked the poets for singing tales of fierce Amazons battling heroes in the days of Troy. Those prepared him, though he had never met any of that legendary people, so he didn’t hold back or struggle with guilt, though this certainly wasn’t an Amazon he faced.
He knew that she was one of the Furies, seeking vengeance for his terrible crime.
Suddenly, it didn’t matter that this was a dream. If this was a punishment from the gods, surely it could kill him in a dream as easily as the flesh. As his blood continued to flow and the pain from each lash of the whip that he blocked became worse, he imagined himself, dead in his barracks, Achelos shaking him, trying in vain to wake him. His blade, coated in the blood of his own patricide, did no harm to the spirit of justice before him.
He threw his blade to the side and caught her whip arm with his bare hand. With his shield, he smashed his body into hers and the two of them fell into the dirt stained with his dripping blood. Peleus let rage fill him – the rage of the pain he suffered, and the rage that he had always kept inside, the rage that came from being a boy without a father. She fought back with a terrible ferocity, but he had the advantage and the pain he felt was so great that nothing she did seemed able to increase it. His forearm pressed against her slender throat. She gasped.
Peleus hesitated, and the rage ebbed. He didn’t want to kill her. The pain stole his strength and his head swam. He blinked.
“I told you that you could win,” she taunted. “And you almost did.” Her eyes reflected the full moon above.
A lash wrapped around his neck. He wanted to scream, but no sound could escape his throat. He was pulled backward and off his foe. He saw two other women, clad in the same blood red armor as the first.
“We are sisters,” the three said as one.
He managed to pull the whip from his bloody throat, cutting open his fingers as he did. Peleus gasped as he struggled to regain his feet and stand. He choked out, “I did not kill my father. My father is and has always been Helios.”
The Furies hissed and each one cracked her whip. The one which he had fought stepped in front of him, but she moved slowly. “Now, it is time for your defeat. These are your last agonizing moments, your punishment for your crime.”
“Helios is my father. Father, save me!” he tried to shout, but he wasn’t sure if he was even coherent. The bitter taste of blood filled his mouth.
A faint rustle came from behind him, the sound of metal on metal as though the wind blew through the leaves of a bronze tree. A bright warm light shone from that direction and the Furies moved away from him as their faces contorted in anger.
A woman spoke, “He is mine.” Her words were in the language of the Egyptians.
“We claim him in the name of Olympus. He shall be punished for his crime.” The Furies spoke as one using Greek, but seemed to have no difficulty understanding the Egyptian.
“I speak with the authority of Ra, god of the sun, a power far older than your Olympians. This one fought for the treasures of my people. He claims to be the son of Ra, invoking the name by which he is known among the Hellenes. We claim him.”
“If your god claims this one, let him speak.”
The light became blinding, and the Furies shrieked. Peleus heard no words. Instead, he felt as if the light itself was the god’s response. The warmth gave him strength and at some point he realized that the pain he suffered had subsided.
He looked up and the Furies were gone.
“You must come to Khem, the land you call Egypt, if you wish to be free of them. Ra needs you. I need you. You must find me.”
Peleus turned his head to see the outline of a woman with massive wings for arms. He couldn’t make out her features, as the brilliant light behind her left her in shadow.
“Wake now, and find the priest who you defended. He will help you voyage to Khem. When you find me there, the will of the gods will be revealed.”
Peleus lowered his head. “Thank you, my father.” He lifted his head to look up at the woman. “You saved me. I will find you.”
“It is the will of Ra,” she said, and with that, everything became far too bright for Peleus’ eyes, and the world grew to a dazzling white.
He woke up.
National Novel Writing Month – Chapter 2 of Son of Helios
Okay, here’s the raw writing as it comes off the presses. Fighting my way slowly and behind schedule to 50,000 words.
Chapter 2 – Death of a God
The sun gleamed off the waters of the Saronic Gulf, and Peleus stared as the oxen strained and pulled along with dozens of slaves to pull a trireme from the waters. The ship creaked as it slid up on the great wooden platform on its massive rollers. Water dripped off the sides of the vessel.
He wanted to be among the slaves for reasons that he was sure would cause his honor to be questioned. Although he was soldier of Corinth, a hoplite, armed with a bronze chestplate, a fine round shield emblazoned with a gleaming golden sun on a red background, a mighty spear, and a Corinthian helm with a horsehair crest painted in red and yellow, he longed to be among the slaves, pushing a ship across the Diolkos, the great paved path that stretched from the Saronic Gulf in front of him to the Gulf of Corinth to the west. It never failed to awe him when a ship sailed the Diolkos, when a vessel meant for the sea crossed land. He felt it made Corinth special, gave his city-state something that neither Athens nor Sparta could match. Only Corinth carried ships across land.
A strong hand clapped him on the shoulder. “The harbormaster needs you if you are done staring at the ships.” Achelos laughed softly. He was a sun-bronzed man, and while it was doubtful that he was the equal of legendary Achilles from the Trojan War, the hero that he had been named in deference to, he certainly cut a formidable figure. Even though Achelos’ dark curls fell on his shoulders, his beard was thin enough to be that of a boy instead of a man. He was also Peleus’ oldest friend.
“What do they need? There are plenty of soldiers about,” said Peleus as he heard the great wooden rollers moaned again under the weight of the ship. The prow was shaped in the image of the god Poseidon, and Peleus could make out its mighty trident.
“They need someone to speak with an Egyptian merchant. They don’t need your skill with the spear, just your gift for languages. Believe me, if it had to do with fighting, I would have handled it.” Achelos said with a smile that reached his eyes.
The mention of a foreigner drew Peleus’ attention. His mother had taught him the languages of the Persians, the Egyptians, the Etruscans and even some of the mysterious words of the Northerners. He loved learning languages, and his ability had enabled him to make a living working for the merchants. He always took any opportunity he could to speak to travelers from the distant empires and learn their ways.
Achelos was still talking. “Of course, if I was fighting a Cyclops or something, I’d come get you. I’m only named after a hero. You on the other hand, are the son of the titan Helios himself.”
It was Peleus’ turn to laugh. “If only I were the true son of Helios, rather than just one of the hundreds of children of the gods who live in Corinth.” Something bitter came out in his voice, and he saw the fun teasing fade from Achelos’ eyes. It was true that Peleus, like so many men and women who had no fathers, was one of the children of the gods. In his case, his mother claimed that Helios had visited her from his temple high on the great Acrocorinth, but he had heard her curse his father who had abandoned her before he was born. He only knew that the man was a soldier, and that he had probably died in one of the endless wars between the Spartans and the Athenians or in combat on the far frontiers in one of the colonies. He wondered if the man had been a foreigner. He hoped that his true father wasn’t a Persian, but the few times he had asked his mother, she had told him nothing.
Of course, she had been a priestess of the goddess of love, Aphrodite, and he knew, as the rest of the world knew that the priestesses of Aphrodite received many donations from thankful men who enjoyed the blessings of the goddess during a night with her priestesses. His mother had gained enough funds during her career to support the two of them without having to return to being a priestess after his birth. Now she was a weaver of some note, a career path that Peleus felt had much more longevity.
“She did say that you were a son of Helios instead of Aphrodite. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m sure it’s worth something,” offered Achelos. “I’ll show you where the Egyptian is.”
“It may be, but there are so many who want us to give up the worship of Helios and recognize him as Apollo instead.”
“Jealous Athenians and Thebans who wish Corinth hadn’t sided with the Spartans years ago, that’s who I think they are. True Corinthians believe in Helios. You know, Helios is still worshipped in Rhodos as well. Don’t worry about what the poets and travelers say about the Olympians defeating the Titans. I suspect that they are all being paid by priests at Olympia.” Achelos made his way down the rocky path to the water where Peleus could see a number of men gathered.
The harbormaster and a number of Corinthian soldiers face a large group of mercenary hoplites while an Egyptian man gestured dramatically at the mercenaries. Peleus didn’t like the way the mercenaries gripped their spears.
“I can speak Egyptian,” shouted Peleus as he came close.
“Fine,” said the harbormaster, a middle-aged man who had long lost his hair and had a bit of a belly beneath his tunic as a sign of his wealth. “I want to know what this Egyptian is saying.”
An older mercenary warrior stepped forward. His voice contained a hint of gravel. He had hard gray eyes, leathery skin and more than a few scars, but he had a full head of yellow hair. Peleus himself had light brown hair, but it was not often that he had seen a man with yellow hair. A muscled bronze chestplate provided his protection and he was tall, about the same height as Peleus. The way the others stepped aside for him left Peleus with no doubt that he was the leader. The man spoke, “You can’t trust Egyptians. He’s spreading lies because he’s concerned that our ship will cross the Diolkos before his.”
The Egyptian turned to Peleus. He wore a golden ankh and his hair was shaved. His robes were white with blue edges and many golden and bejeweled rings glittered on his fingers. “These men are pirates that attacked and sunk three of my vessels. Only my greatest barge made it to Corinth ahead of them,” he said in Egyptian.
Peleus nodded, then turned to the harbormaster and spoke in Greek. “He says these mercenaries are pirates. I recommend we check their holds for Egyptian goods before we allow them to the cross the Diolkos.”
At the mention of piracy, a murmur had gone up from the men of Corinth. Little was worse to a nation of merchants who made their living by the sea than the thought of piracy. The clattering of shields and spears from the mercenaries left Peleus with little doubt that the Egyptian’s accusations were true.
“By Zeus’ thunderbolt, do you dare accuse my men of piracy, boy? We have goods from Egypt, but we earned them in raids on the coast by the strength of our spears and the might of our shields. This Egyptian wants to steal our treasures for himself, and you have probably been bribed by him.”
Peleus turned in surprise. His face flushed bright red with anger. He didn’t expect to be accused of anything. He swallowed. “What city are you and your men from?”
“We call no city our home. I was born in Macedonia ages ago, but spent time in Thebes, Olympia and Ephesus herself.”
“I would have your name,” said Peleus.
“Iphicles, son of Telemon.”
“Well, Iphicles, I am Peleus, son of Helios, and citizen of Corinth. I will have no man accuse me of accepting bribes. So, either take back your false words or be prepared to accept the point of my spear.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Peleus regretted them. He didn’t know what possessed him, but he wasn’t willing to have a group of mercenaries accuse him of taking bribes to lie to the harbormaster. Bribes alone were one thing, and Peleus knew many soldiers who would be willing to accept payment to allow rules to be bent or broken. To accuse him of lying to a leader of Corinth was another matter entirely. All of his life, Peleus had needed to earn the respect of others around him, for his sake and his mother’s. He didn’t have a powerful and well-respected father’s deeds to grant him a station. He had earned what he had through valor on the battlefield or his efforts translating for merchants. Still, he wasn’t completely sure that he was ready to die here over the dispute between this Egyptian and these mercenaries.
“Boy, I’m more than ready to deal with you. Let the gods judge you by your skill with weapons. I doubt you’ve seen much battle.”
“Wait,” said the harbormaster, but it was too late for that.
“I’ve fought Athenians,” said Peleus.
Iphicles laughed. “You’ve got to do better than that. I’ve battled Spartans.” Without saying anything more, he threw down his spear, drew his blade and lunged for Peleus.
Peleus didn’t have time to don his helm, but tossed it to the side along with his spear. His shield deflected the older man’s thrust, sending it off to the left, and Peleus gave him a hard kick in the leg as he drew his own blade.
To Peleus’ surprise, no one else interceded in the duel. He slashed at Iphicles, but the mercenary parried and countered. Fortunately, the counter-thrust only clanged against the bronze rim of Peleus’ shield. Unfortunately for Iphicles, the element of surprise had faded.
Peleus found his balance and caught his breath. He stopped thinking and simply fought. As a boy without a father, he had trained himself as hard as he could to learn to fight. He had asked soldiers to show him how to hold a spear and a blade, and for as long as he could remember, he had practiced with whatever he could find. Thousands of shadows had died on the end of broken branches in his hands or even fought with him while he held nothing but air. He had asked warriors from the ends of the world to show him how they battled when he was a boy. Most had thought nothing of showing off for a lad, but he had watched, memorized and returned home and practiced. When he had earned coins enough for weapons of his own, he had trained all the harder. Those that had seen him in battle against the Athenians might well believe that he was, in truth, the son of a Titan. Certainly, Iphicles, the mercenary, was unprepared for Peleus’ onslaught.
Their swords caught, but Peleus swung with enough force to throw the mercenary off-balance. A breath later and his blade went through the man’s shoulder. A blow from Peleus’ shield to the face of the mercenary was enough to drop him, and then the point of his sword pierced Iphicles just below the breastplate. When Peleus withdrew his sword, it was bright red and a crimson puddle spread on the ground beneath Iphicles’ body.
“I am slain. Avenge me,” he called out.
Peleus looked over at the mercenaries. They moved back and away from the Corinthians. Iphicles chuckled.
“Betrayed so soon,” he gasped. “It’s what I should expect.” He coughed and flecks of blood and white foam sprayed on his beard. “Peleus, I ask a boon.”
“What?”
The mercenary muttered something. Peleus leaned close, watching the man’s hands to make sure that he wasn’t trying to take Peleus down to the realm of Hades with him.
He whispered. “Boy, there is a woman, a priestess of Aphrodite, named Dione. I once gave her a chest of coins because she was the finest woman in all the world. Tell her that her sun god never made it back to Corinth.”
With that, Iphicles died.
As Peleus stood, the world started to spin around him. He felt a terrible twisting inside his guts, and though the harbormaster and others began talking, he couldn’t hear them. All he hear were his own thoughts, repeating his mother’s name. “Dione, Dione, Dione.”
National Novel Writing Month is here! Chapter 1 of Son of Helios
Welcome to November 2012. National Novel Writing Month has begun.
Every November, I commit myself to writing 50,000 words in a month along with thousands of other people around the world. It’s amazingly fun and really pushes my writing and time management to the limit. It’s given birth to the Crimson Hawks, Krueger and some others. This year I’m attempting a novel called Son of Helios, Champion of Ra. It’s the tale of a Greek Hoplite from Corinth going to mythological Egypt. It’s a mythological as opposed to historical tale, but it’s set roughly-ish around 400 B.C.E.
In order to shed light on the process, I thought I’d post the raw material for the first chapter that I wrote starting at 12:03 am this morning.
Son of Helios, Champion of Ra
Chapter 1
Azura climbed the sandstone stairs of the Pinnacle of the Phoenix with her hands as much as her feet, gripping the sides of the rock and pulling herself skyward, ever skyward. Her legs and back cried out at the effort, begging her to stop, begging her to rest, if only for a moment, but she didn’t dare rest. Time, something that the endless pharaohs of old had once mastered, was not her ally. If she stopped, she didn’t know if she would be able to continue. The hope left in her heart flickered like a candle flame at the end of a wick. She tried not to think as she pushed her body up another step and pulled herself up the one beyond that. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
Memories assailed her. She thought of the sun, the bright glowing life-giving sun. She imagined its heat warming her bare arms, its rays kissing her face. She remembered staring at the sun over the waters of the sea, using its light to watch the horizon as she had done so many times. Without meaning to, she turned her head to look for it, gazing off the stairs into the haze-filled sky.
She saw a faint blurred orb struggling to penetrate the storms of sand. Though it was nearly at zenith, and she had climbed to heights that rivaled the great pyramids, still the shadows stretched to cover it.
Despite herself, she paused. She hadn’t wanted to stop, but there was no help for it. Her heart clashed with her will, and her heart felt more desperate, so her willpower relented. Staring directly at the sun, she uttered silent prayers, first to Isis to keep her strong, second to Ra to have some reserve of power left to aid her. She prayed that he held some last secret strength to help all of the people of Khem. She wiped some of the sand away from her arms and face, shaking some of it free of her black hair.
Her eyes fell away from the sky, lower now, to the churning dark clouds near the earth. Angry shapes boiled forth from the black shroud that hung as far as her eyes could see, and her sight had been once compared to that of a falcon’s. There was nothing visible in any direction but the great sandstorm, a sign of the doom that had come.
Azura fought tears. The great battle was over. The war between good and evil had ended, and Set, Lord of serpents and scorpions stood triumphant, and Lord Osiris, father of the pharaohs, lay dead, mutilated and his allies and their forces had been swept away. Evil had won. Nothing was left but darkness and despair. No pharaoh lived to rule the land, to protect the gleaming Nile with his divine person. No high priest remained with a faith strong enough to drive the storm and the shadows away. Even if such a priest did live, what was there to have faith in? The gods had fallen and even the strength of her own goddess, Isis, wife of Osiris, was lost.
“My strength is the strength of Isis,” she said to herself. Her voice was raspy from lack of water but firm.
Her eyes fell to the stairs below her. They stretched down, incredibly far, until the darkness consumed them as well. How many had she climbed? A thousand? A thousand thousand?
She looked up the stairs, wondering how many more there could be. She expected to see a thousand more reaching up into the sky, but to her amazement, there were only a handful more to go. Her heart pounded with excitement. She started to count the remaining stairs, but forced herself to climb instead.
She didn’t consciously realize when she reached the summit. Instead, she found herself standing in front of a great basin of gold, held in the golden talons of a phoenix which reached toward the heavens with its wings lifted. She wished that she had worn her ceremonial wings, that she could feel their comforting weight on her arms, even though she knew full well that she never would have completed the climb wearing them. She felt a connection with the phoenix, a bond that somehow eased her burden.
Carefully, she untied the sealed jar of sacred oil which she had carried on her journey. She opened it with some effort, and then poured out the oil into the basin. She watched as it spread over the inside of the bowl and a feeling of peace and calm rose within her. After the last drop left the jar, she gently set it down on the smooth tiles that covered the summit of the Pinnacle of the Phoenix.
She steadied herself, speaking entreaties to Isis, and grasped the Mirror of the Heavens from its place in the sun disc at the front of the basin. She bit her lip with the effort, even as she gave thanks that everything here was as it had been written in the temple. Trembling, she held the mirror in place above the basin and waited for the sun’s rays to ignite the oil.
The rushing sound of the black clouds echoed up from below. It reminded her of the sea when it fled from a storm in the heavens, but the thunder beneath her was the victory cry of Set. She shuddered even more. Memories of battles against the horrors bred by such evil threatened to steal her will and her hope.
“Oh great Ra, help this daughter of Isis. I will not surrender the lands of your people to the armies of the enemy. If there is no strength left in Khem herself, then let it come from Nubia, Libya, Kush or even the conquerors from Persia who ruled here in the time of my grandmother’s mother. Please show me the will of the gods. Please give your people hope that we may rise again, as we have so many times over the centuries.”
She did not know how long she held the mirror or how many times she prayed. The obscured sun did not give enough light, and the oil simply sat in the basin. When the solar barge had sailed far enough from the peak of the heavens that she feared the storm below would consume it, the winds hesitated and the light shone on the mirror, which focused and reflected it into the oil. A moment later, and flames burned in front of the golden phoenix.
Azura lacked the ability to cheer, but her heart felt lighter. She gently set the mirror down and studied the flames. The sun god remained unconquered.
She sat down next to the phoenix and hoped that the gods would send her a vision. As her eyes fell closed, she decided that even if she didn’t receive a vision, sleep was welcome enough.
Her last sight was the phoenix gleaming in the light of the fire.
Charming done – Nanowrimo on the horizon
Great news on the writing front. Charming was successfully submitted to Harper-Collins Voyager, so we’ll see how it does. I’ll either have some good news in the next three months or not, but in any event, the rewrite is done. Blue Oranda is happy to wait in the wings, so one way or another, I plan to see Charming in print next year.
November is coming and that brings National Novel Writing Month. Both the Krueger and Crimson Hawks novels were born during this annual event, and I plan to participate again. I’m considering posting as I strive to complete 50,000 words and take everyone with me on the journey, but we’ll see. My first goal is to complete the novel, and I don’t want everyone to drop me on twitter.
I’d strongly recommend participating to anyone out there. It’s difficult but fun. I failed in my first attempt in 2008, but I’ve succeeded in every year since. It’s improved my writing, and it’s helped me to learn how to be productive.
My apologies for so few posts this month, but I’m hoping to post a lot more in the next two weeks. I’m also looking at updating the website and blog (including adding more pictures).
Thanks for reading,
Harry
Working on Charming
Hi everyone,
I had a great time at the Baltimore Book Festival. I hope to get to a full wrap up blog post, but there’s been a lot going on. First and foremost, I’ve been working on Charming which I’m planning to submit to Harper-Collins this weekend. There’s an excerpt in one of my earlier blogs.  That’s pretty much what’s been happening in writing for me.
I’d like to give a shout out to my friend Phil Brucato who is attending Howl-Con, a con dedicated to all things werewolfish. If I were anywhere near Portland, OR, I’d love to go between Werewolf: The Apocalypse and my Space Wolves. Arrroooo!!!
As far as supporting Werewolf goes, I highly recommend anyone interested to check out Kickstarter for the 20th anniversary edition of Werewolf.
All the best,
Harry
More Baltimore Book Festival
Hi everyone,
A few more details about the Baltimore Book Festival. I’ll be at a panel on E-Publishing at noon on Saturday, then taking a break at 1pm before being on a panel on Crossing Genres at 2pm. Between 3pm and 4pm, I’ll be doing a reading for part of the time, probably from In the Service of the King, then at 4:30-5:30pm, I’ll be signing at one of the book sales tents. It’s a huge event, so I hope that maybe some old friends from Games Workshop, Other Realms or Dream Wizards might be able to come out.
Meanwhile, I’ve been juggling this week, working on Charming and Ashes and Cinders (Book 2 of the Crimson Hawks) while remembering that I have a superhero anthology I should be finalizing and feeling guilty about several fellow authors who deserve some feedback from me. I’m also getting more accustomed to writing on my laptop as my primary story creation tool, since my desktop is in desperate need of IT tech love.
Oh, and I’ve been writing a touch on my epic fantasy novel, The Lantern, because I’ve felt inspired. A friend of mine, fellow author Wayland Smith, once told me to write whatever I felt inspired to write. He’s a smart man who did a book on terrorists attacking Washington DC titled In My Brother’s Name. I’m going to have to dedicate a post to him before too long because I wouldn’t be an author without his direct intervention.
I hope everyone has a great weekend!
Harry
Baltimore Book Festival (and some other updates)
Hi everyone!
This weekend I’ll be attending the Baltimore Book Festival. It’s a great event with tons of authors and books for sale and an all around celebration of literature. Here’s the link. I’ll have both In the Service of the King and Souls of the Everwood for sale there at a special price for the event. I’m doing a book signing between 4:30 and 5:30 on Saturday, September 29 at the book sale booth for SFWA. My thanks to everyone involved in the organization, and I’m hoping that I might get a chance to see some of my friends from the Baltimore-DC area.
As far as writing, I’m making slow but continued progress on Charming and actually got some work done on Ashes and Cinders (Book 2 of the Crimson Hawks). I’m hopeful that I’ll have copies out for beta readers soon.
All the best,
Harry
One of my favorite writers – Brad A. White
Hi everyone,
I’ve come across a number of authors getting started, and ages ago, I promised some people in the industry that I’d do my best to help promote other authors. So, I’m going to recommend the site of Brad A. White. He’s a fantastic new author who has started writing mythological noir.
That’s right, mythological noir. I didn’t make it up. He’s very good and has a second book that should come out before the end of the year. Here’s a link to his blog: Brad A. White.
While he prefers to work under a pseudonym, I have seen numerous examples of his work over the years in informal channels and if he can find the time to do more writing, I believe he’ll be very successful.
On a slightly related note, I’ve decided to start collecting a mythological Greek miniature army. I’m hoping it will be inspiration for another project. It seems that the Greeks may be coming my way.
Thanks,
Harry
Book 2 of the Crimson Hawks
Hi everyone,
In addition to Charming, I’ve been working on the sequel to In the Service of the King. I’m making good progress and looking at a possible Halloween publication. I thought that I’d share a draft of the introduction. Enjoy and thanks for supporting the Hawks! I can also use more reviews and comments. 🙂
Introduction
For as long as anyone can remember, the Kingdoms of Valinar and Khargoth have struggled along their border, at times raiding one another, and at other times, engaging in all-out war. The balance of power shifted from one side to the other over the centuries, but neither side had ever secured a lasting advantage.
Valinar was known for its Orders of Knighthood, dedicated men who swore themselves to their order, willing to prove themselves against all odds, and competing with the other Orders to prove their skill at arms. The skill of their armorers and blacksmiths was, if not legend, certainly praised throughout the known world, and most men say that only the mighty elephants of the Southern and Eastern Lands are more dangerous than their great warhorses, the Valinar Destriers. Even their regular footman, sworn to the defense of their regent, were known to fight with courage and determination against all foes, perhaps due to a desire to prove themselves worthy to share the field with the knightly Orders.
Their foes from Khargoth were known as a mysterious people from the far North clinging to ancient ways from a time before civilization. Tales abound of witch-queens, cannibalism, human sacrifice, necromancy, demon worship and the like among the people of Khargoth, though certainly many of these stories are exaggerated.
The conflicts between Valinar and Khargoth historically occurred in one of two ways. First, there were the Valinar Crusades. A member of the clergy or the nobility would whip the country of Valinar into a frenzy of outrage at their twisted and evil neighbors and the Orders of Knighthood would all pledge to outdo one another in purging Khargoth from the world. The armies of Valinar would venture into dread Khargoth, liberating anyone they could find, which would be only a scattered few as the people of Khargoth tended to flee into the hills when they found out a crusade was coming. A great battle would take place at some point and win or lose, the crusade would suffer losses. Then, winter would come to Khargoth and take its toll, convincing the proud crusaders to return to the warmth of their homes.
Then there were the Khargoth invasions. Waves of barbarian warriors would surge out of Khargoth into Valinar, wearing only furs and tattoos as armor, with wooden spears and oversized axes as weapons. Exhorted by chanting priests in black robes, these hordes would destroy all in their wake through brute force, not sparing women, children or livestock. Sometimes, warlords in crude metal armor might lead them, other times, scantily clad heavily tattooed women believed to have dark powers. Inevitably, these hordes would be met on the field of battle by the determined defenders of Valinar and the Orders of Knighthood. A great battle would take place which would shatter the horde, and defeated, the scattered survivors of Khargoth would flee back to their homeland.
And so it was for years upon years until the Great Battle of the Ice River. Khargoth had raised an invasion force and had made a crossing during the relatively hot summer after the floods from the spring melts had subsided. They had destroyed a small hamlet near the river and moved perhaps ten miles in the direction of the fertile heartland of Valinar, when they were met on the field by Prince Kaspar and the resplendent flower of Valinarian knighthood.
The battle took place across a set of rolling fields, where the summer crops were doomed to be trampled no matter the outcome. Kaspar, with his golden mane of hair and gleaming armor, shouted encouragement to his fellow knights, all of whom enthusiastically desired to prove their mettle and earn glory for their families against the hordes of Khargoth. For such battles are the nobles of Valinar born and their great destriers bred. No battle line had ever survived a charge by the knights of Valinar, and today would be no different.
The hordes were a shambling mess, holding their weapons crookedly and awkwardly, limping and stumbling forward. They had not waited for a battle cry or a command to charge; they merely poured out of the large number of tents at the Khargoth encampment and surged forward. A few of them fell to their knees in the field and did not move.
The knights did not notice the odd behavior or that the men and women in this horde were smaller than the barbarian invaders from the stories of their youth. They did not question that there was no roar of a battle cry. The strange black tents placed evenly at the edge of the Khargoth camp, conspicuous from their color and because no warriors staggered from them, drew little attention. No, the knights and their leader, Prince Kaspar, were focused on victory. Pointing his sword, Kaspar shouted the command to charge, and the knights moved as one.
The ground shook with every hoofbeat and some of the enemy tried to turn and flee. Still others collapsed. A few half-naked warriors armed with battle-axes could be seen in the Khargoth encampment, each one appearing more formidable than any of the masses in the field, but they held back and waited. Even if they had taken the field, the results would have been the same – gory carnage for the glory of Valinar.
Only the weight of the bodies slowed the knights. Not a single member of the horde put up a fight as they were smashed by steel-shod hooves or skewered at lance point. Still, the charge lost momentum, and finally, the clouds of imagined glory cleared from the minds of the knights.
According to the survivors, it was Prince Kaspar who first noticed what had happened.
He looked down on his crushed foe and saw that she was slightly plump and had a stick tied to her arm. Her features were those of a Valinarian commoner, and though her clothes were filthy and she had a fur on her shoulders, her clothes marked her as Valinarian as well. After the initial shock of his observation, he dismounted to examine the corpse more closely and saw that her tongue was missing.
They had slain their own people.
“Stop!” he shouted. “They are our people. It’s a trick!”
The perfect battle line of charging knights had become a disorganized mass of horrified men. A few tore off their helms in dismay and disgust. Some dismounted to try and aid the trampled people.
Loud shrieking whistles pierced the air, causing even some of the battle-trained horses to rear. With a creaking and humming, the black tents opened as blasts of steam rent the air. What stepped forth were constructs, mechanical creations, vaguely in the shape of men, towering over knights and men as if they were giants. They raised their heavy iron arms and sprayed fire over the hosts of knighthood.
Men melted along with their armor, and the finest steeds in the world burned. The ground shook as the machines marched forward, some swinging massive maces, crushing everything they struck. Others screeched and lurched forward, simply crushing anything that found itself underfoot.
For the first time in recorded history, the knights of Valinar panicked. Several fell from their steeds to be trampled by their comrades who tried to flee. More gouts of flame consumed those who tried to fight. One of the constructs swung a chain with a blade attached with enough speed to eviscerate whatever it touched.
Prince Kaspar stood his ground bravely, though his horse had long fled, as one of the constructs loomed over him. He shouted, “For Valinar!” and charged, before a metal arm crushed him.
The flower of knighthood was no more.
When King Denis of Valinar was informed of the crushing defeat and the death of his son, his heir, the court fell silent. Age had fallen heavily on the king in the last few years since the queen had passed, and all knew that he had considered stepping aside for his son. Now, in the twilight of his reign, he faced a catastrophe as great as any that had fallen upon Valinar.
After several moments, the King spoke.
“Can anyone tell me where my daughter is?”
There was a collective set of uncomfortable shuffling and gasps. The king had not spoken of his disinherited disgrace of a daughter in years. Some believe that his separation from her had driven the queen to despair and ultimately, to her death.
One of his advisors, Boris, stepped forward. He took a deep bow. “Your Royal Majesty, as per your directions, we have kept men watching her through her travels. She spends most of her time in a merchant city at a tavern.”
“What? She has fallen to serving drinks?” he said, somewhat astonished.
“No, sire, it is the headquarters of a mercenary company.”
“She’s a mercenary?” the king said, seemingly to himself. He nodded. “We will need men to defend Valinar from these diabolic creations of Khargoth, but… she will not come.” He sighed.
“I’m certain that if her company were contracted that she would come. The captain of her mercenary company can be persuasive, I’m told, and I’m also informed that your daughter is very close to him.”
More silence spread across the court. A dark look fell over King Denis’ face.
“What is the name of this captain who is close to my daughter?”
“James Markson.”
“Hire him.”
 
 
A Touch of Reality and a Big Thank You!
Hi everyone,
My apologies for not writing over the Labor Day weekend. I hope everyone had a good time, especially the folks at DragonCon in Atlanta, GA. I haven’t been in too many years, but perhaps I can arrange things for next year.
In the meantime, I’ve gone through a major change in my life. I left the company where I’ve held a day job for the last seven years and set out on a new chapter in my career. The new place is working out well as I go through orientation and the people there are great. However, Â I want to give a shout out to all the people at my old company for a wonderful going away party.
I have rarely felt as appreciated as I did during the going away happy hour that my friends held. Everyone, co-workers in my current department (IT), friends from my former department (Concierge) and everyone else from across the business, including several former co-workers who came out made me feel fantastic. I want to give a special shout out to a lady named Mary who organized the affair. Thank you all!
The finale came the next day when I left the building for the last time. One of my co-workers, a gentleman, scholar and renaissance man named Bruce Frostick surprised me with music when I drove away. I always imagined leaving a job with something like I’m Already Gone by the Eagles playing. Well, Bruce is a master of the accordion, and so I walked away with the sounds of the accordion playing. Here’s his website.
Truth really can be stranger than fiction.
All the best,
Harry
Harry Heckel 