"Grandpa, I'm ascared to tell you something," he said behind the locked door.
He said that about six time before saying, "I'm afraid you'll get mad if I tell you something."
He said that three or four times.
Eventually, he told me his concern, and informed me that if I or his brother had a problem with it, we would just have to deal with it.
I didn't get mad. We really didn't have to deal with anything.

I was spending time with Les Freres Corses -- The Corsican Brothers--as I've dubbed them after Dumas' famous novel; or rather they were spending time with me as everyone else was off doing things, and I alone was left to supervise the adorable masters of destruction.

We went on to finish gathering the walnuts from the yard, and filling the flat tire on the van. The latter involved complications. As the tire had gone completely flat a few days ago, the seal around the rim had broken. All the air I pumped into the tire escaped through the gap between the tire and rim. I tried it three times just to make sure. I huffed, and I puffed, but I could not blow the house down tire up.

Plan A: Backup the van a couple feet to reset the tire on the rim. I didn't think this would work, but it offered an easy solution that I thought I could try first. Except it wasn't that easy. The battery in the van had been kryptonited, i.e, been drained of all its power. So we had to jump start the van. Fortunately, I have one of those  power packs for starting cars, recharging phaser banks, and other stuff. It's important to understand that the Corsican Brothers have an insatiable desire to know "Why" about everything. It's a case of intensely curious cop and extraordinarily inquisitive cop. They wanted to know what the car battery was and what the power pack was. I explained those things in basic terms. They wanted to know how those things worked, but like Odd Job from Kelly's Heroes, "I  don't know what makes them work..." at least not beyond a very rudimentary understanding. I did explain that the red clamp goes on the battery post with the red wire--the positive post--and the black clamp goes on the battery post with the black wire--the negative post. That lead to questions about what posts are and why batteries have them, what are positive and negative, and what would happen if one connected them the other way. Having explained that it's all required by The Uniform Commercial Code of Professional Conduct and International Treaty on Bottled Energy and the Transference thereof to Prevent the Unnecessary Depletion or Extinction of Lightning, Unicorns, and Electric Eels* (or a more realistic explanation that probably made just as much sense to them), we proceeded to the next step. The van started as expected. However, moving it a couple feet did nothing to persuade the tire to retain compressed air.

Plan B: Jack up the van to reseat the tire. The questions started with, "What's a jack?" and continued with, "Why does it have wheels?" The Brothers did not believe that the jack could lift the van. I explained that the jack could lift 2 tons. "What's a ton?" "How many tons does the van weigh?" "How does it work?" "How are you going to get it back down?" "Is it this bolt?" "Is it this one?" "Is it this one?" "How come it has a warning on it?" Naturally, I completed the task successfully in spite of the questions which came like the bullets during the final moments of Butch and Sundance.

With that job complete. One of the Brothers spied a dead bird that had caught itself in some netting a year or two ago. Feather and bones were all that remained--including a bare, white skull. Questions about that led to a discussion--which is to say, an interrogation--about death and decay, and oxygen, and blood flow, and wounds, and scabs, and healing. It was also during this time that I was informed by one of the Brothers that light was made of boton particles. I asked if he meant "photon" and I was emphatically informed that he did not. It was "boton."

We went on to play blackjack and chess instead of riding the four-wheeler because the wind was too cold. My favorite phrase during the blackjack game was when one of the Brothers said, "Kick me," when he wanted another card.

*Of course I jest. That treaty was superseded by the Code of Hammurabi and The Electron Immigration Act.

***

What have I written this week? Not very much. I was gone to a training conference most of the week and the atmosphere of the hotel room wasn't conducive to writing in my opinion. The conference featured cool topics like Advanced Strangulation, and 404b.  I did get a cool pen with a light and a laser pointer for turning in my evaluation at the end--so I got that going for me.

Book Three in the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series is more than half complete (I think). I expect to have it ready sometime in April,  a couple months ahead of my originally projected completion date. The characters have a few separate-but-connected adventures going. They will come together for the big finale that resolves the quest which was set at the start of Threading the Rude Eye. If you have read Rude Eye, please post a review. I had hoped to have more than 25 reviews long before now--that hope has been crushed like Pelosi's impeachment dreams.

Liwana’s Calling

This is actually a story adapted from an AAR of a test of my skirmish rules. It's rather light on character development, but I thought it was a good exercise. It's a replay of the scenario I posted last week with a couple minor adjustments to the rules--and very different outcome. Not all of the formatting transferred when I copied, but I think I got most of it corrected.

Copyright © 2020 Stanley Wheeler

All Rights Reserved

     Dured stood next to the side entrance of the crumbling ruin where Sergeant Vilmo had stationed him. Vilmo himself guarded the main entrance only about fifteen feet away. That entrance consisted of a complete archway. The rectangular, gray, lichen-speckled stones rose up ten feet or more over the doorway. If there had ever been any door, it had long since decayed, or been carried away by the wind, or by fugitives seeking firewood. The black stain in the center of the ruined building hinted at the latter possibility. The sergeant stood a head taller than Dured. Vilmo’s yellow braids stretch from beneath the back of his dull gray helmet, and the long tails of his moustache touched the silver scales of his long hauberk. Vilmo commanded respect—and he got it. Not one of the five men in the detail would have ever considered disobeying an order from the grizzled veteran.

     Dured’s thoughts didn’t dwell long upon his leader, but returned to the blue-eyed girl who had married him only three days before. “Be brave, my love,” she had said, “but come back to me safe. Take this. It will protect you.” She had handed him a small metal item on a leather cord to go about his neck. The item consisted of two concentric circles; eight lines radiated from the center beyond the edge of the outer circle where each line ended in a two-pronged half-circle; each half-circle touched the sides of the two next to it, forming a pointy ring about the outside of the trinket. “Wear it always when you are away from me.” She had kissed him and watched him leave with the rest of the men.

Dured caressed the charm between the fingers of his left hand as if he were feeling the silken locks of Liwana. He placed his shield against the stone wall. His eyes scanned the distance ahead of the ruin. They would come from that direction. He let his eyes dart to his right from time to time to watch Thordred. Like the other archers in their detail, Zared and Frebored, Thordred possessed significant skill with the bow. He stood at the rear corner of the ruined edifice. He too scanned the tufts of long grass and sparse brush for the enemy.

     “Sit down, young one,” Thordred said. “They will be here soon enough. You will do your duty. Have no fear. We will return you to your bride. The enemy will not be many today. Our horsemen may arrive before the enemy, and I shall be deprived of sending the creatures back to the hell from which their dark lady took them. They are fierce, but mortal. My arrows have killed many. You may not even get to swing your sword at one of them.” Thordred laughed, motioning Dured to sit.  

          Thordred wore his yellow hair loose. The hair spread about the bottom of his helmet like a fan upon his shoulders. He carried no shield, trusting to his bow, sword, and sturdy hauberk to prevent the enemy from reaching him. He had seven children from the same wife. Seldom did a man have such good fortune that all of his children—and of such a number—would live.

     Dured sat, adjusting the position of his sword and sheath so that he could lean against the remains of the side entrance. He looked to Hubert who stood guard at the opposite wall. Hubert stood nearly as tall as Vilmo. Hurbert’s portion of the wall reached nearly chest high. With his shield and bundle of spears, he was well equipped to keep the enemy at bay. Like the rest of them, Hubert wore a long brown cloak. He might throw it off before the fighting started, or use it to distract an enemy in combat. Most men took off the long cloaks on the battlefield, but here, defending in the ruin, that might not be necessary. Dured did not know what Hubert thought as that one kept his thoughts and words to himself. Dured did know that Hubert’s two children, a boy and a girl carried water, and cooked for their sick mother while Hubert was away. His wife had pleaded for Hubert to be allowed to stay with her, but the King’s call had ordered all able-bodied men to battle. Small infantry detachments had been sent ahead to hold key positions while the main army of horsemen assembled under the king’s direction.

     The great storm cloud which had arisen to the east was moving in their direction, raining destruction and devastation as it came. For years they had fought against incursions by the Kru skirmishers and raiders. Now the enemy was coming in force. The stone ruin at the edge of the forest would be a key point of defense should the enemy elect to make this valley the thoroughfare for the invasion. Dured had heard it said that the enemy troops were not humans, but evil imps encased in bodies which had been created from earth and plant material by the wicked enchantress whose bidding they performed. Dured didn’t know whether to believe that tale. He did believe that they were coming. He had seen the smoke rising in the east; the entire sky had been stained with the tokens of the enemy’s deeds, a parchment writ large with the ink of destruction.

     Frebored yelled, “I see them. I count nine. Three before us, three to the right, and three more to the left.” The archer pointed from his platform which consisted of some remnant of stone and wood at the front left corner of the ruin. The platform was located to the left of, and above, Vilmo’s head. The enemy on the sides, judging from the direction of Frebored’s pointing were coming at 45 degree angles toward the ruin. The enemy advance scouts would make a three-pronged attack.

     Dured rose, stroking Liwana’s charm one last time before pushing it inside his hauberk. He grabbed his round shield and pulled his sword from the sheath.

     Thordred grumbled, “Don’t get anxious. There may not be any left for you when Zared, Frebored and I are done.”

     Zared, positioned at the left front corner of the ruin heard Thordred. He responded, “The wind is picking up. I see some of the grass bending, but it’s not steady, mere gusts. Those will give our arrows trouble.”

     “Speak for yourself, Zared,” Frebored said. “My shafts are always true.”

     “And your woman has always been faithful,” Zared laughed.

     Frebored turned his bow, upon which an arrow had been nocked but not drawn, toward Zared, “At least I have a woman,” he sneered.

     Vilmo shouted, “Silence!”

     Dured knew that Zared’s wife had been taken in a raid by the Kru dogfaces several months ago while she was away visiting relatives. Zared could only hope that they had killed her rather than kept her. Frebored’s comment would have started a fight back in the village; here on the cusp of battle, there was no time to fight among themselves.

     The three enemy groups advanced slowly.

     Frebored said, “I think I can make the range of the group in the center.”

     “Shoot,” Vilmo said.

     ***

     Onu started when the arrow plunged into the earth at his feet. He had not expected any accuracy from the Nahorn archers at this range. He took a step to the side and waved the left flank forward. He had orders to take the ruin at all costs. It would be a strong point about which the Nahorns could rally to delay the advance of the Kru army. They would want to stop the army before it reached the forest where their horsemen would be less effective. Naturally, Onu would do as he had been ordered. The Lady in the Tower would find rewards for those who served her faithfully. Some reward would surely trickle down to him. The eight Kru he had with him were not the best soldiers. They were young, but they would obey orders. They could fight. That was all he needed—obedient fighters for the pack. He worried only that the Nahorn horsemen would appear before he had taken the ruin. Upon the plain the horsemen would ride down and murder his dogfaces. He smiled at the name given by the Nahorns. The term was especially apt for the Kru with their jutting, fanged jaws and sloping noses. Although they didn’t grow beards like the pale ones, a short course hair covered their bodies. The Lady in the Tower had brought them down from the mountains where they had lived in packs. She had taught them to make and to bear arms like men. Now they did her bidding, slaking their lust for blood and meat. They still ran in packs, but now with shields and swords they brought down men and whole villages instead of animals. Men tasted better, and the rewards from the Lady were to be desired.

     On the left, Erth raced forward toward the ruin. His companions, Neves and Evif, hesitated before following.

     A Nahorn archer at the back corner of the ruin fired an arrow at Erth who deflected the missile with his shield. The archer fired again but missed.

     ***

     “You said you would get him,” Dured said to Thordred.

     “Shut up, kid. Don’t bother me when I’m working. I’ll hit him this time.”

     True to his word, Thordred put an arrow through the advancing Kru’s shoulder. Not to be outdone, and still troubled by the comment about the faithfulness of his woman, Frebored continued to launch arrows at the Kru in the center, but the wind gusts spoiled his aim.

     Zared was about to make a comment about Frebored’s shafts being as true as his woman, but his own shot at the same target went wide. Instead he said, “That Kru must be charmed. We’ve both missed him.”

     Dured watched the wounded Kru stumble but stay on his fee. The need to prove himself, to do something other than wait for the enemy, to rush at him, rose within his breast and became overpowering. He saw that the wounded Kru had become separated from his slower companions. “I can get him,” Dured said. He wanted to finish the dogface before the others came to help. Dured rushed forward from the ruin.

     Thordred cussed at the stupid kid to stay put but he knew his words were useless against the fear that forces one to fight it with brash foolishness.

     In his excitement, Dured crashed his shield into the Kru, knocking him to the ground. Hubert, seeing that Dured has left the side unguarded, and seeing that the Kru had not yet made any attempt to rush his side of the ruin, sped to the side entrance.

     “Watch him!” Vilmo shouted. “Don’t let him get killed. I want to kill him myself. Drag him back to his place!”

     ***

     Neves and Evif ran forward to assist Erth who had just pulled the arrow from his shoulder before being knocked to the ground by a Nahorn warrior. Before Neves and get within striking distance, the Nahorn archer at the back corner or the ruin put an arrow through Neves thigh. Erth kicked at the Nahorn warrior’s legs, nearly knocking him down, and scrambling to his feet as the warrior fought to keep his own balance.

     Onu waved to his dogfaces on the right. He saw that the Nahorn spearman had left his post. He would close the other jaw of the trap. Rorf, on command, sprinted in, leaping brush and dodging trees to approach the Nahorn archer on his side of the ruin. Xis also followed but some of that rotten horse he had eaten last night started to climb from its bed, and he stopped to hack it up.

     ***

     Before Zared could target and shoot, the big Kru was upon him. Zared dropped his bow and shoved his attacker away, but the Kru leaped right back at him. Zared dodged the enemy sword and slashed his attacker’s arm, running the edge of his blade along the Kru’s ribs in the process. The Kru yelped and ran back into the trees, checking his wound and glaring at the Nahorn archer. 

     “I’ve got more for you!” Zared screamed at the beast, thinking of his wife in those clawed Kru hands.

     Thordred fired again, putting another shaft into the Kru who was trying to remove the arrow in his thigh. With both legs wounded, the Kru turned and hobble-hopped away, yowling with each leap upon the injured limbs.

     “Well done,” Hubert said.

     Thordred nodded in acknowledgment. It was rare that Hubert spoke. Even less frequently did he speak words of praise.

     Frebored couldn’t stop thinking about his woman. Had she been unfaithful? He loosed another shaft at the apparent leader of the Kru, only to miss again. Stinking wind gusts.

     ***

     Evif charged in against Erth’s opponent. He could see that the Nahorn was a young man with little beard upon his face. If Evif and Erth could both attack together, the pinkskin would go down easily—he would go down easily again at the feast after the battle. It was not to be an easy kill. The Nahorn spearman intercepted him before he could strike the young one. The spearman’s impact knocked Evif away from the fight.

     Onu saw that it was time to pressure the center. He signaled and moved forward, dodging arrows sent by the Nahorn archer on the platform near the doorway. “Worry the man in the doorway!” He yelled to Enin. “Pin him in position, but do not try to enter the ruin!”

     Enin was a friend. They had hunted together much. The big Nahorn in the center with the long-handled axe was probably the enemy leader. If anyone could take him, Enin could, but Onu only wanted the leader occupied, unable to direct his troops or defend his flanks. The advantage would be lost if Enin pressed the fight and was wounded or killed. Obedient, and experienced, Enin closed with the axman in the doorway.

     Xis, feeling refreshed after liberating his gullet of the rancid horse meat, ran through grass and brush toward the archer who had taken a sword to Rorf. On that same side, Otwu found a burst of speed and bounded into combat against that same archer. The Nahorn deflected his blade, but their faces drew near. Otwu panted sultry, stench-laden breaths into the face of the warrior before pulling him away from the ruin wall.

     ***

     Dured, tasting for the first time, that battle bloodlust which tamps down fear into a small pouch in the pit of the stomach, and seeing that Hubert was about to be set upon by two dogfaces, let the frenzy possess his body and mind together. He slid under a blow from the wounded Kru and rose in his power to cleave the head from his enemy. Hubert had held his two attackers at bay. Dured, surprised at the ease with which the Kru neck severed, hurled himself at one of Hubert’s attackers.

     Thordred, unable to put any arrows into the fight for fear of hitting his Hubert and Dured, ran inside the ruin to try for a shot against the attackers on the opposite side where Zared had become engaged with two attackers.

     ***

     Rorf, finding all of his vital organs were still in place and fully functioning, licked the blood from his arm and bounded in to join Otwu against the archer. Otwu brought his sword high for a killing blow to the archer’s head, but the Narhorn warrior’s blade pierced his guts before the blow struck. Otwu thrust his shield down, pulling the bloody sword from the gaping wound in his belly, and dropping to his knees. The warrior drove his steel forward once more, plunging the blade into Otwu’s chest.

     “For my wife,” Otwu heard the warrior whisper through clenched teeth.

     Otwu’s world went black. He came forward as the blade receded, to slump in the expanding pool of his own blood.

     Xis charged over Otwu’s body, slashing at Nahorn warrior. The warrior ducked beneath the blow and Xis grabbed his hauberk. The two combatants spun, trading places.

     ***

     Thordred saw that Zared had been separated from one of his opponents and loosed an arrow at the Kru with the arm wound. The arrow glanced off the iron ring around the Kru’s shield. The Kru yelped in surprise and dashed behind a tree. Unfortunately for the Kru, the tree lacked the girth to block Thordred’s next shot, which penetrated the beast’s midsection. The Kru broke from cover, leaving a trail of blood marking the path of its retreat from the battle.

     ***

     Xis wondered if a general retreat had been called when he saw Rorf dash into the trees and run from the field. He pushed away from the Nahorn warrior and retreated a few paces before he saw Onu still on the field directing the other dogfaces. Rorf had always been a yelper. Xis looked to the other members of the pack—only himself, Onu, Thate, evif, and Enin remained. Four of his pack mates had fallen or fled. An arrow zipping past his face brought Xis back to focus on his own circumstances. He threw himself to the ground and began to roll. The Nahorn archer upon the platform put a missile into his exposed seat. The wound burned like fire. Xis leaped to his feet and ran away. Once more his responsibility to Onu and the pack stopped him. He removed the arrow and turned back toward the battle.

     Onu had snarled when Rorf had loped away to lick his wounds. He had snarled again when Xis had twice retreated. Xis had potential. He had been frightened and his inexperience had made him react by flight, but each time he had stopped. That one might make a true pack mate in time. Onu, angered at the inability of his right flank to maintain pressure, loped forward to throw himself upon the Nahorn warrior who had killed one and frightened another of his pack.

     ***

     Dured allowed himself to feel Liwana’s charm against his chest. She would be proud when she heard of his bravery. He raised his sword and jabbed it into the eye of the nearest Kru. That one flung himself away before the sword could drive into his brainpan. He backpedaled for several feet, having lost only an eye. Dured, the bloodlust mounting within him, spun to attack the remaining Kru facing Hubert. Dured’s ferocity knocked the dogface to the turf.

     Hubert stepped in with spear poised to skewer the falling Kru, but the crafty Kru deflects the spear and thrust the point of his sword under the warrior’s loose hauberk. The blade penetrated clothing, skin, and liver. The Kru rose as Hubert dropped, open mouthed, to the sod where darkness closed upon him.

     Dured knew fear. The rage left him. The panic seized him like a helpless mouse in the jaws of a mountain cat. He ran into the trees, not stopping until he had put significant distance between himself and the murderous Kru. He leaned against a tree, gasping for breath, trying to process the loss of Hubert. What would Liwana think? Could she ever take him back knowing that he had fled from an enemy? He forced himself to remember the bloodlust. He had slain one Kru and wounded another. He had Liwana’s charm. He gathered his courage to pound the fear back into a small pouch that he could carry back to the fight.

     Vilmo cursed. The right entrance has been left undefended. Hubert has fallen, and Dured had disappeared into the trees. He had to dispatch the Kru harassing him before an enemy entered and attacked him from behind. He supposed that this Kru was too inexperienced or fearful to carry-though with his assault. Vilmo forfeited the advantage of defending the doorway against the Kru and launched himself at the troublesome dogface. His assault bowled over the Kru. He stepped forward to cleave the enemy’s skull with his axe, but the fallen Kru was not as inexperienced as he had seemed. The Kru kicked Vilmo’s feet from beneath him, and turned the long blade on the bottom of his shield toward the falling warrior. Vilmo, surprised by the move, came down too hard and too fast to bring either his shield or axe to counter the move. The blade took Vilmo between the long tails of his moustache to pierce him beneath the chin, ripping through his neck and into his spine before tearing out the side of his throat.

     In a matter of seconds, the Nahorn had lost two of their best warriors, including the veteran leader Vilmo. Thordred, awestruck at the image of his dead sergeant sprawled at the feet of the triumphant Kru, could not believe his eyes. With a scream importuning his god, he flung himself over the back wall to escape the coming wrath of the Kru demon. Dismay and consternation gripped Frebored with frigid claws. He jumped from the platform, falling and breaking ribs against the stone floor. He remained on the floor, stunned by the impact.

     Dured heard Thordred’s rasping prayer. He saw Frebored fall from the platform, and the fierce Kru move over him. Dured, already shaken in his newfound courage, backed farther into the trees, but does not flee. Thoughts of Liwana pressing upon him. He had to see her again. He could not die here.

      Zared, locked in combat with the Kru leader, hissed a challenge and waded in swinging.

     ***

     Onu swept the legs from beneath the attacking Nahorn warrior. He followed with a series of slashes at the downed man, but the twisting target’s hauberk deflected each strike. Victory had suddenly reared its toothy maw and Onu desired to embrace it if he could.

     ***

     Thordred, regained enough presence of mind to nock and fire an arrow at the mighty Kru towering over Frebored. The bolt whistled straight and true, slashing through the throat of the dogface. The Kru fell. He dropped his weapon and shield, trying to staunch the spurting blood with both hands.

     ***

     With the loss of Enin, the Kru pack had lost over half its numbers. Thate and Evif began backing away in confusion, waiting for some command or reassurance. Onu remained engaged with the downed warrior. Xis, already some distance removed from the combat but near his pack leader, found the courage to remain on the field.

     Onu growled in rage and hacked, his blade finally biting through the metal scales and into ribs of the Nahorn warrior. The man grunted in pain, rolled away and scrambled to his feet. He fled in fear but Onu ran at his heels, anxious to bring down his prey. He succeeded in sinking his blade into his enemy’s shoulder, and knocking him down. As the man scrambled to his feet, Onu stabbed him in the back, piercing the hauberk again. The man neither fell nor turned to fight. Onu let the man run. He had other enemies to slay. There were still three enemies upon the field.

     Thate took courage at his pack leader’s success and loped to the ruin.

     Onu rushed the archer behind the ruin.

     ***

     Frebored got to his feet in time to see another Kru about to enter the ruin. Hurt, but able to fight, the archer sent a warm welcome at the end of a feathered shaft. The Kru dodged, running, throwing himself to the ground, and rolling back to his feet.

     Dured roared from the trees with his fear crammed deep. He collided with the Kru, who deflected his blade but tumbled to the ground. Dured glanced to his left in time to see Thordred’s body drop from the blade of the Kru leader. 

     Frebored has seen the Thordred’s death as well. He dropped his bow and ran from the ruin, clutching his broken ribs.

     There is no hope. Liwana’s calling me. Liwana’s calling me. Dured backed away from his foe.

     ***

     Thate couldn’t believe his luck. He got to his feet and pursued the young Nahorn into the trees. The young warrior at last turned to face him. In the combat, the warrior forced him to the ground twice, but Thate was able to avoid the attack and regain his footing each time.  

     Onu sped toward the combat. This was the last enemy on the field. He must fall. Before he could reach the combat, the young warrior opened Thate’s stomach with a mighty swipe of his sword. The dogface’s innards came out in a bloody roil. Thate went down with his hands grasping to gather his intestines.

     With Thate’s imminent death, Xis and Evif loped from the field.

     ***

     The big Kru leader barreled into Dured. They were the last combatants on the field. The intensity of the Kru attack threw Dured back and to the ground. He avoided the ensuing sword thrust and slashed the Kru across the side as he rose. His hopes ascended for a moment. He would be the hero of the day. He would win the battle and save the ruin. The Kru feinted low and then brought the blade high. The steel clanged against the side of Dured’s helmet before biting into his shoulder. Dazed but not out, Dured's thoughts waded as though through a swamp by candlelight. He realized that with such a wound he could have no hope of slaying the Kru. He felt the charm against his chest. Liwana’s calling me. Liwana’s calling me. My death will serve no purpose. Liwana’s calling me.

     Dured raised his shield with his good arm and retreated beneath it. The Kru let him go.

Copyright © 2020 Stanley Wheeler

All Rights Reserved

I taught a lesson about Fruit today--that was the title of the talk which was the subject of the discussion. I thought it went swimmingly--but no one got pushed in the pool. I've always thought that was an odd term, "swimmingly" I mean. Some people--moi, for example--find swimming very difficult and exhausting. I presume it's because I'm not doing it correctly. I should say the lesson went splendidly with gobs of appropriate and insightful participation, and no lack of flotation devices.

As for the usual formalities--or informalities as I'm rather informal on this site--the writing continued on schedule. Things have taken a bad turn for most of the heroes--or perhaps the proper description would be that the difficulties have continued--as multiple foes have pummeled, jounced, bumped, jolted, and jerked them about. My best estimate is that we're halfway to the summit. Things will get better, and then worse, and finally the last act in this part of the drama will splash across the remaining pages in vivid color, framed in black and blue.

***
For those interested in my skirmish game, I adapted a scenario, which I had created for another game, for play with my rules using some Lord of The Rings miniatures. I had rules for, but had not yet tested them, using armor and shields. This scenario tested those rules. The setup has six soldiers of Rohan with shields and medium armor defending a ruined building against an attack by nine Uruk-Hai who have shields but no armor for the sake of this test. The warriors have three archers; the Uruks ate their own archers the day before.

1. 

Frebored the bowman tries to acts first, but not before a Uruk steals an advance. Frebored shoots twice in rapid succession, his arrows stabbing into the dirt. The other warriors shrug it off as a case of early battle jitters. A second bowman, Thordred, fires and kills the Uruk who had advanced. The others are out of his range. The last bowman, Zared, only gets off a single shot, a near miss which worries the Uruk leader so much that he wets himself and speed away from the battle as fast as his crud-covered legs can carry him. Worst leader ever. One of his Uruks takes the hint and follows the leader off the field. The rest of the orcs curse to themselves about the problem of nepotism in leadership appointments, but otherwise ignore the two cowards. (This event resulted in a rules tweak for near-miss-moral-checks to make such a result even more unlikely).

The Uruk right flank moves in under light and inaccurate archer fire. The Uruk left flank, consisting of only one warrior now (having lost one to an arrow and another who fled with the fraidy-cat leader), also trots toward the objective, and experiences an intimate encounter with one of Thordred's arrows. The orc dies on the spot. The two remaining Uruks in the center rush forward. Frebored, atop the wall, fires a shaft which whispers wounding to the leg of one of the advancing Uruks in the center.

.

The Uruks have lost four warriors: two killed, and two fled from the field.

2. 

Rohan's archers continue to hold the orcs at bay. Frebored, over his earlier jitters, sends one Uruk scurrying back to lay low in the grass, and wounds another who retreats a short way with howls of pain. Zared got his good luck charm tangled in his bowstring and couldn't get off a shot.

Fallen number 4 Uruk regains his feet while dodging arrows. Number 3 Uruk charges into contact with the archer Thordred, and Uruk 6 encounters the spearman Hubert* at the crumbling wall. Wounded Uruk 2 rushes the Rohan leader Vilmo at the door or the ruin. Dured throws himself into the action to help Thordred with Uruk 3. Frebored, the archer up on the wall pierces Uruk 4 with a pointed message. The orcs have closed with the warriors of Rohan. The white-skins will feel their wrath.

3.

Dured of Rohan offers to introduce his sword to Uruk 3 in an effort to help Thordred (see bottom left of the picture immediately above). The Uruk is no mean opponent and the two are forced to disengage. Dured leaps back in to attack again. Neither combatant can get an advantage and they remain locked in combat. Dured smells the fetid breath and malodorous sweat of the his grim and dirty foe. Thordred shouts a challenge and also springs upon Uruk 3. Meanwhile, Uruk 4 slips in his own blood, falling to the ground. Uruk 4 scrambles back to his feet while Frebored's poorly aimed arrows fail to hinder him.

Vilmo lunges at Uruk 2 in the doorway, but the orc outmaneuvers him and switches places with Vilmo, throwing Vilmo out of the doorway, but placing Uruk 2 in contact with both Vilmo and Zared. Uruk 4 engages Hubert across the broken wall and receives a painful injection from Hubert's spear as his reward. Dured, driven mad by the stink of Uruk 3, shoves his sword into the Uruk's gut. The orc slips to the ground, still panting fetid breaths but unable to rise. Uruks 4 and 6 are so grieved at the loss of their comrade, and without a leader to strengthen their resolve, they run from the field in search of immediate grief counseling. Uruk 5 had fallen back to see what his comrades would do. When Uruk 4 left the field, 5 discovered a sudden interest in seeking alternative career possibilities, leaving only Uruk 2 to continue the battle. Uruk 2 has been wounded, and has fought his way into the ruin, only to be abandoned by his comrades. In combat with two warriors, he turns his fury on Zared, shoving him away. The Uruk is free to fight Vilmo without interference. He clashes with the axe-wielding Vilmo and they bounce away from each other. 

4. 

Zared wants to finish the matter with a bowshot but that good luck charm about his neck has once more become caught in his bowstring.

Uruk 2, disgusted by Zared's dangling good luck charm, charges into the bowman.

5. 

Uruk 2 goes for the throat of  Zared, but the warrior shoves him back--that charm is working! Vilmo sees an opportunity and moves toward the Uruk with his axe swinging.

6. 

Vilmo knocks the orc away without causing him any damage.

7. 

Vilmo shouts for Dured to help trap the Uruk. Dured moves in to block the Uruk's movement. Hubert brings his spear to bear as Dured kicks the feet from beneath the Uruk. Hubert drives his spear through the Uruk's ribcage, pinning him to the ground. The Uruk cannot continue the fight. Rohan is victorious.

-The red blobs on the bases are wound markers.

*If Hubert sounds like a name for a French character, that's because it is. I transferred some other characters to this scenario and didn't spend much time changing names.

Why I Hate Nick Cole

Hate is a strong word. Strong words are unequivocal. They leave no doubt about one's intent and meaning. I don't mean to convey a sense of apathy, or simply an inability to appreciate. Without hyperbole or exaggeration, my hatred for Nick Cole boils like a seething cauldron heated by the fires of the earth's core (that is, according to one source, about 10,800 degrees Fahrenheit, 6000 Celsius -- which is about the same as the surface of the sun -- other sources put it at about 9,800 F or 5,400 C). I will allow the magma of my malice, the lava of my loathing, to erupt here in a great burst of bile and enmity.

Before I get to the spurting spite and erupting execration, allow me to digress. The writing this week went wonderfully. I exceeded the daily goals and added another bonus set on Saturday. Although there was a bunch of dialog, various episodes of biting, fighting, and struggling against the unstoppable forces of nature kept it lively. A couple characters made surprising developments which will undoubtedly play into the exciting finale. If you haven't read the first two books in the series, Threading the Rude Eye and Power to Hurt, you should get them now. Links are in the column at the left.

And now, back to the promised splenetic outburst.
It all began when I picked up The Red King by Nick Cole.

I posted this same picture last week, and carelessly sprinkled about a few words of mild praise. I was wrong. Even then, at less than halfway through this novel, I had an inkling.

The thing is, I picked up this book for free without realizing the zombie apocalypse nature of the story. I have absolutely no interest in the genre. I don't read that despicable stuff. That's not who I am, and I look down with disdain (utter disdain) upon those who read that genre which I consider to be the lowest, most untouchable, vile, unclean of all fantasy/sci fi genres (that's probably an exaggeration, but I'm rolling here). So that may give you some idea of the reason for my rancor toward Mr. Cole.

After I discovered the nature of the book, I read it anyway--Don't judge me. I had my reasons. I expected to read a few pages or a couple chapters before putting it aside in disgust with a snide sneer (that's redundant but I like the alliteration and that's a subtle theme in this post) of authorial superiority. I had planned to refer to the book in passing, simply mentioning that I had read it but that the genre was not something I could appreciate--neither praising nor condemning Mr. Cole.

Unfortunately, Mr. Cole's gravelly yet smooth narrative voice--like dark chocolate syrup over a crushed bed of mixed nuts with a mere hint of sea salt--sucked me into the story. His descriptions flow very near to the point at which my interest threatens to wain, but he stops just short, creating an almost perfect setting rich in color, texture, and atmosphere. I get the sense that Mr. Cole might be describing places right outside his front door, just down the road, or couple blocks over from his home or the shops which he frequents.

Cole creates characters. These aren't ambulating cliches in clothing descriptions. The characters lug around their own strengths and weaknesses, promising continuing development. They beckon the reader to follow their adventure. That adventure could be called dull at times--if a roller coaster ride through a shooting gallery across a mine field beneath attack choppers can be called dull.

In all of the excitement, amidst all of the running, shooting, killing, whacking, drinking, smoking, hiding, meetings and conversations between enemies and allies, Cole creates gritty, realistic characters and takes them on white-knuckled rides through extreme hazard and exhilarating jeopardy without resorting to insulting the reader with profanity and filth. That feat alone sets Cole apart from, and well above, the majority.

It's not often that I find an author whose work I would rather read than my own. If Cole's other books are as good as this one, he falls into that very limited category. There you have the source of my hatred--absolute, naked jealousy. How can I expect to write as well as Nick Cole? He took me on a journey that I resisted, and compelled me to enjoy it in spite of how determined I had been to loathe the experience. Curse you, Nick Cole.

I do have another reason to hate Nick Cole. I know it's early in the new year, but I have little hope of reading another book this year which constrains me to forego other activities, or which induces me to sneak in a few pages during breaks between court cases like this one did. I'm already getting the tremors because I need another drink of Cole's literary liquor. Curse you, Nick Cole.

The Red King by Mr. Cole is a magnificent tour de force. I don't know if I can resist purchasing the next book in the series. Curse you, Nick Cole.

An Interview with David Butler,

author of the Witchy War series, and much more

Please tell me a little about your current work in progress.

I am currently writing Serpent Daughter, which is the fourth book in the Witchy War, and commences its second trilogy. Sarah Elytharias Penn fights a two-front war even as her body is wrecked and dying due to her overuse of magic. Her brother Nathaniel and sister Margaret try to reconcile with their estranged uncle, and the giants of the north arise from their ancient quiet to bring their founding myths to life.

Where did you get the idea for this book or series?

The Witchy War is a fairy tale about my own three children, wrapped inside American folklore and organized as an epic fantasy. It’s also in part inspired by the Thirty Years War, and by the classic work of historical anthropology, Albion’s Seed.

Do you write in more than one genre?

Yes. I also have a middle grade series published with Knopf (The Kidnap Plot and sequels), and YA dystopian novels (Crecheling and sequels), The Cunning Man, which is occult detective, or, as I prefer to think of it, the urban fantasy of the old, weird America, City of the Saints, which is steampunk, and the forthcoming novels In the Palace of Shadow and Joy (which is sword and planet adventure, or a pseudofantasy noir tale) and The Wilding Probate (which is a thriller).

Tell me about something that you believe makes your writing unique or worthy of attention.

I incorporate actual songs, with genuine melodies and chord structures, into nearly all of my books. My fantasy writing tends to build on genuine real-world folk magic, or real-world anthropological thinking about magic—I think that so-called ‘hard magic’ is a betrayal of the fantasy genre, nonsense on stilts, and a spent force. I love indirect world-building by the inclusion of artifacts and in-world documents rather than by exposition.

Is there anything about your personal history or personality that manifests strongly in your writing?

I suspect there are many, many things. Lawyers and bankers and entrepreneurs are maybe unusually prominent in my writing, as they have been prominent in my various careers. My interest in languages shines through, especially in an epic like the Witchy War, in which numerous real-world languages poke through, not to mention some imaginary language. I’ve got a mystical bent, and I tend to believe that mortality is a constant experience of taking action despite uncertainty and unreliable information, and I think that all manifests in my stories.

What else would be helpful for readers to know about you?

To paraphrase something Greil Marcus wrote of Bob Dylan, you can’t understand my serious writing unless you realize that it always contains at least a little bit of humor, and you can’t understand my jokes unless you realize that they’re always dead serious.

Excluding your own work, what underrated author or book would you recommend that more people read? Why?

My favorite living writers are Tim Powers, for his secret histories, with their madcap fantasy reimaginings of real-life figures, and Neal Stephenson, for his ambition tackling of serious, big ideas. I also highly recommend a number of current indie writers, including space opera adventure writer L.J. Hachmeister and pulp novelist David J. West. I love people with idiosyncratic visions, and I should throw in one more, in that vein: Steven Peck writes cerebral, grotesque semi-fantasies deeply rooted in his native small-town eastern Utah, such as The Scholar of Moab and Gilda Trillim: Shepherdess of Rats.

Which of your books do you most highly recommend? Why?

I expect different readers will prefer different books of mine, depending on their age, genre preferences, and other factors. I myself have no favorites. I’m happy for people to buy and like them all.

Which break, event, decision, or fortuitous circumstance has helped you or your writing career the most?

Getting published by Toni Wesskopf. 

What question do you wish you would get asked more often?

Q. “Dave, is that a Dukes of Hazzard reference?”

A. “Yes.”

Do you have a catch-phrase or quote that you like? What is it? And why do you choose it?

I recently bought the posthumous Leonard Cohen album. Like all posthumous albums, it’s a mixed bag that should probably only be bought by completists and real fans, but it opens with a great couplet:

I was always working steady, I never called it art

I got my shit together, meeting Christ and reading Marx

I like that refusal to specialize, and the demurral to the artist’s claim to be a chosen or blessed person. The game belongs to those who do the work.

Is there anything you wish you had known about the writing and publishing business before you got into it? If so, what?

I wish I had really clearly understood that, as a writer, I'm the CEO and shareholder. Agents and editors are joint venture partners, but if you as a writer treat them like your bosses, you will not get what you want out of your writing career.

Can you tell me something you have discovered to be extremely important about the writing/publishing business?

There's way more luck involved than any successful writer or publisher really wants to admit. After luck, persistence is the most important thing. Skill's not even third, it's somewhere farther down the line.

What advice would you give to writers who are struggling to get book sales?

Keep going. Damn straight, it's hard. No one can defeat you but you.

Is there anything you miss about leaving the law/banking business?

Well, I'm still involved in some of that. In fact, in 2020 I'm starting a new consulting business in the field. One thing I enjoy about my work as a lawyer / trainer / consultant is that there are times when I know I've made a difference for someone, whether that means I helped a startup raise capital, or I taught someone to understand their financial statements, or I helped close a big acquisition -- those things have real-world effects that are often immediate.

I see that you do a tremendous amount of traveling, do you feel that's necessary to help your book sales, or do you do it for other reasons?

I do it for my day job(s); I travel to train, and meet clients, etc. But given that I must travel, I make good use of that time -- as of this writing, I believe I've visited 43.9% of Barnes & Noble stores in existence, to sign stock and give a book to a staff member. In that same travel, I also arrange more formal signing events, and I have lunch with readers, and I go to conventions. If you want your book to be read, you must sell somehow, and it's efficient to use synergies with your day job and other activities to do so.

Do you know if anyone has ever compared your writing to that of Orson Scott Card? And what would you say to anyone attempting to make such a comparison?

That comparison has been made, and there are at least two aspects in which it's an apt comparison (maybe more than two). First, his Seventh Son and sequels are an important inspiration for the Witchy War series, both in terms of being set in a frontier America kind of setting, but also in terms of the kind of fantasy world-building they contain. The Witchy War is not conventional alternate history, instead it's a kind of funhouse mirror reimagining of North America, and that's true of Seventh Son, also. And secondly, Card more or less openly brought Mormon history and themes into speculative fiction, in Seventh Son, but also in his Homecoming Saga. Without those predecessors, it's tough to imagine that I could have gotten, for instance, The Cunning Man (which is a fantasy novel set in 1935 about a Mormon wizard battling the demons of the Great Depression) published.

Visit Mr. Butler's Amazon Page

My friend from last week's post told me that he finished Smoke. He talked as if he enjoyed it very much. Like many of those who tell me that they have read it, he's looking for a sequel. That book was written as a stand alone. At some point I will write another book in that 1948 setting featuring some of the same characters. It is my favorite of the books I've written (so far). I simply haven't felt moved to write a sequel. When I started writing Smoke, I only had the opening scene, and a confidence that the story would develop. I wrote that scene and then waited for more ideas to coalesce. I figured out the ending and then had to figure out how to get to it. Along the way, I changed the ending, added characters and had the best time ever writing the story which connected that opening scene with Noah and Monica to the exciting conclusion. That book took me a couple years to complete from the time I began writing the first scene until I posted it to Amazon--of course, I was writing two other books at the same time.

Enough boring reminiscing of the ghost of writing past. (Which makes me think of this). The current project is progressing nicely. I hit my word count goal every day this week and pounded out more on Saturday. Chapter seven is half finished. Chapter six turned out to be longer than I had expected. I've known the ending from the beginning since I started, but some of the pieces in the middle remained nebulous; those are getting clearer all the time. There's been no shortage of action, but I had to do some lengthy dialog for some necessary character development and background. I'm about to crank up the action knob several clicks.

***

I've started reading this book by Nick Cole:

I saw that it was free and picked it up without realizing that it's a zombie apocalypse book. I started reading anyway. I quite like the author's style and technique so far. I'm only 20% in (ten chapters read). I'll post a review when I've finished the book. This is another author that I would like to interview.

Speaking of author interviews, the world famous writer, traveler, and B&N frequenter DJ Butler has responded to my interview request. I expect to post the interview as soon as he responds to my annoying follow-up questions--and his response arrived before I completed this blog post--give me a day or two and the interview will appear.

As for reading, I read two other books--one book and a short story, actually.

As far as I know, this is the first book I've read by Farmer. I want to read some of his other works. This was a short story, or novella, with a Twilight Zone vibe. It was one of those stories where a more astute reader would have caught the coming ending more quickly than did I. It's not a very cheery read.

This book from the golden age of science fiction features a billionaire-scientist-inventor-soldier as the protagonist. The story begins with the discovery of an alien scout ship that speeds through the solar system using its superior technology to have its way with the human settlements and ships after the manner of a hot knife carving butter before heading homeward to assemble an invasion fleet. The protagonist must use the clues left by the alien to counter and overcome the alien technology. It's a battle for the solar system and the existence of the human race.

***

In conclusion, because it's tough to get enough Mark Twain quotes, here's this from Huckleberry Finn:
"Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me."

Best news of the day: Someone obtained a paperback copy of my detective novel Smoke and stopped me to tell me that they were enjoying it. Links to my books, including Smoke, are at the left hand side of this blog. Check them out for yourself.

That leads me to this painting by Thomas Badger. I have no idea what it's supposed to depict, but I think it represents writers tracking down a reader to insist that he post a review.

Speaking of reviews. I did finish

I picked it up with my prime membership for less than a song, free, in fact--which is precisely what it was worth to me. I have seen this book, or at least a book of Ellison's short stories with this name on the cover ever since I first started reading science fiction as a kid. The title alone struck me with all the sweetness of a shot of kerosene in a dirty glass with a needle in it. I always avoided it, even as a free library book. So why would I chose to read it now? I recently saw a documentary, or at least part of one, about Harlan Ellison. His life story was interesting, to severely understate the matter. In one clip he called Dan Simmons the best writer in the room. The show also indicated that those two writers had an extreme disagreement when they met, but the documentary didn't explain the nature of that disagreement. So the documentary prompted my curiosity, and I was also familiar with the Star Trek episode "City on the Edge of Forever" which Ellison wrote. Although that is a great episode, it's not my favorite. It is, however, much better than any of the stories in this book. Ellison is was (he passed away in 2018) obviously talented. He put words together in a way that piques my interest...and then consistently makes me sorry that I became interested. In these stories, he frequently launched a series of word punches with the apparent intent to pummel the reader into submission to  his innate superiority, to compel the reader into accepting the unbelievable story because he demanded it. It's a forced hallucinogenic trip by proxy, an overdose of LSD nihilism. I thought some of the stories had great potential and would have provided the settings for great novels. Instead, they all raced to the same rat hole of despair. I did enjoy a few of the stories until the endings. The endings were always predictable, saturnine, lugubrious, and grim. Of course, my opinion is vastly overshadowed by the hordes of Ellison fans. The guy can write. I'll have to try some of his other works to see if these stories merely represent one side of a great writer.

***

I'm suddenly reminded that I was thinking about actors that I would cast in roles for the characters in Threading the Rude Eye, and Power to Hurt. I think Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson would make a great Atu. I'm torn between a young Anna Friel and Zoe Boyle for the role of Cat. Jeremy Irons or Pierce Brosnan would be interesting choices to play Jonathan. Actually, I might like Irons for the role of Old Will. Antonio needs a young John Rhys-Davies type. A late 30ish Jeff Bridges might work for Charles, but I'm not sure about that one, as Charles keeps a lower profile than I've seen in a Bridges character. I wonder about the Alex and Lucette characters. I would play with the idea of a young Tom Cruise for Alex and a young Heather Lind for Lucette. I'm sure there are other good choices of actors who are the right age now, but they're not coming to mind. I may consider more roles, and reconsider these roles another time. It's not as if the series will be made into a movie in the near future.