Before I tell you of the wrestle I had before the Craftsman war machine in preparation for an attack upon the green horde which has my castle nearly encircled, I must clarify the progress of Clamorous Harbingers (not to be confused with Glamorous Hamburgers). Having utterly failed to justly render an exciting conclusion to the trilogy at less than 100K words, I've decided to triumphantly end the book with not only the cataclysmic battle for the original McGuffin, but also with the clash in the caverns. I had thought to wait on the telling of the clash in the caverns until the next book, the beginning of the next trilogy, which I'm tentatively calling Wings of Rebellion, but it makes this conclusion perfect if I include it in this trilogy. My new goal is 120K words. I'm currently at around 105K, and each chapter is more awesome than the last.

It will blow you away!

Maybe not quite so literally as shown in this GIF, but, as Yoda would say, upon you a great impression made will be.

***

     I had a date with Destiny. On this day, Destiny had a mind of her own. It pained me to do so, but I had to cuff the dame around a bit to get her to see things my way. I set the date a couple weeks ago when I mowed the yard for the first time this year. The grass towered; the mower blades had all the sharp, incissive, trenchant characteristics of a wad of chewing gum--not a great combination. The war machine didn't so much cut the grass as give it a good roughing-up and warn it about what could happen next time. I had resolved to sharpen the blades before mowing again.

     The morning broke cool and clear like that first pointed paper cup of water from the cooler. The scent of insecticide wafted in from the neighboring field, and I relished the bitterness in my nostrils. I tightened my belt a notch, or I would have if I had been wearing a belt. Instead, I thrust my thumbs into the waistband of my Levis and drew them up an inch. This pair is a little loose in the waist and frequently cause me to feel like they might fall off. My wife bought me 3 pair of the articles (back when we had the brisk discussion about how I was patching my old jeans, as some of you may remember). Each pair is supposed to be the same size. One of the three fits snugly, the pair in question fit a bit loosely, and the third pair fit too tightly to comfortably wear--that's some kind of quality control they have going there. Anyway, as is my wont, I have digressed. Let me resume: I drew the jeans up an inch and strolled to the shed to select a number of old 2x6s to use as a ramp. Four was the number of the boards that I selected because I wanted to be certain the boards would hold; two felt flimsy, so I doubled them up. I lowered the tailgate on the pickup and placed the boards.

     With the table set for my date with Destiny, I confronted the Craftsman war machine. It started on my command. That's the sort of relationship we have: I command; it obeys--sometimes. I was relieved to discover that this was one of those times. I drove it part way up the ramp, enough to expose the deadly underbelly of the beast. I set the brake, killed the motor, and made a perfect dismount. Only the Russian judge marked me down out of spite, and the war machine rolled back down the ramp.

Destiny can be a fickle lass, retracting her favor just when victory seems assured. As she withdrew her favor, I slapped the retreating hand by insisting on victory: I would take advantage of the angle of the war machine and jack it up and tip it backwards to rest upon braces at the rear. Destiny laughed. When I jacked the monster higher, using two cinder blocks as the base for the jack. I raised the machine from the ramps sufficiently for it to begin to tip to one side. Not only did my blocks and jack prevent me from accessing the underbelly from the best position, the thing would never stay in place once I started twisting the bolts. I had to rethink the attack.

With Destiny's cackling laughter still ringing in my ears, I allowed that I would have to do what I had hoped to avoid. I moved the pickup to the back of the house where the ground falls away in a short but steep slope. With the boards in place, I drove the machine upon the ramp once more and set the brake. Now that the ramp angle was much less than the roughly 60 degrees (maybe less than 30 degrees here) the machine did not roll back. I had access to the mower blades. The 5/8th socket from my grandfather's old socket set proved to be the only socket that would fit the two bolts which held the blades in place. With the a hearty taunt, I showed Destiny the back of my hand, and removed the mower blades.

I thought I heard a faint giggle as I took the first blade to the bench grinder my father-in-law had given me some 30 years ago. The grinder had seen little use, but it had served me well when I had needed it. The grinding wheels didn't turn when I hit the power switch. They groaned like a sick bison in labor, but they refused to turn--which is something you expect wheels to do (turn, I mean, not groan like a bison). I assisted the wheels and got them going. When I touched the metal of the mower blade to the spinning wheel, the wheels slowed, and stopped--not the most desired result, not in the top three, in fact. Destiny loosed a peal of laughter which clawed at my ears like a wildcat with a migraine.

     I was not to be deterred. I knew how to solve this problem. I pushed Destiny away. She tripped on the hem of her long gown and fell to the ground in a sullen heap. I stepped over her to go for the secret ingredient, that salver of wounds, saver of days, and repairer of broken tangibles: money. I grabbed a modest handful of cash and headed to one of the local hardware establishments. Once upon the premises, with neither mask nor scrip, I might add (well, maybe scrip or sorts; I had cash), I confronted a dilemma. (Would a dilemma, be two lemmas?) Should I get the bench grinder for $50.00, or the hand grinder for $30.00?

     Upon reaching the checkout with my purchase, I faced another difficulty. Only one register was open. One guy was at the counter where the clerk stood behind a freestanding sheet of plexiglass, but neither wore a mask nor had any other sort of microbial protection. That wasn't the problem. The problem was figuring out who was ahead of me in the line. Someone stood on a piece of red tape on the floor. A guy in a hat stood farther way to the side, opposite of my approach. I figured I would wait casual like to see if the hat guy planned to approach the checkout. I could only hope there weren't more people lined up behind him, ready to pop into view like clowns from a tiny car, if I tried to approach the register. I learned all I needed to know when a masked lady carrying a small potted plant marched toward the counter with the intent of stepping up behind the guy on the tape. As she passed me, she suddenly drew up when realization that these were strange times tapped her on the shoulder. She looked at the guy in the hat.

     "Are you in line?" she asked of l'homme au chapeau.
     "I'm right after that guy," he pointed to the man waiting on the tape.
     She looked at me, "Are you in line too?"
     "I'm after him, unless there's someone behind him down that aisle," I replied.
     "Oh," She said. She moved back to stand behind me.

     Her confusion was understandable. Hat guy and I weren't adjusting ourselves to align with the tape on the floor which stretched down the aisle between us as we had approached from opposite sides of the register rather than up the marked aisle. That's the way we rolled.

     I paid with cash and didn't bother trying to stand behind the plexiglass as it would have been impossible to pass the money through the glass, there being no openings in it. The clerk didn't seem to care, and neither did I.

     As for the rest of my date with Destiny, that skirt snickered a few times as I assembled the hand grinder, but she was soon laughing out of the other side of her face. I ground cutting edges onto the mower blades that would make a sous chef squeal with delight, but, honestly, no one would want to cut their food with those mower blades. Not only would it be awkward, and gross because of the hardened residue of grass gore upon parts of the blade, because, although the edge may be sharp, the blades are too thick to slice meat, tomatoes, bread, and most other things--carrots, they might be okay for slicing carrots, or celery, but a knife would still be better. I see that I have digressed again. Please go to the next paragraph.

Destiny stood by in silence as I reattached the mower blades. She left and I had to lead the attack against the green horde by myself. Once more, the war machine and I took the battle to the enemy, literally mowing down the horde. The casualties were too many to number.

***

Bonus Shakespeare quote that is appropriate for the current time:

"And you all know, security
Is mortals' chiefest enemy." --Shakespeare, MacBeth, Act III, Scene 5.

A Flintlock Fantasy Book Review

And an Unexpected Gift

Rather than begin with the gift I received from a higher-up on Monday (I'll discuss that gift below), let me open with a review of Brian McClellan's Promise of Blood which I finished reading this week.

I've wanted to read this book ever since I first heard about it. However, I refused to pay ten dollars or more for an ebook in the fiction category. Fortunately for me, I got it for only $1.49 plus the $1.50 credit I had earned for choosing slow shipping on some other orders. Seeing that the price of the book had dropped to $2.99 for a short time--a day, a week, I don't know how long--I snapped it up immediately. Which reminds me: My flintlock fantasy novels and my western novels are available for only $0.99 for a limited time -- see the left side of this page and click on one of the books.

Let me be clear about one thing: I really enjoyed reading Promise of Blood. While the book fell short of my expectations in some respects--which I will discuss--I did enjoy the book and my complaints should be taken in that context.

In a nutshell, the story concerns the aftermath of a coup by a field marshal which topples the king. The marshal is a powder mage. These mages use gunpowder to enhance their natural abilities, and they have the ability to detect, detonate, and direct the blast of gunpowder. They can also direct, or redirect musket balls in flight.There are other magics involved that are crucial to the story and to the conflict between the powder mages and the old order. The main story involves Tamas, the field marshal who led the coup, and his efforts to stamp out the old order and to find the traitors still in positions of power before a neighboring nation with conquest on its mind invades and destroys everything. There's also the story of Adamat, a retired detective, employed by Tamas to learn the meaning of the cryptic message uttered by the dying sorcerers of the old order. The book doesn't wrap  up everything at the end, and the apparent resolutions may only be preludes to greater complications.

The story moves along at a nice pace. In my opinion it never drags or becomes bogged down in trivial detail or description. At least one reviewer has complained that the story depends too much on telling rather than showing as the author often tells the reader what the characters are thinking as opposed to letting the reader infer the character's thoughts by what they say and do. While the author does tell me what some of the main characters are thinking, I found that it helped move the story at a pleasant pace. I would complain that some authors frequently waste time and words in an effort to show (or pad the word count) when the showing isn't all that interesting, and telling would keep the story focused and progressing.

The author builds interesting characters. There are many characters of various figurative hues and professions. Most of them have virtues and flaws. Although I can't say that I really like any of them--in the unconditional way that one might like Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, and others in the fellowship--some of them have redeeming characteristics and/or difficulties that make them sympathetic. Adamat the detective, and Taniel, Tamas' son, fall into this category. I suspect that Adamat may be one of the characters who survives to the end of the series--but I could be wrong.

The world building never becomes a slog. There are no info-dumps that bury the reader in strange names and bizarre histories. Strange names and bizarre histories do roam like fat cattle upon the fertile plain, but the author doesn't attempt to drive them down the reader's throat by the herd. Even after completing the book, I recognize that I don't understand much of the lore and history. I think some of the characters in the story don't understand it all either. I don't mind the background and larger setting being dribbled out over time. It's like savoring the flavor a new spice that had not previously been manifest in the dish.

Overall, Promise of Blood is a great book. Readers of fantasy, and the flintlock fantasy sub genre, should enjoy the book.

My complaints: The story has been billed by some as something like "The French Revolution with Wizards" but I didn't find that to be an accurate representation. I would have liked more flavor of the French Revolution and/or Napoleonic period than the book delivered. The guillotine figured into the story, and there were some public executions. However, the story never conveyed the terror of a changing tide and tenor, or the confusion and upheaval associated with the regime change. I also would have liked to have seen some large armies maneuvering for battle with generals taking the measure of opposing forces and throwing formations of men at one another in search of the weak link in order to render the enemy position untenable--perhaps those are in later volumes in the series. I would have enjoyed some small unit skirmishes described in detail. Most of the fighting described was rather disorganized and more dependent upon the magic users than the small unit tactics. What the author did was great; I came to the story with certain hopes which were left unrealized. Finally, there are actual gods involved (probably) in the story, and that's a heavy gun that would I prefer to see left in the artillery park. Still, if the next book in the series comes up cheap, say $2.99 or so, I would probably get it. As long as it remains at twelve bucks, I won't be getting it. If I could get a cross of the best parts of Django Wexler's Thousand Names and Brian McClellan's Promise of Blood, with a little more French Revolution and Napoleonic flavor, I would probably still complain because a picture is worth a pound of cure; you can lead a horse to water but you can't change his spots; a stitch in time gathers no moss; curses like chickens are in the eye of the beholder; don't blow your trumpet before swine; don't count your chickens in one basket; never look the early bird in the mouth; every cloud has his day; Rome wasn't built on the other side of the fence; too many cooks get the grease; when the going gets tough, skin a cat; where there's smoke there's a way; while the cat's away another door opens; you can catch more flies without breaking eggs; you can't teach an old dog and eat it too; birds of a feather shouldn't throw stones; familiarity breeds spilt milk; the pen is mightier than the better part of valor; an apple a day killed the cat; a journey of a thousand miles is worth two in the bush; and a bad workman blames the bridge when he comes to it.

I have to apologize for that digression above, but once I got started down that road paved with twisted proverbs, my good intentions all went to... well, you know.

***

As for the gift from a higher-up this week, it came on Monday. I was enjoying an afternoon constitutional, before resuming my efforts at creating a power point presentation on Fourth Amendment issues, when something flashed before my eye. I looked around, unsure of what I had seen. I couldn't see anything, near or far. When I sat back down at the desk to resume my project, I noticed a peculiar smell. The aroma bore a certain familiarity, but I could not place it. I checked my garbage can, as well as the soles of my shoes. I couldn't find the source. Every time I leaned forward to examine my presentation material, the unpleasant odor wafted its way to my senses. Eventually, the smell went away, or I got used to it. I thought no more about it. A couple hours later, someone came into to ask me a couple questions and left with answers, but made no remarks about any observances. It wasn't until I went into the restroom that I discovered the gift. The higher-up, a bird sitting upon a wire, had delivered an unwanted present as I had walked beneath its perch. On the chest of my lovely, sky-blue shirt, right next to the pocket, was a big smear of what looked like it could have been Oreo ice-cream--but it wasn't. By that time the material had become dried and crusted. I brushed it away with a dry paper towel. I can't figure out why my visitor never asked about my decoration.

***

I'll have to save my review of Edgar Rice Burroughs' The Red Hawk until next time. As for my own work in progress, Clamourous Harbingers, Book Three of the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series, and end of that first trilogy, I'll need another couple weeks to complete the story. I'm at the cusp of 100,000 words. I expect to finish before I hit 120,000.

Removed the vent covers around the house today. Last week was the first lawn mowing of the year, as I didn't say any more about the mowing, you may assume it went smoothly--which is mostly true.

The Stewart Kings as Tolkien's Stewards of Gondor? And A Flintlock Fantasy Review

Fun Fact: James I of Scotland, was captured by pirates in 1406 (James was 11 years old). The pirates turned him over to Henry IV (played by Jeremy Irons in The Hollow Crown Series). (He was the first Plantagenet to speak English as his first language). James' father, Robert III, died and the uncrowned king of Scotland remained in captivity for 18 years. He fought with Henry V (played by Tom Hiddleston in The Hollow Crown Series) in France (see last week's post), and married Joan Beaufort just before his release in 1424. His re-entry into Scottish affairs was anything but smooth. He began by attacking his closest rival kinsmen to secure his position. He was eventually assassinated in February 1437. Joan was wounded but escaped to their son, James II, at Edinburgh Castle. James II was six years old. As for the assassination details, James and Joan were at Blackfriars monastery at Perth, and were at least temporarily separated from their servants. When the conspirators (about 30) entered the building, James learned of the conspirators' presence and attempted to escape through the sewer drain, but the drain, which passed beneath the tennis court, had been blocked off to prevent the loss of tennis balls (apparently on James' own orders a few days earlier). Double fault for James--Advantage murderers; I believe this was the first tennis related fatality, and it raised quite a stink.

James II was actually the younger of twin brothers. The older twin, Alexander, had died before his first birthday. James II was crowned in 1437. In 1449 the nineteen year-old married Mary of Guelders, the daughter of the Duke of Gelderland (Check this out for a dance of Gelderland). James II was nicknamed Fiery Face because of a vermilion birthmark upon his face. This is the same James that, as I mentioned I don't know how long ago, stabbed William Douglas 26 times and threw him out of a window. James II was a proponent of artillery and was killed in 1460 while besieging Roxburgh Castle when a cannon near which he was standing exploded. His son, James III was killed in 1488 either during or after the battle of Sauchieburn. James IV, son of James III was --- actually, he deserves his own fun fact post.

The above led me to consider whether the Stewart kings might be good candidates as real-life models for Tolkien's Stewards of Gondor in The Lord of the Rings. Previously I had speculated about the Kings of Numenor as the Plantagenets. Not only did I suggest that there was probably no merit to that idea at the time. I've since been reminded that Tolkien was not a big fan of the French and eschewed French terms in his writing. The true kings to represent Aragorn and his predecessors could not be the Plantagenets. As to the Stewarts for Stewards, probably the only similarity is in the similar spelling of Steward, and the Stewart spelling of Stuart.

If there's no similarity, why do I even bring it up? Well, there might be more good reasons that I haven't taken the time to consider. This all started with a fun fact about another royal person being captured by pirates and I arrived to this point by chance. I should have thought more about it before I posed the question. So I may come back to this another time. In the meantime, the lesson is that history is certainly as interesting as fiction, and fiction with some basis in history may make for the most interesting reading.

Such a statement naturally leads me to an update on the progress of my alternate history flintlock fantasy Clamorous Harbingers, book 3 in the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire Series. Here's another piece of the cover.

I have passed the 85,500 word mark. It looks like about 100K words at the finish. I had thought about writing the ending and working to it, but did not do that. I'm glad I didn't choose that option because some new ideas have emerged about exactly how the book (and the series) will end. I like the new ideas. The end will be an ever bigger spectacle than I had originally planned--and it will set up the successor series, tentatively called Wings of Rebellion.

Last time I offered some constructive criticism for authors doing readings of their books. Here's me reading the first chapter of Threading the Rude Eye -- and it's obvious to me that I learned almost nothing from my own instructions.

And here's the last third of the chapter, as I didn't realize that I wasn't pausing the video, but actually terminating it. I had to create second video to finish.

***

Finally, last time I did a short review of a book so distasteful to me that I didn't name either the book or the author. I continued my search for more flintlock fantasy, and I am pleased to praise a book today. Old Nathan by David Drake.

The book is a series of sequential short stories about Old Nathan, the cunning man. (I had to wonder if it was a source of inspiration for DJ Butler's and Aaron Michael Ritchey's The Cunning Man). The dialog is written to reflect the Tennessee back woods manner of speech at the time (I guess). It was a little off-putting, but not difficult to follow, and I got used to it fairly quickly. Old Nathan has some interesting abilities which include speaking with animals and creating various spells for given situations. Each story reveals more about Nathan and his history, as well as his neighbors and their problems. Nathan and his bull Spanish King have similar story arcs, which helps prepare the reader for the rather foreseeable conclusion, but the desire to see how it happens presses one to finish the tales.

The book came up in my flintlock fantasy search, but the flintlock rifle doesn't play much of a role. Nevertheless, I wasn't disappointed. I noticed several 1, 2, and 3 star reviews on Amazon. Interestingly enough, one of the 1 star reviews called it "very good" and gave it other compliments. Perhaps that reader doesn't understand the rating system. Most of the complaints were about the dialect, so it may bother some more than others. I rate it four out of five powder horns. It's still available for FREE on Amazon.

Plantagenets as Kings of Numenor?

Fun Facts: Henry V, King of England (and claimant to the throne of France via Edward III) and Charles VI (actual King of France) agreed by the Treaty of Troyes (May 1420) that upon the death of Charles VI, Henry V and his heirs would receive the French crown. Unfortunately, both of these kings died in 1422, and Charles VI (who was given to bouts of madness) survived Henry V by two months. Henry's infant son, Henry VI (son of Henry V and Catherine of Valois--Charles VI's daughter) then became King of England and King of France, and everyone lived happily ever after--not quite. Charles VII was still in France and he had supporters who did not recognize the Treaty of Troyes. Of course, the English were still in France, as were the Burgundians who were allied with the English. These enemy forces occupied much of northern France - including Paris, and Rhiems which was the traditional place for the crowing of the French kings. Enter Joan of Arc. Under her spiritual leadership, the French lifted the siege of Orleans, and took back several other places, crushing the English in the Battle of Patay--the French equivalent to the Battle of Agincourt. The French marched to Rheims and crowned Charles VII king. The Burgundians later captured Joan of Arc at Compiegne (one of my favorite places), and turned her over to the English who invited her to the to be the barbecue in May 1431. The Burgundians eventually left the alliance with the British and no French princes recognized Henry VI's claim as King of France. Over another decade or two, the French drove the English completely from France, with the lone exception of Calais.

Why the overlong and tedious history lesson? The actual reason is because over the last few weeks I re-watched The Hollow Crown series which comprises Shakespeare's Richard II, Henry IV parts 1 and 2; and Henry V. Naturally, that got me to thinking about the actual history, and one fact leads to another, and for every sentence I included in that little synopsis, there were hundreds that I did not. I was tempted to go all Dan Carlin's Hardcore History on it and go back to Edward III and creep forward from there. I'm disappointed that I don't have the time for that, and you probably don't have the attention span to read it anyway, but there are a lot of really cool and interesting things I left out. Maybe I'll come back to some of them sometime. Anyway, I hit upon a what if. What if Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings loosely modeled his Kings of Numenor upon the Plantagenets, and the Tudor Kings and their successors were the mere Stewards of Gondor until the real kings returned? Suppose Calais is represented Minis Ithil, making the Anduin a stand-in for the channel.

I just did a search and couldn't find anyone else making that connection. I'm sure there's a reason for that. The reason being that there's no merit to the idea. It is, however, interesting to consider. Learning about Tolkien's service in WWI and the conditions in the trenches and shell holes etc., certainly makes me think he incorporated some of that in his description of Frodo and Sam's journey through Mordor. So is it unreasonable to speculate upon him borrowing a bit of the history of English succession for his mythology?

***

As for my own battle against the blank page and the growing mythology of my alternative history flintlock fantasy, I've broken 83,500 words--make that broken, bent, mangled, wrecked, strangled, beaten, brutalized, and misused that number of words. Of course, the word count is slightly less than that number because I keep my notes reminding me of things to include in upcoming parts of the story and notes on things to go back and edit all at the end of my current place in the book, so those notes are always easy to find. I was aiming for 90K words. I think I will exceed that, but I'm still hoping to remain under 100K words for completion of the book.

Here's a partial cover reveal for Clamorous Harbingers:

It's a departure from the flame motif that I used on the first two books in the series, and a little darker than the tone of the book actually merits, but I made a command decision and now I'll ride that decision into the ground.

I have to finish the book soon, because I've got another novel working in my head that I need to move on before the ideas grow weary of waiting and catch the bus to that land populated entirely by the great ideas that I never acted upon. I did write a couple thousand words on it during the week, but that was just to get it started. When I woke up one morning the ideas were banging on my brainpan for attention, demanding the respect of being converted into writing, so I wrote the opening scene which included four important characters. It's a cross country swashbuckling adventure.

***

Speaking of riding things into the ground (I know that was an entire paragraph ago, but I added the intervening paragraph after I wrote this), the Corsican Brothers graced us with their presence and forced us to ride the 4 wheeler all over the west 40 again this week. They even wore jeans instead of shorts, so I could tell they were serious about wanting to ride. It was the first thing they requested when they came through the door. Unlike last week, the machine fired up right away. I still had to jump-start it, but the process went quickly and smoothly this time. I was also helped by the fact that I put gas in it before I tried to start it this time.

***

As for the skirmish game, I think I've hit upon the proper modification to the grappling rules, but I didn't get to play test them. I also came up with an idea for handling a minefield, and another for calling in artillery and air strikes.

I've seen a number of authors on fb reading their books. I've found them really awful for the most part. My advice is as follows: Raise your laptop or webcam up so that it's level with your face. I don't want to look up your nose or have you looking down at me the whole time. Second, practice reading before you go live--better yet, don't go live. Record it and post it after you've watched it, and maybe deleted that first effort and made a second or third recording.  I mention this because I thought about reading some samples from my books and posting them online. I watched myself on the webcam and determined that as bad as those other authors look--I look worse, even withe the webcam raised to be level with my face. I decided to use a cover of the book I'm reading instead of my own made-for-radio face. The learning didn't stop there. I learned that I need practice reading the female parts. The female voice I did during the practice recording sounded like a chain-smoking old lady with a bad cold. My wife will verify that I'm being too generous to myself with that description--but she's not here to stop me, so I'll describe it as I will. Anyway, I'm hoping to read and post a chapter or two this week. We'll see. Maybe one of my friends will send me a sample of them reading from one of my books.

Fun Fact: Celebrimbor forged the three Elven rings, Narya, Nenya, and Vilya; He also designed the Doors of Durin--the doors to Khazadum--that would be the Mines of Moria for those of you who have lives beyond Middle Earth and The Lord of the Rings (Khazad-dum for the raging purists who do not have a life outside of Tolkien's creation) which bear the stars of the seven sons of Feanor. That's fitting, as Celebrimbor was the last in the line of the House of Feanor.

I may wax dull and tiresome (including some witticisms no doubt less amusing than I think they are) about the three Elven rings at a later day. For now, I'm interested in the similarities between Celembrimbor and Mintawkana, a legendary character from my Tomahawks and Dragon Fire fantasy series. Both individuals were skilled, talented, and selfless, and their actions are relevant to the epic adventures which follow. I had not considered the similarity between the two until today. Mintawkana's story is still growing, so there may be many similarities before the end.

Speaking of the fantasy series--mine rather than Tolkien's--book three, Clamorous Harbingers, is moving right along toward the finish. It's closer than I originally thought as the resolution to an important side adventure will not be resolved until the following book, so that I can dedicate the remainder of book 3 to wrapping up the matter which has been the primary matter of interest since the opening of the story. There were days this week when the story rolled along so well that the words poured forth in a steady stream from the fountain of creation to flow across the page, letting the ink color the pages like gold settling upon the stream bed. I may write the ending now, and then return to the present spot in the adventure to write forward to that climactic finish already chiseled splashed upon the final canvas in brilliant technicolor. There are only a few chapters to go, either way.

***

In other news, none of us have succumbed to the crisis du jour, although the world has nearly shut down around us. I did put the torch to some zombies--weed zombies. The weeds grew up last year (or the year before) when the weather and my time were such that I got behind on spraying. The were huge and dead. It was a pleasure to dispatch them in an infernal blaze.

The Corsican Brothers made a visit. They brought along their parents. The highlights were the barbecued pork ribs and the four-wheeler safari through the jungle that is the west 40. They never grew weary of riding the bumpy trail with its straightaways, sharp turns, and the tall grass and towering plant carcasses within which savage predators could have been lurking, poised to pounce on the unsuspecting adventurer.

"Lurk" is one of those words that sounds a bit primitive, as if it still drips rivulets of primordial soup, and sports saber-like teeth. Merriam-Webster online indicates the first known use of the word was in the 14th century. So it may be somewhat younger than that particular soup.

Speaking of soup, I attempted to read a flintlock fantasy novel this week. I picked it up for free. The GIF above illustrates my experience with the book. The book is written in the present tense, which makes every sentence slap me like that fish in the GIF. Nevertheless, I soldiered on, determined not to be repulsed by the author's poor decision on that matter. Unfortunately, he had erected a glyph of warding to obstruct my path in the form of prolific descriptions of things in which I had no interest and which did not add to the story; a story buried in ambiance is a story to well concealed to interest me. I really wanted to like this book. I was hoping to find an unappreciated, or unknown author whose work I could celebrate, recommend and discuss. I only got five or six short chapters in before the fish to the face became unbearable. I won't give the book title or author name; he has enough problems without my adding to them. Besides, he'll probably sell more books than I will. Honestly, it's much easier to criticize than to praise, but I had hoped to spend my time engaged in the latter rather than the former.

Fun fact: Julius Caesar was captured by pirates at the age of 25. To clarify, Caesar was 25. I don't know how old the pirates were. The story goes that when the pirates told Caesar the ransom to be paid for his release, he told them that they didn't know who they had captured, and he voluntary doubled the ransom. Apparently he promised the pirates, whom he treated rather disrespectfully, that he would see them all crucified after he was released. His friends returned with the ransom and the pirates released him. He was not a general at this time, but he raised a fleet and sailed back to the island where the pirates had remained. He captured the pirates and charged them two dollars each for their freedom--in other words, a buck an ear. No. He didn't release them. He imprisoned them and asked the local governor to execute them. When the governor proved reluctant, Caesar had them crucified on his own. Some sources indicate that being merciful, he had their throats cut before their crucifixion. That story begs for a funny punchline, but I'm not seeing it. Maybe you can tell me the punchline.

***

Writing Progress: Did I mention that Book 3 of the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series has a title? If I didn't, it does. Even if I did, it does. The title by which it shall be known, now and forever, or until I change my mind, is: Clamorous Harbingers. Yes, in keeping with the theme of the titles in the series, it is from Shakespeare. In this case it's from a line in Macbeth. I may post the line later. I will. I'm sure I will.

I know. Clamorous Harbingers sounds like the name of a really bad band. If you glance at the title without reading it too carefully, you could misread it as Glamorous Hamburgers. The misreading might make for an entertaining and eye-watering treat. (DYSWIDT?)

As for the actual progress, I don't know precisely how many words I've got into it so far because I've used a copy of Book 2 as a template, deleting an old chapter every time I'm ready to start a new chapter. (The answer if 72,337 words, precisely. I wasn't happy with that inadequate response, so I did a text selection to the end of the new material to get an exact count). I am currently finishing chapter 17. I think I have 5 to 8 chapters left, with my chapters coming in between 3,000 and 10,000 words, but most average around 5,000 words. The end is in sight--and it's even better than a sharp stick in the eye the breakfast I had in Bayeux, which was fabulous; it was huge, I tell ya.

The romances are but minor subplots (mostly) in the exciting adventure, and they're developing very slowly, what with all the fighting dragons, fighting the British, fighting the natives, capturing, rescuing, magic wielding, and trying to stay alive, and all--except for Antonio's romances; there's nothing slow about Antonio and romance.

And don't forget the new beasties. The new creatures in this book are rife with dark possibilities, but they may surprise you. Speaking of "rife," it is a fun word. Merriam-Webster.com states that the word has been around for over 900 years and that it's from:

 Middle English ryfe, from Old English rȳfe; akin to Old Norse rīfr abundant

It does sound like some old Viking word to me.

***
Last week I found time to game with my skirmish rules an encounter (between British troops, Native warriors, and young dragons) which was loosely based on an event from Book 3 of the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series. I won't bore you with the details, but in the game the dragons won. Pictures follow. The partially and poorly painted British soldiers represent who you think they might. The partially painted woodland Indians and primer-brown natives represent who you think they would. The plastic dinosaurs represent the two young dragons. The dragons entered upon the happening of the triggering event and they displayed neither partisanship nor mercy. They were equal opportunity hazards.

This pic is from near the end of the game. I think the soldier in peril may have escaped.

This was first contact. Unfortunately for the natives, they were able to move more quickly through the forest. This ability gave them an advantage against the soldiers, but also put them directly into the path of the young dragons at the time of the triggering event.

One of the warriors at the lower left could have escaped, but he suffered from an excess of untimely valor and became a woodland happy meal while his leader fled the scene.

Choices, choices. The dragonling, having already finished the appetizer, decides upon an entree.

There was absolutely no demand for this episode of the Kru Wars, but I had committed myself to a two part installment when I subtitled the previous one (Part I) so here it is. More pictures at the end.

Tellereth Outpost

(Part II)

Copyright © 2020 Stanley Wheeler

All Rights Reserved

     The terrible scream lanced into their ears from upstream—from the Nahorn side of the river. Four unarmored Kru, one armed with a bow, and the others wielding a blade of jagged steel in each clawed hand presented an unusual sight as they advanced across the gray-green grass of the plain toward the barracks. The other creature, or pair of creatures which moved as one, proved to be the source of the mind-jarring screams. A great, black spider with a human archer upon his back walked among the four savage Kru

     “What is it?” Zorereth cried from his position on the bridge, fear and doubt clawing at his thoughts.

     Kolmor shouted back, “A screaming spider. I’ve heard of them. They live in the Garkag Mountains, I’ve been told. I’ve never seen one. That thing on its back is a man. We know how to kill one of those!”

     “The noise, it hurts,” Zorereth said. “It tells me to run away.”

     “Aye, so it does. Fight it. Fight the fear. Noise can’t hurt you,” Kolmor shouted to the younger man.

     Kolmor said no more, but his mind pondered the timing of this attack. They meant to strike us while our attentions were occupied by their friends from across the river. If they had arrived only a few minutes sooner, they’d have caught us like a misplaced hand between the hammer and the anvil. We’re not deployed to fight them with most of us on the bridge, or upon the wrong side of it, but things aren’t as bad as they could’ve been.

     He looked to the enemy. He could barely see the heads of the Kru dog faces over the river barricade. One of the Kru disappeared around the back of the barracks. Kolmor stepped away from the body of the Kru he had slain only moments before, and ran for the bridge. He had to get back on the Nahorn side to lead the fight.

***

     Gendorg urged the great spider forward with the power of his own mind commanding the mount. He had received two gifts from the pale lady: the ability to control the spider, and the special arrows she had given him. He discerned from the position of the enemy that the attack by the Kru across the bridge had already failed. He rode past the barracks on his right and toward the bridge beyond at his left as he fitted an arrow to his bow. He would have to seize victory himself this day.

***

     Thormo raised his bow. He was the closest warrior to the new attackers. He stood near the abutment on the Nahorn side of the bridge. The constant, ear-piercing scream of the spider caused him to hesitate for an instant. In that moment, the archer, wrapped in bands of blue, white, and gold cloth, loosed an arrow from atop the back of the screaming spider. Thormo had the presence of mind to duck behind the solid wood wall along the bridge. With only the faintest sound of impact, the enemy arrow struck the edge of the guard wall.

     Thormo raised up and returned fire at the archer. The arrow flew at the enemy, passing beneath his raised bow arm but failing to find the archer’s body. Unfortunately, the dog face archer who had advanced beside the spider had better luck with his shot. The missile penetrated Thormo’s hauberk to lodge in a rib bone. Unable to contend with both the spider’s unnerving scream and the arrow in his side, Thormo retreated to the center of the bridge above swift waters of the Tellereth, and huddled against the guard wall. He hated to see himself act in such a cowardly fashion, but for all the courageous words he had heard and had spoken to inspire others, his mind could find no hold upon such words at this moment. Even thoughts of his wife and children eluded him.

     Two of the wild Kru, gray-skinned and barely clothed with a furred hide about the waist, dashed past the spider and over the roadway. One of them vaulted the bridge abutment and leaped down from the other side. Meanwhile, the dog face who had gone behind the barracks appeared and sprinted up the roadway toward the bridge.

     Mellereth denied the fear brought by the awful arachnidian screams, and lifted his bow. As he drew back the arrow, the string snapped. The arrow clattered to Mellereth’s feet in the premature release, and the bow bounced and shuddered within his hand. The warrior threw the bow to the bridge planking next to the arrow. He drew his sword, racing toward the dog face. As Mellereth neared the end of the bridge, the archer upon the spider loosed another arrow. The peculiar missile struck Mellereth’s scaled hauberk and seemed to disappear in a cloud of dust. Gripped by a sudden panic, Mellereth threw himself over the bridge wall, falling to the turf between the river barricade and the bridge abutment. His body shook as though seized by a momentary paroxysm before he could push away the doubt which had seized him, and take stock of his situation.

     The spearman Zanfreth had been the most distant from the new enemy’s advance. He left the breach in the river barricade and the patch of brush to face the two wild Kru loping his way. Zanfreth raised his spear and charged the nearest one. The Kru raised his twin blades high, running forward to meet the warrior’s charge. The dog face avoided the tip of Zanfreth’s spear, ducked, and rolled to slash beneath the warrior’s shield, cutting a bloody path across Zanfreth’s leg below the hauberk. Stepping back with the wounded limb, Zanfreth stabbed at the gray-skinned dog face. With one blade the Kru knocked the point away before it could pierce his coarse-haired torso, and slashed at Zanfreth with the other. Zanfreth avoided the jagged blade but his wounded leg failed him. He stumbled at the feet of the dog face.

     The other Kru didn’t follow his fellow to battle Zanfreth, but moved against the fallen Mellereth. The blond warrior hurried to rise and establish his footing to meet the fierce attack. With no shield to protect him, he had to face the whirling blades of his enemy with only his sword. The jagged blades failed to intimidate Mellereth, and he swept aside the enemy steel to jam his sword into the dog face’s naked side. The Kru yelped in pain and hopped back several steps. A third Kru raced past the dog face as that one retreated from Mellereth, and leaped in to clash with the blond warrior on his own.

     As Kolmor ran to the crest of the bridge, Zorereth upon the bridge avoided one of the spider rider’s strange missiles. He struggled against the pounding fear and sent an arrow in response. The shaft tore through a band of cloth hanging from the enemy’s arm, harming only his wardrobe but not his person.

     The wild Kru archer sprinted forward and vaulted up the abutment to the roadway. As he raised from his crouched landing, he brought up his bow with an arrow knocked. The dog face found his target and released the shaft. The iron barb of the shaft pierced Zorereth’s hauberk and stabbed into his belly. The Nahorn warrior shouted out against the pain, against the fear hammering against his courage with each intense repetition of the spider’s scream. He clenched his teeth, aimed the tip of his arrow for the Kru’s chest, and sent it swishing swift and true from his bow to the target. He watched the dog face crumple like a wineskin with a rent torn in the bottom. One of the spider rider’s strange missiles whizzing past his face jerked his attention away from the fallen Kru.

     Balured, upon the opposite bank of the Tellereth, leaped for the top of the bridge abutment. His shield caught upon the edge of the obstacle and he fell to the ground. In a flash he regained his feet and clambered up to the roadway.

     Mellereth parried the blades of the dog face who had rushed him after he had wounded and repulsed the previous Kru attacker. Mellereth’s steel bit into the naked flesh of the dog face’s side. The dog face yelped and turned away, scampering back beyond his wounded comrade, and abandoning the fight altogether. Mellereth spun about and ran toward Zanfreth who had found his feet.

     The Kru abandoned his attack against Zanfreth to slash at the attacking Mellereth. The jagged Kru blades sliced across Mellereth’s bright scales but did not wound the warrior. The dog face spun to turn his blades upon Zanfreth who took the deadly blows upon his shield.

     The first Kru Mellereth had wounded realized that he would recover from the injury, and paused to lick the wound with his long tongue. He growled in anger and dashed toward the warrior, salivating for vengeance.

     No longer troubled by two opponents, the Kru renewed his attack upon the wounded Zanfreth. He deflected the spear and slid down its length, driving one of his blades into the warrior with all his weight. The connection between the scales parted and the blade stabbed into the flesh below the shoulder. The wound burned and Zanfreth feared that the Kru blade might be poisoned. He could no longer hold back against the pressure of the spider screams and the wounds to his leg and shoulder. He broke and ran, barely turning the final flurry of the Kru’s last attack as he hurried in terror from the field.

     Upon the bridge, Kolmor romped past Zorereth to the Nahorn side of the bridge, and narrowly avoided a glimmering missile from the bow of the spider rider.

     Thormo remained paralyzed with fear, unable to move from his crouch against the bridge guard. He fought an inner battle for mastery, trying to grip and hold his will and courage rendered slippery and untenable by his wound and the incessant, fear-inducing screaming.

     Balured shielded his mind against the spider cries. He rushed across the bridge to Kolmor’s side. Balured saw that Mellereth was engaged with one enemy, and that the Kru who had put Zanfreth to flight would join against him. Balured leaped from the abutment, falling forward, rolling to his feet and launching himself toward the dog face.

    A great wave of panic had been steadily rising. Kolmor felt it crashing upon him, drowning him in fear and doubt. He struggled to move, to think at all. In an effort requiring every ounce of will that he could scrape together and focus into action, he hurled his axe at the spider rider. The axe tumbled end over end toward the rider who endeavored to nock another missile to his bow. The blade bit deeply into his ribs below the bow-arm, and stuck, wedged in his side. Kolmor’s throat voiced a victory cry.

***

     Gendag held his position upon the black mount, adding his screams to those of the spider. It was possible that he was not too seriously injured. The blade had not penetrated deeply. A number of ribs had been broken and he likely had some other painful damage that would probably heal in time. Nevertheless, his blood flowed freely, staining his wrappings of colorful cloth, and it required great focus to command the spider. If he should take another wound, or pass out from the pain, he risked losing control of the beast. He cursed the two Kru who had fallen to their deaths as they had made the difficult crossing of the Tellereth with him over the narrow but deep ravine farther upstream. If those two had not fallen, if the Kru sent to attack the bridge had waited for his approach, he might be unwounded and bearing moustached and bearded heads in victory to the pale lady. It was not to be. She would be angry, but she would heal him. He had become one of the valuable ones upon whom she had poured a portion of her power—a small, but not insignificant portion. He would return another time with a properly timed attack. For now, he directed the spider away, leaving the outpost and bridge to their defenders—this time.

     Theer gave a snarl when he realized that Gendag was riding away. He hated the human with his pretty clothes and mysterious arrows. Nevertheless, the human served the lady, and she had commanded Theer to serve under the human’s commands. If the human upon his mighty creature believed it proper to leave the field, Theer would leave with him. The dog face had hoped to see the great spider drag Nahorn defenders into its dark maw to rend and feast upon those pale bodies. He would not see that today, but if he loped away wearing his own wounds as proof of his bravery, he might delight in such a spectacle another day. Theer turned away, taking a cut from the tip of the Nahorn sword which sliced across his shoulder blade, and hurried after Gendag and the spider.

Vun saw Theer turn and flee. Vun understood that he was the last of the pack in the fight. He ducked away from the two Nahorn warriors and their swords. He ran to the end of the Nahorn barracks before wondering if he might find a narrow way at the stable in which to make a stand against these yellow beards. He stopped and turned to assess his enemy.

***

     Mellereth followed upon the heels of the retreating foe. When the thing turned to face him, Mellereth shouted a war cry and stabbed at the Kru. The dog face parried his strike and pushed him away. Balured, right behind Mellereth, crashed into the Kru, knocking him to the ground. Mellereth joined Balured, but the dog face scrambled to its feet before they could pin it to the ground. The dog face’s wicked blades held Balured at bay, but Mellereth charged in, kicking the feet from beneath the Kru.

     Kolmor, free of the near paralysis caused by the spider’s screams, hurled himself into the fight against the last of the hated Kru. The resilient dog face bounced to its feet, churning the twin blades in a slashing double windmill toward Mellereth. With the other two Nahorn warriors interfering with the dog face’s attack, Mellereth avoided the blades and drove the point of his sword through the Kru’s liver and into its spine. The dog faced dropped for the last time, coloring the hoof-trampled ground with the ichor that had keep it alive.

Copyright © 2020 Stanley Wheeler

All Rights Reserved