Servant of the King Chapter 21

Chapter 21

            He lay on his back in a patch of sunshine in the middle of a clearing. He thought he could hear the daily noise from his village, somewhere just beyond sight as he turned his head to the left and right. Laughter, sharp voices, the noise of someone chopping wood or something similar. The warmth felt so good, as if it were a friend he had not seen for years. Or like his bed after a long day hunting with his father and Lamorun.

            Something was wrong. He tried to push himself up to go and join his village, but he couldn't move. It was not so much that he was paralyzed, but that his limbs were too heavy for him to lift.

            That was okay, it was warm here and he was comfortable.

            But his family. Something told him that he hadn't seen them in a while and that they wanted him home soon. Perhaps for dinner. He had to go to dinner.

            He still couldn't move, although his stomach seemed to be twisting tightly.

            He had to get up. Had to see his mother and father, Lamorun and Alronna.

            That was wrong. Lamorun had died in one of the king's useless wars on the Usurpers.

            At the thought of the Usurpers, an image of a footprint outside of his family's hut came to him. What did that mean?

He struggled to make connections. If only he could stand, he could walk to the village and someone there would help him.

Someone there.

Alronna.

Everything in his body told him not to move as consciousness invaded. He opened his eyes, brown pine needles blurring into long spears that a rodent might use.

A dream. As he thought the word, he became instantly aware of the frigid temperature that seemed to want to absorb him and the tiny pocket of slight warmth in his torso. He had fallen asleep under the tree.

He had to move. Had to get up.

Groaning in pain, he forced himself to roll off his side onto his knees. When he put his hands down on the ground to steady himself, pain lanced through his fingers. He looked at fingers and hands; they were pale in the dim morning light that filtered through the canopy of pine branches. At least I can still feel them.

He began to crawl out from under the tree, then realized he had left his bag and bow. The quiver still hung over his shoulder. With that thought came dull pain from where the quiver must have been pressing into his side and back while he slept.

Pain.

Pain means I'm not dead yet. But one more night like this last one and Lakhoni wasn't certain he would make it through.

"I have to make it." He grunted as he dragged his things with him. He pushed his body to a standing position. Aches and stiffness forced him to try several times to straighten his back. "It can't be that far." He reached down to pick up his bag and bow. His movements were slow in the quiet of the winter morning. Slow like an oldster.

"It can't be that far."

He glanced up and only then realized that the sun was shining brightly over the mountains. The frigid wind had died too; perhaps the clouds had taken it with them as they departed.

He leaned toward the sun, willing his legs to move and catch him before he fell. It seemed that with every step, a shudder would course through him. He caught his cloak tighter around his body—or at least as tightly as it would go now that he had to carry his bow tucked under his arm. As he walked, he tried to jam his hands under his arms while still holding the cloak. He angled his breathing alternately up and down, first into his leather face mask and then down into his tunic.

The moment of warmth each breath gave fled too quickly in the face of the cold.

Every few minutes, interspersed among handfuls of snow and long, slow breaths, he would say it aloud again. "It can't be that far."

The morning passed slowly and quickly. He felt as if each step lasted an hour or more, but when he looked up into the sky, the sun was somehow behind him already.

Hunger pangs struck hard as afternoon dimmed into the evening.

He had been scouring the terrain as he walked, moving between patches of forest and open ground. He had seen no sign of any other living thing or anything edible.

Dark fell quickly. Only minutes before the sun's glow faded completely, Lakhoni found another sheltering tree.

Small and medium branches littered the bed of brown needles under the tree.

The thought of a substantial fire made his movements even clumsier than the cold had made him. Finally, after several tries, he had smoke coming from a pile of needles. Blowing gently, he added small twigs, then some small branches.

The fire's heat and warm glow seemed to kindle greater hunger in him. How long had it been? Two days? Three?

If only he could eat leather.

He held still, trying to catch the thought that followed his wish.

There. He searched the ground from his position between the fire and the tree trunk. He found a rock that was about as wide around as his hand was long. It was flat on one side, but had a very shallow cavity in it. He found another rock and started scraping at the cavity in the first rock. It didn't take him long to realize that he was making no difference.

He put the flat rock right next to the fire, then carefully sidled to the right, leaning out far enough to pick up a handful of snow. He placed the snow in the cavity of the rock; the snow melted almost immediately. Reaching to his belt, Lakhoni pulled his knife from its sheath, then carefully cut a tiny chunk of his cloak off. This he placed in the water in the cavity of the rock.

He sat as patiently as he could, for as long as he could, feeding the fire. The small amount of water actually began to bubble after a while. He left it for a few minutes longer, then used his cloak to protect his hands as he eased the rock away from the fire to cool down.

He could wait no longer. Taking the rock in leather-wrapped hands, he lifted it to his mouth, slurping the hot liquid up. A faint hint of deer meat filled his mouth. With his tongue, he took the small piece of leather out of the rock cavity and chewed on it. It was tough, but he could almost believe he was chewing on a very tough, overcooked piece of deer meat. His stomach rumbling, he chewed, praying that even this small bit of nourishment would keep him alive. He felt his eyelids getting heavy.

            "Too tired," he said. His unused voice sounded strange to him. This diminishment of his energy felt like it was a bad sign. He guessed that it would simply continue as his body fought the frigid cold with so little food to fuel it.

            Shaking his head, he repeated the process of making leather cloak soup. As he did, his thoughts turned to the buck he had tried to take the… How long ago was that? Was that yesterday? How did deer do it? They seemed to manage winters fine. He thought back to the buck pushing its nose through the snow, seeking food. He knew that they ate winter moss throughout the season, but was that all they ate?

            Winter moss. If it could feed a deer, could he eat it too?

            Lakhoni pushed himself away from his small fire and tiny amount of bland soup. He scrabbled under the branches of the pine tree and, the darkness nearly complete but for the stars and a rising moon, searched the woods for one of the rare winter-naked trees. It didn't take him long. Finding one, he fell to his knees and dug through the snow at the base of the tree with leather-covered hands.

            Starlight illuminated the winter moss, making it look pale and almost ghostly. Lakhoni pulled some and brought it to his nose. The smell of green things filled him, sending images of spring into his mind. He touched his tongue to the moss. No flavor. Next he took a small bit into his mouth and chewed. He had eaten grass before and this tasted much the same, only heavier—closer to what he imagined earth would taste like.

            The flavor wasn't one of the several flavors his father had taught him to watch out for as poisonous.

            "It couldn't hurt," he said. He stood and returned to his shrinking fire.

            Lakhoni broke the moss into tiny bits and added it to the already hot water in the cavity of the rock. He would leave it longer this time to see if the leather would soften more. He sat, adding fuel to the fire, the moments of near-comfort allowing him to send his mind on old paths.

            The Separated could not track him. He felt confident that he had thoroughly escaped them. Maybe they thought he had died and expected to find his corpse in the spring. He planned on disappointing them. He felt that these moments of clarity were an opportunity for him to confirm his objective in being out in this terrible cold.

            Alronna had been taken from the village, along with something else that came from under his mother's sleeping mat. Something about the size of a new baby—if that baby were in a square container of some kind. His village was gone, the people murdered.

            Justice or a sister? He snapped a thin branch over his knee. Am I after only Alronna, or am I supposed to bring justice to our family's murderers. Lakhoni sat there, waiting for his leather moss soup, looking inward for the rage that had filled him so many months before—the anger that had fueled him less than a week previous.

            He could not find it. No storm roiled in his soul anymore. Instead, he found a banked fire, its heat and glow nearly gone. He couldn't call it rage or fury. He didn't know what to call it, but it felt like the gently glowing coals of this fire were not wood coals but were something stronger, harder and hotter. Like they were stones heated by a mighty force and made to glow in darkness, lighting the way through a journey.

            Finding and rescuing Alronna would not be enough. The king and his raiders must answer for their crimes. It had to be like in the village. If someone stole something, they were made to return it, then they had to receive a number of lashes to their hands, then serve the person whose property they had stolen.

            Restitution. There had to be restitution and justice. He fed a stick to the fire before him. He didn't know how he would be able to mete out that justice. But he also wasn't supposed to be alive and wasn't supposed to have been able to escape from the Separated. I've made it this far. I'll find a way.

            Not because of anger or grief, but because law demanded it.

            Maybe not the king's law, Lakhoni thought, but a different kind of law. "Something greater," he said. He reached for his miniscule amount of soup and brought it to his mouth. The rock's heat felt good against his leather-covered hands. The soup's flavor was stronger this time. Leather moss soup was not delicious, but it was better than nothing.

            As he lowered the rock, the heat he felt gave him another idea. He found more rocks under the tree and put them all just on the edges of his mid-sized fire. Then he sat there, chewing leather, feeding the fire and resisting the urge to make more leather moss soup. If he wasn't careful, he would eat his entire cloak.

            Just before sleep took him, Lakhoni arranged the warm rocks in different positions along his body, curling around them. His stomach still rumbled. His toes still felt as if they were steadily freezing. But a feeling that he had crossed some kind of horrible chasm filled him. As if a difficult bridge had been traversed successfully.

            He wasn't finished yet. Not going to die under this tree either.

*          *          *          *          *

            Lakhoni came to a stream early the next morning. He guessed it was about four paces wide. Ice and snow covered it. How thick could the ice be? He found a dead branch and swept the snow off a small space near the stream's bank. Next he found a rock and, crouching low, slammed it into the ice. Cracks formed with the first strike. Only three hard hits later, freezing water splashed up as chunks of ice split apart. He had a hole that was about a half pace in width.

            ”Now what?" The idea of catching a fish had so overtaken him that he hadn't thought about what he would use to do it. He stood there, looking blankly at the hole he had made. He needed a net, but it would have to be small. And what would he use to make the net?

            He could use an arrow head as a hook and lower it on a thin strip from his cloak. "Bait?" he asked himself.

            No idea revealed itself. He had a hole in ice, and perhaps fish swimming in the water underneath the ice. But he had no way of catching one.

            "Sorry stream." He walked several paces to the right, then crossed the stream quickly. Orienting himself on the sun again, he left the stream behind. "Is it better to talk to streams or to myself?"

            He let the question dissipate in the still winter air along with the cloud of his breath. "If the stream talks back, that's probably better," he said, a grunt of laughter following. He laughed again, this time louder. It hurt his chest and throat, but felt good somewhere else—somewhere deeper. "Better if a stream talks back!" The bursts of laughter felt wild. An abandon he had never felt before washed through him. "So talk back, stream!"

            Lakhoni flung his hands out wide, welcoming the odd sensation that filled him. Nothing mattered beyond each breath, each step. If he could beat the winter with leather moss soup, nothing could stop him. And if winter won the day, so be it. All that mattered was that he still breathed and would fight for each breath. Exhilaration filled him. His bones seemed to burn with a sudden power. "Talk back!" He laughed at the clouds forming heavy bundles in the west. He screamed at the frozen woods and brush. He fell to his knees, bellowing his defiance. His chest and throat burned. His stomach was a chasm that would never again be filled. And still he shouted.

            He didn't know when his screams became tears. He only knew that he found himself on all fours, his feet and hands feeling as though they were frozen to the ground. Tears poured off his cheeks, and out the slits in his mask, dropping and leaving tiny holes in the snow beneath him. He lowered himself so that his forearms rested in the snow and tried to catch his breath. He had to keep breathing. The snow felt soft beneath him, strangely warm. It would make a nice bed.

            No. He still had several hours of daylight. He could walk more.

            But a little rest. Maybe some leather moss soup. He could find a tree.

            Lakhoni felt his body pulling downward—the ground reaching up for him.

            Why not?

            Nobody would know.

            He heaved in a freezing breath. Sharp pain, like tiny icicles, jabbed the inside of his chest.

            Nobody would know.

            But he had to fight for each breath. He could breathe just as well, maybe better, if he were walking. He pushed himself up, scrabbling through the powdery snow until he was on only hands and knees again. He pushed again, arching his back and getting his feet under him.

            He stood. Pain. There was pain and breathing. That was all.

            He looked to the crisp blue sky and found the sun.

            Tucking his bow under his arm and his cloak tighter around his shaking body, Lakhoni took a step forward.

            A spasm of coughing burst out of him.

            He took another step.

            He breathed in, holding the air until it felt warm again, then blew out, first into his mask, then his tunic.

            Another step.

            He found himself in a wide pasture of rolling mounds of snow. The forest had ended.

            Another step. Another breath.

            No more than an hour had passed when he saw the glint of fire and the shadows it threw on a circle of stone huts. 

Servant of the King Chapter 16

Wow. Two days: two chapters. 


You, dear readers, are either very lucky or you enjoy torture. 


Here you go. Total word count now is 32,000. 

Chapter 16

Ree padded down the granite stairs, her eyes fixed fast on the light streaming through the doorway at the bottom. As she descended the gloomy staircase, she extended both hands to the side so that her fingers were lightly brushing the walls. Her father had told her she should use the main staircase, but sometimes she liked to take this shortcut to the royal kitchen. With snow on the ground and the air outside cold enough to freeze a flying bird's feathers, she was looking forward to the ever-present heat of the kitchen. It was so cold that she could feel the chilly stone beneath her feet even with her leather shoes on.

As she approached the doorway, the voice of Agmoda, the head cook, echoed up to her ears.

"Hush now, Lina. That's quite enough out of you."

A voice that Ree guessed must belong to Lina, responded. "I'm sorry mistress. It's just my brother—he's out of his mind with worry."

"We all know that Mastopo is always out of his mind. If his son's gone missing, it's probably because of a girl," Agmoda chided, her usually high-pitched voice muffled.

Ree stopped, catching herself by leaning on the wall. Who's Lina? And Mastopo? Her brother?

"But little Fim is only in his tenth year," Lina said. She sounded as if she had been crying.

"I said that's enough." Agmoda's voice hinted at punishments if Lina's complaining continued.

I wonder what's going on, Ree thought.

"Yes, Mistress," Lina said as the sound of something heavy and dense hitting a wood table commenced.

Ree realized that if somebody left the kitchen to climb the servants' stairs, she would be discovered. She descended the final steps, coughing loudly as she hit the landing and passed through the doorway.

The warmth of the multiple hearths in the long kitchen enveloped her before she had taken two steps. An aroma of baking bread filled the room, the warm sensation contrasting with the cold stones under her feet.

"Mistress Ree," Agmoda said, not missing a beat as she violently kneaded a huge ball of bread dough. She lifted the dough high, then slammed it down to the table with a loud thump. "You know your father doesn't want you in here."

"I know Aggi- Agmoda," Ree said, trying to hold back her smile. It never failed. She had known Agmoda her entire life and had even played in the kitchen as a little girl. The cook had been trying to get Ree to stop calling her Aggie for what seemed like years.

"Then you'd best be moving along," Agmoda said, her voice stern but the laughter in her eyes belying the feigned anger.

Ree approached the heavy wood table Agmoda was working on. She leaned her elbows on the table and tried to keep her search casual. At least ten other women were working in the kitchen, all of them wearing the same kind of brown dress and rough apron. Which one is Lina?

The bread dough slammed onto the table again, making Ree's elbows twitch involuntarily. She glanced at Agmoda. The cook's thin frame seemed too small to be able to wrestle the huge ball of dough she was now breaking into smaller wads. Not for the first time, Ree wondered how Agmoda had stayed so thin while spending most of her life working in a kitchen. "Can't I have some fresh bread before I go? And an apple for Titan?"

Ree cast her eyes about the kitchen again.

"Of course," Agmoda said. "Doba! Bring a loaf and an apple!" Agmoda's voice cut through the hubbub of the kitchen like a sharp knife through chicken meat.

Lina had sounded like she was crying, Ree thought. She scoured the faces in the room. One particularly small woman, a girl really—she couldn't have been much older than Ree—turned and Ree got a look at her face. Red-rimmed eyes. That had to be Lina.

"Looking for something, Mistress?"

Ree turned at Agmoda's question, pushing a smile onto her face. "Just wondering where you're hiding tonight's dessert cakes."

"You will never know," Agmoda said, smiling with mischief.

This was the Agmoda that Ree loved. Behind her stern demeanor and the rigidly organized kitchen staff, Agmoda loved to play word games and talk about almost anything. It's terrible, but Aggie's my only real friend here. Ree's smile fell at the thought.

"What's wrong?" Agmoda asked.

"Nothing," Ree said.

"Is it another nightmare?"

Ree wished she hadn't shared the nightmare she'd had a few weeks ago. Agmoda seemed to put a lot of stock in such things and had spent what seemed like forever trying to interpret its 'symbols.' Ree just wanted to let the images fade.

She hadn't told Agmoda about Shule. She worried that Agmoda would worry and talk to her father about it.

"No. It's nothing." Ree glanced around, trying to catch sight of Lina again. Maybe I can find a way to talk to her sometime and find out what happened to the boy she was talking about. Lina had disappeared. She was probably carrying food to the dining table.

A large woman, her apron bursting around her midriff, approached with a loaf of bread in one hand and an apple in the other.

Agmoda gave Ree a look, then turned back to the dough balls she had made. She began to form them into flat discs. "Set them on the table, Doba."

"Yes, Mistress," the large woman said. She breathed loudly as she turned and made her way back to the other end of the kitchen.

"And you, Mistress Ree," Agmoda said, indicating the bread and apple, "are better off eating the apple too. Give your old horse a handful of oats and that'll be fine. You need more than bread for your breakfast."

"My old horse?" Ree asked, feigning offense. "Titan is not just an old horse. He's a nobly bred warhorse with more battles under his saddle than any man living today. He probably killed a thousand Usurpers himself."

"You mean he was a warhorse. Now he's a doddering nag."

            "A nag? Doddering? Are you sure you're talking about my horse?" Ree grinned as she snatched up her bread and apple.

            Agmoda offered a quick smile, her eyes twinkling. "Actually I was talking about you by the time you wed if you don't learn to brush that hair of yours!"

            Ree flounced away. "I don't want to get married anyway! I just want to work in a kitchen my whole life." She took a bite from the still-warm loaf as she turned and used her foot to push open the door that led outside. A blast of cold air seemed to freeze her front side even as her back was still enjoying the heat of the kitchen.

            She sucked in a breath and forced herself all the way through the doorway. She crossed the courtyard quickly, the frozen mud feeling rough and sharp beneath her feet. I should have brought my shawl. Knowing that the stable would be warm from all the horses and cows in there, she hurried faster, tucking her food close to her chest.

            She shouldered the stable door open and ducked into the low, stone building. No torches burned, but there were enough cracks around beams and tiles in the ceiling that she could see as well as she needed. The straw underfoot felt much more comfortable then the rough ground outside, and the smell of horse and cow filled her with a sense of comfort and warmth, despite still being able to see her breath.

            Ree strode forward, taking another bite of the bread—the crust of which was now cold. The short entryway ended at a long passage that stretched a long way to the left and right. The stable held over a hundred horses and half as many cows, and it was one of her favorite places to spend time. She could spend hours running her hands on horses' noses and brushing them down.

            The cows she could do without. She was glad she had never had to milk one; she had seen servants milking them and the things just seemed smelly and clumsy. Once she had seen a cow casually knock over a servant then put its hoof in a bucket of fresh milk. The servant had been lashed and sent back to milk the cow properly.

            Turning left, Ree walked down the passage made of stall doors that now stood closed. After a couple of minutes walking, she arrived at the section where retired warhorses lived. Approaching Titan's stall, she whistled softly and called him. "Titan. Dear Titan?"

            A whicker floated above the stalls.

            "I've got something for you."

            She stopped in front of one of the last stalls on the left. The head of a massive horse, its neck and chest a deep chestnut, quested out. Titan blew loudly through his nose.

            "You can smell this, can't you?" She tore a bite out of her bread and tucked it under one arm. Holding the apple tightly, she whacked it sharply on the edge of the stall door. Titan's head bobbed at the noise. His long-lashed eyes blinked and he tossed his head again. "It's okay, I just forgot my knife." Now, using both hands, she dug her fingers into the apple and broke it in half. "There."

            Ree offered one of the halves to Titan. The horse sniffed her hand, his soft lips brushing her fingers. The apple disappeared.

            "You're so greedy," Ree said, unlatching the stall door and slipping inside.

            She wrapped her arms around the huge horse's neck. "But you're great. You don't give me rules. And you don't tell me that I should be preparing to get married already."

            She handed over the rest of the apple. "Married," she muttered, chewing on bread and reaching for the stiff brush hanging above the stall.

            Munching on her breakfast, Ree held the bread with one hand and brushed with the other. Her mind went back to the conversation she had overheard. That sounds awful. Lina's little nephew going missing. She wondered if Lina would be willing to talk to her about it. But why should I bother her about it? It's none of my business.

            She snorted. Titan snorted back. "Exactly." She pressed herself up to the warm horse, his muscular chest and forelegs firm and steady against her. "When have I ever minded my own business?"

Finally, chapter eleven.

Alright folks, it's taken a while, but I finally slammed it out and I've got some momentum. It's funny, I found myself stuck, unsure of what Lakhoni was going to do next. I finally thought for a while about the goals that he has, or would be making at this stage and I found that the continuing story came from there. I feel good about what's going on here. 


So don't knock me too far off my happy seat. But DO tell me what you think so far. 


Here it is: 

Chapter 11

His thoughts moved slowly as he followed Gimno back toward Gimno’s fire circle. Confusion fought with cold, clear horror. They had just sacrificed a little boy. Where had the boy come from?

The thought struck with terrible speed. Had the boy been from Lakhoni’s village? Had he just not recognized the boy because of the distance or his disbelief at what had transpired?

No. Lakhoni would have known if the boy was from his village. His village had been small and tightly-knit. His village. His body began to tremble suddenly. He sucked in a breath, feeling that if he didn’t hold himself together he might just fall into pieces or simply fade into nothingness.

He had to serve justice on those who had murdered his family and friends. He had to find his sister.

But how can I stay here? Lakhoni asked himself. The drying blood on his face gave off a cloying smell that turned his stomach. He had to wash it off. But I was going to learn how to fight like them. What if they did that again? How could he just stand there while they murdered an innocent child? He knew it would be suicide to try to defend the intended sacrifice, but he felt as if his heart were being sundered. If he had to watch that again, he thought he might lose his soul.

What if I turned into one of them? They seem so happy. He stepped into the fire circle and looked around. Gimno laughed at something Corzon said, then caught Vena’s eye. Some kind of silent communication passed between the two and Vena approached Lakhoni.

Another fit of trembling hit Lakhoni then faded quickly as he tried to find a place to look other than at Vena. Her cheeks were painted reddish brown, as was her exposed stomach and forearms. She had two lines of drying blood running over her head from her brow to the neck as well. Lakhoni swallowed and tried to control his breathing.

“How are you feeling, Lakhoni?” The clear concern in Vena’s eyes clashed harshly with the fierce and terrifying image of her blood-painted face and body.

He thought fast and opened his mouth to speak. Nothing. Embarrassed, he was sure he looked like a gasping fish. Fish. He needed water to clean himself off.

“I am sure Gimno told you, but the first time is always hard.” Her hand cupped Lakhoni’s right cheek, her thumb softly running over his skin.

He nodded. How could this be? How could Vena care about his feelings when she was covered in innocent blood? How many children had died at the hands of the Living Dead?

“You need,” Vena said, stepping to the side a little and reaching into the hut she shared with Gimno, “some cane to chew on.” She handed Lakhoni a small, yellowish ball of something that was soft. “Chew it. It will soothe.”

Lakhoni instantly knew that he could not refuse. They had cared for him, showed genuine concern. He couldn’t turn them down now. He owed them his life. He accepted the chunk of cane and lifted it to his mouth. The deep, sweet—almost smoky—flavor of the sugar cane filled his mouth and began to trickle down his throat.

“Keep chewing for a while. You’ve been through so much, Lakhoni,” Vena said. “Anybody would feel overcome. You are strong for still being able to stand.”

He nodded, the sweetness of the can feeling as if it were oozing gently to his extremities. The shaking, jittery feeling began to subside. He swallowed, the sweetness making his throat feel thick. Vena guided him inside the hut that he would share with Corzon and Anor. “You would do best to sleep some more.”

He nodded again, seeking his sleeping pad in the dimness of the hut’s interior.

“Don’t fall asleep with the cane in your mouth.”

Lakhoni glanced over his shoulder. “Okay.”

“Tomorrow will be a better day. You will begin to learn the ways of your new people,” Vena said.

Lakhoni could think of nothing to say to that. His feelings were in turmoil. I want to learn to fight like them, he thought. But how could he stay and act as if it were fine that they sacrificed young children. Did they do that often? He was sure he would lose his soul if he had to watch that again; if he had to feel the blood of the poor child on his face.

No. He had to get away. He couldn’t stay here. But would they let him? Now that he knew where they lived, would they let him leave alive? He carefully lowered himself to his sleeping pad. The soft, woven mat under him squeaked gently as it accepted his weight. I can’t stay. He would leave. He would wait for the right time—maybe during a jaunt to the outside—and he would get away and find his way to Lemalihah.

He lay back, careful to lower his left shoulder first. As his head touched the pad, a twinge of hot pain flashed from the crown of his head down into his jaw. He sucked in a breath holding it as the pain throbbed for a few moments and letting it out slowly as he forced his body to relax. It won’t be long, he thought. He would find an opportunity to get away from the Living Dead. He would find Lemalihah. He would find Alronna and his family’s murderers would find justice.

And if he picked up some training and skills while he was with the Living Dead, so be it.

*           *           *

            He felt the people around him, jostling him and carrying him with them. He tried to look and see who they were, but all was haze and shadow. Dread filled his throat. He knew he had to get away; knew with a certainty that terrified him. He pushed out with his hands, trying to free himself from the unseen crowd, but his hand met nothing of substance.

            Only more shadow and haze.

            Ahead a yellow and red light oozed through the haze. Thick, lazy tendrils of the murky light groped along the ground, reaching up toward what Lakhoni thought had to be the ceiling. As he approached, the dread in his throat sank into his stomach. His breath began to come quickly. He struggled to stop, to turn around and flee, but his efforts were wasted.

            There. The yellow-red glow was a little brighter now, the tendrils seeming to reach out with more energy. A bonfire—but without warmth. Dark shapes cluttered inside the glow, some resting atop a table of some kind.

            Not a table. An altar of rough, uncut stone. Faces on the shapes. Zeozer. Sana. Their faces stared at him from the cold fire that spread around the altar.

            Horror, cold and sharp, jabbed into his spine, sending frozen breath whispering up and down his back. Get away. He had to get away.

            He looked again. His father and mother’s mouths were open, as if to speak to him. He saw that his mother’s arm seemed to be pointing up and back. Lakhoni followed the direction of her arm and felt as if he would die of sudden fear and revulsion. The boy, his body disfigured and ugly from the bloodletting, stared at him from the hazy flames. Bumps broke out on Lakhoni’s arms. He tried to scream, but nothing came out.

            The boy’s mouth opened. Lakhoni screamed and sudden energy flowed into his body. He turned and fled, sure that if he stayed the boy would hurl curses and blame at him for not saving him.

            Cold air hit his face, at the same time as a smell of old fires assaulted his nose. His heart hammered in his chest.

            In the hut, in the cave. He felt the mat under his back.

            A dream. Only a dream.

            But Lakhoni knew that Salno had always said that dreams were more than just silly things that happened during sleep. Dreams meant something—were often the way the First Fathers spoke to their children. It was for the people to interpret the dreams correctly.

            What did it mean?

            Lakhoni easily understood the images he had seen: the bonfire with his family, the altar and the boy.

            But what was he to do? Was the boy asking for justice too?

            Lakhoni lay on his mat for what seemed to be hours, hearing the soft breathing of Corzon and Anor nearby, unable to sleep. How much justice could one young man mete out? And the boy? How could Lakhoni ever find justice for him? The Living Dead were too strong, too skilled.

            He had to find Alronna first. No, he had to get away from the Living Dead first—and that might be a lot harder than he knew at that moment. He remembered the image of Gimno’s people appearing from the shadows of the forest as he had followed Gimno. The image of Gimno almost floating down the entry shaft into the caverns returned.

            First fathers, help. He sent his silent pleas heavenward, hoping they could find a way through the layers of rock above him to the sky far above. I know my duty. I will do it, at least as well as I can. He felt the warmth slide from his eyes and down his cheeks. He imagined all of the people around him in the huge cavern, the families and tribes. more people than even in his village. But he had never felt so alone. I don’t know how, but I will do my duty. Just… please help me.

            Sleep slowly overcame Lakhoni as the weight of the night and the events of the past few days pressed down upon him.

And that is all. I'm having fun; are you? 

More, by popular demand...

Okay, it's late, but I'm getting this in. I wanted to do a writing exercise today to finish updating this blog. Before I do that though, I have a couple items of business.



I have a great network of support for my writing. Friends and some family have been tremendous sources of support and validation. Writer friends, I just want to give a shout out to you: Kristi and Melinda (I put Kristi first because K is before M in the alphabet, sorry Melinda) and also to Nanci Arvizu. I've got these great ladies' blogs' links over there on the right --> so I recommend you stop by.



Thanks for keeping me going with this whole thing. Something's gonna give. It will.



And the other thing is that I think I'll do my posts all staggered-like. So an update on my career and then a writing exercise a few days later.



What's more, for any writers who read this, I invite you to join me in doing the writing exercises I do here. They're keeping the creative juices flowing for me-- and that's a valuable thing right now.



Okay, so today's writing exercise. The story will be a continuation of the romance I did last time. The exercise is to write dialogue that rings true and that helps give the characters some depth.



So here we go. If you recall, Jonah saw Brenda on a running path. They might have some kind of history. Jonah had french toast with his daughter that morning. He might be divorced. The scene ends with an embrace.



For a more detailed recap, scroll down some to the post itself! It's not that long.

Jonah felt her arms begin to loosen. He didn't want to let go, but he knew he should. He had to be careful here. He felt as if fate had offered him the most wonderful of prizes, but that the prize could evaporate if he did something stupid.

They both stepped back. Her warmth stayed with his shoulders and neck.

Their eyes met.

She opened her mouth, but he spoke first, stumbling over his words. He glanced down, then back up to look in her eyes. "I can't believe it. How does.. I mean... How is this even possible?"

Brenda smiled. "I know!" She stopped, seeming uncomfortable with the open joy in her voice. "I know," she said again, quieter.

"I mean," Jonah began, then stopped. "I have no clue what to say right now." He let out a breath.

"I know," Brenda said. She looked around. "We should... we should catch up. You know... It's been fifteen years!"

"Yeah!" Jonah said. His breath caught briefly in his chest. He pushed through it. "Right. Exactly. I can't believe... fifteen years."

A new silence spread between them. This one thoughtful, rather than heavy.

"That's a long time," Jonah said finally.

"No kidding," Brenda said. Her hazel eyes caught his gaze. "Do you have time now?"

"Yeah!" Jonah heard the hope in her voice. He stopped. Emily. "Crap. No, I don't. I've gotta take my daughter to tae kwon do."

"Daughter? You have a daughter?" Brenda's expression became guarded.

This was it. Jonah knew this moment, what he said now, could ruin this chance. He looked deeply into Brenda's eyes. "Yes. I was married. Divorced a few years ago. I got custody. It's a long story." He took a breath. "I really want to tell you the story, though."

Brenda looked over Jonah's shoulder, then down the path in the direction she had been coming from. Jonah steeled himself for what might come. He looked down.

"Okay," Brenda said.

Jonah looked up. The sight of her eyes, her familiar face that was in so many ways the exact same as it had been, but was now marked almost imperceptibly by time... he caught his breath.

"I want to hear it. I have a story to tell too," Brenda said.

Jonah allowed the tension to seep from his shoulders. He took a breath. "Great. It's been a long time."

"A lifetime," Brenda said.

"Yeah." He mentally took a step back. Fifteen years ago, he would have imagined this scene. That summer had been incredible. Full of laughter and life and... just full. More full than anything else he had ever known. He had been so certain that fate would bring them back together. He had imagined their reunion so many times the following fall.

But in his daydreams, fifteen years hadn't passed. Reality was different.

He wanted to take her hand. He wanted to tell her how his heart had seemed... used up... after that summer. Like it had burned too hot to ever be able to catch flame again.

Jonah knew it would be cliche, out of a movie. He didn't care.

"Brenda," he said. "This feels like... like something's being corrected. Like there was a puzzle with a piece in the wrong place." His gaze explored her face again. "But like the piece just got put right."

Brenda blinked. Her eyes glimmered for a moment. She swallowed deeply.

Jonah felt the warmth of her hand a moment before her skin touched his. An electric bolt shot up his arm, hitting his chest and igniting his entire body. His heart stammered, sputtered, then steadied.

She squeezed his hand. "Right. It just feels right. A long time coming."

He squeezed back. A long time coming. A grin stretched his face tight. "How about lunch?"

Right, that's it for today.

Okay, so how's the dialogue? Is it real? This is a pretty fantastic situation, so the dialogue is a challenge. How'd I do? Did it add depth to the characters?

I'm having some interesting ideas with this one. Maybe even a screenplay, if I knew how to write one.

Oh well, I guess it's time for chocolate. Or a Coke Cherry Zero.

Or both.

Let me know what you think so far!

Character Sketch

Okay, so I mentioned a few posts (and weeks) ago that the novel I'm plugging away at is a fantasy about a kid named Roger who has power over the earth. He's got to find an ancient power source before his antagonist (unnamed and really quite fuzzy at this point.. maybe that's the next writing exercise...) gets to it.

Thing is, I need a friend for Roger, who goes by Roh. Pronounced like the way you say salmon eggs. (Roe) Roh is turning sixteen and is not the most popular of people. He's marvelously overweight and has a great home life, so he hasn't needed friends much. But he needs to have one I think.

So today's writing exercise is a character sketch of Roh's friend. I have some ideas, but as I put them down here, I hope to expand on them. Please, if any readers have thoughts or suggestions, pass them on. Umm.. wait a sec.. Pandora is playing "The Lady in Red," which doesn't get my creative juices going at all.

Skipped.

Nice. Journey's "Don't Stop Believin"

Okay here goes.

Character: Roh's friend.

• Name: (I'll get back to this.) Okay, his name is Aiden Pope.
• Gender: (If I typed 'sex' here would I get more hits?) Male. (Roh's a shy sixteen year old boy.)
• Age: Fourteen or fifteen.
• Description: Blond, usually messy hair. Blue eyes with a nose that looks like a boxer's but is actually a family heirloom. About 5' 7" and lean. Long arms. Avid reader and a great debater. Has a high voice. Wears contacts because he hates glasses. Always wears khakis and T-shirts. Round face with a square chin that is flat in front.
• Family: Mom and dad still married. Two sisters, both pretty. Roh likes the older one.
• Goals: Wants to go to Evergreen State College in Tacoma, Washington for two reasons: he hates the heat of Arizona (where the book takes place) and wants to study liberal arts, especially writing and literature. Problem with this is that Evergreen students have a reputation for the use of liberating substances and Aiden has strong morals. Wants to be friends with people and is good at making friends because he's a good talker and can always think of interesting things to talk about. Sees what is going on with Roh, doesn't understand it and doesn't get why Roh doesn't just tell him everything. Notices the changes in Roh's physical appearance and is scared but intrigued. Makes an extra effort to be there for Roh after the tragedy with Roh's parents.
• Overall: A good person who is generally liked. He has a crush on the English teacher, Ms. Spendlove, who is unmarried and very smart. Unfortunately, he is not very brave and when something dangerous happens, he loses his head, not physically. This bothers him, but he is scared of being in another dangerous situation, because he doesn't know how he will react. Aiden is actually very religious and sometimes has trouble understanding how God could let some things happen.

Okay, that's good stuff. I like his goals and how some of them are in conflict. I think I should do this every time my story happens upon another character. Any thoughts? Have I left anything out? Sure, there are some pay-offs that I'm not getting into, like his crush and his fear, but that will come out in the story.

Probably next time I will do this for the antagonist. Alrighty then.

Carpe somnium!

ImGoToWrANoMo Report for Wednesday, December 3, 2008.

Okay. Last night I decided to see what I could do with a book idea I had about four years ago. I wrote the first chapter, loved the kernel of the story but was unhappy with the tone and style, and put it away, thinking of it often.

So it's about a kid named Roger Hollacher, or Roh, and some magical and terrifying things that happen to him. He's exceedingly overweight, surprisingly fast, a good cook, likes to count to seven and sees patterns of seven in lots of things, and may actually not be entirely human.

We'll see.

I wrote... 3570 words today. I keep having to turn off my mental editor. This is going to be good practice, even if the book itself sucks.

I have the first chapter, with some nice character stuff, some conflict and motivation, and at least one inciting event. It ends with a nice image.

Tomorrow I might not shoot for the goal, although I'll probably hit it in a different way. I need to outline this story somewhat. I need to know in general where it is going. If I do this, I will feel more comfortable with letting Roh as a character have his way. I won't make a terribly detailed outline, but it will have the general arc, highlight moments, and very likely a resolution, although all of that's flexible.

It's good to be writing. This was hard. I kept getting up to get a drink and wanting to check my e-mail.

Tomorrow another report. Until then...

carpe somnium