Well, it is very nearly time, at last. The second volume in a series that got started almost four years ago.
All Creatures In His Thrall, which picks up the adventures of the newly-married James and Harriet, is coming out in just ONE WEEK! That’s right, we have a Black Friday release! It will start out with the story that appeared in No Game For Knights, but after that, it lauches into a full, novel-length adventure!
Thanks go out to all my fans who have waited so long.
Preorder your copy HERE.
LibertyCon is absolutely my favorite con of all time. And the reason is simple: they know who I am and they care that I’m there.
So, on Thursday, I made the difficult, but all-things-considered wise decision to avoid air travel and drive from Wisconsin to Chattanooga, TN, which is an 11-hour drive. This was because a) I was bringing, and would be returning with, books and swag, and b) I was going, for the first time, to the annual LibertyCon shoot, facilitated by J.F. Holmes. I’d really like to thank him for running an awesome shoot and being so welcoming to newbies like myself. I was also very happy to meet Brian Griffin, who rode to the shoot with me and kindly trained me on the proper use of a .45 ACP.
This shoot was a writer’s/history nerd’s dream come true. I got to shoot more guns than I can remember, including a lever-action .45-70, a 1917 Enfield, a 1942 M-1 carbine, and a Savage Arms 7.62×51 rifle. I discovered that I am actually capable of consistently hitting a man-sized target at 50 yards, which I thought was decent for the first time I ever touched a rifle. I managed half the shots inside the 9-ring at 300 yards with the Savage, and felt pretty good about that, too, though most of the credit must go to the rifle’s owner, a gentleman whose name escapes me at the moment, but who was a trainer on Parris Island for five years, and whose instruction I am deeply grateful for. I did rather less well with the pistols, and I now understand why people who have never touched a gun before can, in fact, miss at insanely short ranges with such weapons.
The rest of the Con… it’s hard to explain. But things happened that I’ve been waiting all my life for. Just a few of them:
People showed up with my books. That they wanted ME to sign. They had read them.
People talked up my books to other people. Because they had loved them.
People came to the table where I was selling my books, and they stood in a line. A LINE! (Two people still counts as a line!)
People told me they had read my Baen Award stories and enjoyed them.
Publishers invited me to play in their universes. And they said good things about me, and so did other authors, authors like Larry Correia and Kacey Ezell.
I really… I actually have fans.
Okay, but to get more specific: On Friday, I had a panel about Heroic Fantasy vs. Sword and Sorcery where I disagreed with everybody. Needless to say, I was right, and there was a lot of confusion about whether it was Heroic Fantasy or Epic Fantasy, but regardless: The Epic of Gilgamesh is sword and sorcery, not epic fantasy, and so is Beowulf. At least that’s what people said.
Saturday was the Big Day. Had a great advance reading of ALL CREATURES IN HIS THRALL, followed by holding a sotto voce conversation with Larry Correia throughout the Baen Roadshow. Fun fact: despite them being VASTLY different universes, Larry and I came up with extremely similar magic systems in the Responsibility and Son of the Black Sword books. And we never had a single conversation on magic. Weird. Finished up discussing Chicks In Tank Tops.
Sunday, D.J. Butler was kind enough to invite me to City Cafe’s very last breakfast service with the Chileses and Sean Patrick Hazlitt. And during autograph signing I learned that I REALLY need to find a way to accept Visa. Sorry, fans I made go running after cash! I learned my lesson.
Adults who were children when I was, or possibly a little younger, will remember the old Choose Your Own Adventure stories. I remember the first time I stumbled upon one of these, and it was absolutely riveting. It was about at town called Deadwood, though whether it was Deadwood city or simply Deadwood, I cannot remember. I thought it was completely brilliant at the time, and eagerly devoured or of the choose your own adventure series as fast as I could check them out from the library.
Now that I am an adult, two questions occur to me: the first 20 being, why have I never seen my own children reading Choose Your Own Adventure books? I don’t know when they stopped being actively published. Indeed, for all I know, they may still be actively published, and I just don’t see them. I do know that near the time I was in middle school, in the late 1980s, some publishers, most notably TSR, had added dice rolls to the narratives, and turned them into what were effectively solo role-playing games. In fact, last year a friend of mine sent me, as a Christmas present an adventure that was, essentially, one of these role-playing books, which I believe was funded through a Kickstarter. It seems likely to me that the advent of cheap video games which were far more engrossing and the rising popularity of formerly nerdy hobbies such as Dungeons & Dragons is likely the reason that these books lost their popularity among school-age children. They simply had other things that were better for scratching that choose your own path itch. I have seen, however, that the “visual novel” style of videogame in which the story is everything and actual tactical, strategic, and reflexive combat is nearly nonexistent seems to herald a rebirth of these old books in a new way.
The other question that I have is a bit more complicated: why have such books never been thought appropriate as actual literature? It seems to me that there is nothing inherently less challenging in the format, and while almost all the books of this type that I have read have been aimed at children, there is really no reason that it would always have to be so. Science fiction, fantasy, and superhero comics have all, at one time or another, been denounced and ridicule as the literature of children and the mentally deficient. And yet, now, in the 21st century, they have become, more than ever, part of the mainstream literature. We even call the comics “graphic novels” now.
So, what say you, readers? Do you think there is a place for serious branching paths literature? Can the reader discover great truths in such a work? Can a writer discuss profound questions of choice, consequence, philosophy, and other matters of substance in such a format? And if not, why not?
Oh, and most importantly of all. IF I WROTE SOMETHING LIKE THIS, WOULD YOU READ IT??
I would very much be interested to hear your responses.
Today, I get to announce the release of my story, “Jeanne d’Architonnere,” in the anthology Chicks In Tank Tops from Baen books. This is an especially fun story to announce. If you are a regular follower of mine, it will come as no surprise to you that my day job is being a history teacher at a local high school. Despite this (or perhaps because of this) I rarely delve into the arcana of writing alternate history. However, when I was invited to participate in this anthology by my editor, Jason Cordova, I very much wanted to bring one of my favorite daydreams to life.
Most people know that Leonardo da Vinci drew up blueprints during his lifetime (okay, sketches really) for a war cart ringed with cannon that would later become popularized as history’s first idea for the modern tank. Of course, da Vinci’s version had no engine beyond the feet of the soldiers who would presumably man it, and it was conceived of as a purely anti-personnel unit.
What fewer people know, is that da Vinci also conceived of a breech-loading, steam-powered cannon. This weapon, which he called the architonnere, worked by superheating the barrel and breech of the gun. After each round was introduced into the breech, and the breech sealed, a bell would allow water to enter just behind the breech, where it would instantly flash into steam and thus fire the round.
I will hasten to add that as a historian I do not consider it terribly realistic to speculate that the real Leonardo da Vinci would, in any conceivable set of circumstances, actually be able to marry all of these ideas together along with a flywheel drive to create the tank, or (since that word was the result of a code name given by the real armored fighting vehicles’ British inventors) the tortoise, as it is described in the story, but that’s where fiction comes in. I hope you will all enjoy the story of Jeanne d’Architonnere and those of my fellow authors.
Me, M.A. Nichols, and Janci Patterson heading up the “Copying Someone else’s Process” panel without a moderator.
Well, it was an awesome convention these last two days. Let me rephrase that: it was an awesome “KHAAAAN!-vention.” Yes, I got to unleash my history nerd and fantasy nerd simultaneously and open the convention with a panel on the rise and fall of Genghis Khan’s empire. I learn so much about my own profession every time I do that, though it saddens me that in all my research, while I uncovered the names of many of the Khan’s personal enemies and rivals, I was unable to uncover even one whose name was Khiruq, Khurkh, Qirkh, or anything similarly suitable.
Highlights of the convention included getting to know much-more-famous author M Todd Gallowglass and attend his private writing workshop, which he hosts at random places and times throughout the convention (look for the weird flyers!) As well, I got to meet Jody Lynn Nye courtesy of Writers of the Future, and serve as a mentor to some writers even younger than me. I may share some of the thoughts that came to me in future blog posts. And for any new followers who may look at this blog after having heard or met me, I encourage you to click on the writing tag if you’d like to see my elaboration on any of those points.
I sold half my stock of ALL THINGS HUGE AND HIDEOUS at the con, and got to sit on two more panels devoted to writing process and asteroid colonization. All in all, it was a wonderfully successful con, and i look forward to coming back.
And as a final note, I would like to extend my public thanks to Joe Ficklin, a chair emeritus of LTUE and Provo resident. When I was too late to book a hotel room, he opened his home to me, and was kind enough on top of that to give me rides to and from the con each day, as well as ferrying me to and from the airport. As well, he headed up the filking each night, and I enjoyed getting to learn some of the old classics of fandom. It wouldn’t have been the same without him.
Dear Friends and Fans,
I’m embarrassed that it has been so long since this blog updated. Really? Over four months, and THAT was a reblog? That’s just sad.
Although this year has, in many senses, been a triumph in the worlds of my writing — one novel released, one major (for me at least) award, and two anthology invites — it has also, by other measures, been a very hard year. There have been losses in my family. I’ve been on the same pandemic ride with the rest of you. Conventions have cancelled, plans didn’t work because someone got sick, might have gotten sick, or just decided differently, and recently, a major writing hope… went away.
However, if there is one piece of wisdom I have gathered over this “career” of mine, it is this: it will always be harder than you think. It will take more work than it “should,” and it won’t be “fair,” however that useless term is defined. So, we go on. We just go on.
And, we find new things to do, too. We go back to old things and remember the joy they gave us. So here, I leave you something new: I’m not an artist, not really, but this is the closest I can give you to a visual of what Responsibility, the Princess Azriyqam looks like in my head. Hope you like it:
So, I did something this weekend I’ve been thinking about for a couple of decades, and reread The Catcher In The Rye, which I haven’t touched since I was forced to read it in high school. Honestly, the most memorable part of the book for me was Holden’s rant at the end of the book about the kind of people who feel the need to write “Fuck You” on blank surfaces. Other than that, the book was fairly unmemorable for me, but then I was in a conversation where the book came up and a few people said that they hated Holden Caulfield more than any other character in literature.
I didn’t remember hating Holden Caulfield all that much when I read the book. I just remembered thinking that he was kind of an asshole. But I also thought that maybe, just maybe, being the staple that it is, the book deserved a reread from an adult perspective rather than the self-centered teenager that I was when I was forced to read it.
Having read it again from a middle-aged perspective, however, I can now say with confidence that Holden Caulfield is, in fact, still kind of an asshole. He’s pretty emblematic of the kind of asshole that comes from rich, urban families: the kind that has absolutely no inkling of what real need is and is obsessed with criticizing all his peers and family because, (ugh!) his rich brother who writes for Hollywood and the guys at his private prep school keep wanting to do things that they care about for Chrissakes, without realizing how stupid they are.
Of course, Holden is just fine with screwing up what other people want to do — his own school’s fencing team, for example — and his own education by refusing to study for anything, and never once considers that refusing to participate in the games of life that he so despises might be even dumber than participating in them. He merely goes on with his suffocating sense of superiority in having “seen through” everyone else’s phoniness. Of course, there is absolutely no way for anyone to prove to Holden that they aren’t phony (although, to be fair, he doesn’t seem to think everybody is: Holden at least has the virtue of taking innocence seriously) but he rarely thinks that the problem might be him. He thinks he’s pissed off because he is where he is, but he’s really pissed off that he isn’t who he isn’t. Holden never considers that anyone might actually have a reason to be invested in anything that Holden doesn’t personally value. He assumes the worst of everyone but himself all the time, and assumes the worst of himself half the time.
In other words, Holden is the typical teenager, but the “loser” variant: He’s unpopular with his friends because he doesn’t really do anything, won’t pick up on social signals like ending conversations, and talks loudly enough to piss them off — except he always seems to have friend. This, by the way, is where I call bullshit on the novel: any kid who acts the way Holden acts wouldn’t have ANY friends except guys exactly like him, and Holden manages to be hanging out with at least three girls plus a couple of guys over the course of the novel, and everyone always has time for him. This makes Holden a kind of depressing Reverse Gary Stu: he THINKS he’s better than everyone else, while clearly being worse, AND YET people still talk to him. This seems rather clumsy for a writer of Salinger’s stature, but I mean, he’s also got Holden telling us that he breaks his hand punching in car windows while not cutting hell out of the same hand. And he meets a guy who has a Memorial Wing of a private school named after him while he’s still alive, and I’m pretty sure both of those things are bullshit, too.
Now, “loser” teenagers usually straighten up after a couple of hard lessons and progress toward more-or-less functional adulthood at least: there’s no real shame in being one, and Holden, let’s be honest, has had a bit harder a road than most rich kids, having lost a brother to leukemia and a classmate to being (likely raped and) murdered. So I can’t say that I hate him, or even think terribly badly of him: he’s just a kid, acting in the way that a lot of kids do. A slave to his feelings: looking for sex, looking for love, looking for friends, drinking when he can to ease the pain, and pretending he’s a lot older and smarter than he is, judging the people he wants to keep him company.
The question I’m left with is, what the hell makes Holden Caulfield so special? Holden has become this rather-tiresomely-repeated “symbol for teenage rebellion,” that “captures the experience of being a teenager,” butr it’s so mundane that it could be ANYONE. So why this guy? Holden is a literary Kardashian, famous for being famous and having the right friends and money. I can see no more reason to care about Holden than I would care about Stradlater or Sally except for the fact that Salinger chose to shove Holden in our faces.
Moreover, Holden plainly is everything he’s rebelling against, and he’s rebelling mostly by doing nothing in particular except throwing around money and endlessly discussing the most average insights as though they’re profound truths, and trolling those more successful and popular than him and utterly failing to get laid, while bitching about how the people that actually can are bastards. While messing around with this bog, I found a fairly well-written piece that claims that Holden is actually protesting against sexual assault. But the flip side of this is that Holden still wants sex from the same women, he just doesn’t get it because, well, because Holden is a nice guy. Holden’s white-knighting while complaining places him as sort of an eerie incel of the fifties,* who even prefigures the incel-lingo of “Chads” and “Stacies” by referring to people in magazine stories as “Davids,” “Lindas” and “Marcias.”
Look, this kid is about sixteen. I can sympathize with the kid and his pain and frustration, sure. But take him seriously? Who with an ounce of sense would? Holden Caulfield talks like a pothead without the pot. The Deep Philosopher of the School of It Stands To Feel without actually having done the work of reasoning and understanding philosophy. He is, as Wolfgang Pauli is supposed to have remarked about a physics paper, “not even wrong.” He doesn’t have even the beginnings of a framework to make the moral judgments he’s pronouncing.
I really can’t imagine what kind of person could have ever read this book and found it entertaining, let alone profound, except… no wait: this is Maury Povich for pseudointellectuals, isn’t it? It’s so popular in English departments and among English teachers because so many guys in the English dept. ARE Holden Caulfield. And since I have two degrees in English, I think I might have a clue as to what I’m talking about: so many of them are absolutely contemptuous of everyone and everything because they think they have risen above “the common taste.” Only where I read books and dreamed about riding starships and dragons, as far as I can tell, when most of these guys read books, they hoped that one day they would be the guy with all the drugs and the broody sexiness and instant intellectuality, which is just sad. And Holden is simultaneously their model, while failing to be what they want to be. So, yeah, they can aspire to be the better version of him: it’s watching Maury for people who think they’re too good to watch Maury.
The sad part is that Holden is almost offered (though it’s questionable whether he would take) an epiphany by Mr. Antolini, who warns Holden of the danger he is most certainly in: the danger of declaring yourself disillusioned before you were ever illusioned, and of disdaining paying society’s dues because it seems unprofitable and mundane.
But just then Salinger immediately undercuts this by having Mr. Antolini behave in a way that is at least inappropriate toward Holden, and is probably a sexual advance. So where does this leave us? Well, it conveniently leaves Holden as the only remaining moral authority in the book, able to freely disregard Antolini’s actually good advice.
The problem is not Holden the catcher. The problem is that Salinger has made it impossible for Holden, the Catcher in the Rye, to win any game. All the potential victories are poisoned, all the possible goals false. There is no consummation, there is only masturbation: the fruitless and hollow comfort of having been right never to trust and never to try. And I can’t help but think that’s what the goal was all along: for Salinger to propagate despair and pat himself on the back for it. And far too many people have bought into his game.
*And holy shit, how is there discussion of Holden Caulfield being gay? I mean, that takes some world-class projection: he’s punching his roommate for maybe feeling up a girl he likes, hiring whores, and desperately proposing marriage. And this guy is gay? Yeah, in a world where Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas were “just roommates,” maybe.
This is the announcement I have been waiting a lifetime to make: New Mythologies Press, an imprint of Chris Kennedy, Publishing has accepted my novel, Across The Endless Ocean. I am honored to be their new editor, Rob Howell’s, first accepted author since he took over the press. We both hope and intend that this will be but the first of a series of adventures featuring Responsibility, the halfdragon heroine of the series.
While we are still hard at work hammering out the edits, we intend to get the novel ready to publish as soon as possible, and I can hardly wait to present it to you all. If you are interested in a foretaste, though, the story that started it all, “Abandoned Responsibility,” (and which comprises the first two chapters of the book) can be reached on Podcastle through the link.
A further adventure, also included in the novel, can also be found on Podcastle as “Responsibility Descending.”
Why is this novel so special to me? There are several reasons. Mostly, it is because it is the first time I have ever sent out a whole novel to a publisher, cold, and had it accepted. And while I will always be grateful to Jason Rennie and Superversive Press for giving All Things Huge And Hideous the green light, it was something that took shape over several stories. In some ways, it still IS a collection of short stories. It was funny and delightful to write, but it is also farce.
Across The Endless Ocean is not farce. It’s about courage, and honor, and what it means to become an adult in a hostile world. It comes from somewhere deeper inside, if that makes any sense. I hope you will enjoy it.
Hey, Loyal Readers!
I’d just like to welcome you to the blog tour for the SATURN Anthology, a group of stories featuring everyone’s favorite ringed planet! I’m super proud to have my story “The Lords Of Titan” featured in this book. It’s the story of an old man who learns to give love, and a young man who learns to trust himself: and they’re the same man. Please enjoy this, along with the wonderful stories of all the other great authors!
Saturn. The Ringed Planet. Harbinger of ideas and wonder. These are the stories of Saturn, the great Titan. Tales of time, age and endings. – Saturn (Planetary Anthology Series) 2/16Tweet
Saturn
Planetary Anthology Series Set 11
Genre: Mixed Fantasy, SciFi, Speculative
with stories byBokerah Brumley, Karl Gallagher, Carlton Herzog, G. Scott Huggins, C.S. Johnson,P.A. Piatt, J.F. Posthumus, James Pyles, Denton Salle, Ben Wheeler, Josh Young, Richard Paolinelli, Arlan Andrews Sr., J.M. Anjewierden, Dana Bell, Vonnie Winslow Crist,Karina L. Fabian, Rob Fabian, A.M. Freeman, Julie Frost
Saturn. The Ringed Planet. Harbinger of ideas and wonder. The planet that gave birth to the modern era of science envisioning the myriad of multi-colored rings circling the planet, one of the reasons for the invention of the telescope and the second largest in our solar system. These are the stories of Saturn, the great Titan. Tales of time, age and endings.
https://videopress.com/v/z4jxbbvN https://videopress.com/embed/z4jxbbvN?hd=1
Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!
Swag pack, editor-signed signed paperback, and $25 Amazon gift card!
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Feb 12
kickoff at Silver Dagger Book Tours
J. F. Posthumus
A Wonderful World of Words
FabianSpace
I Read What You Write
I Smell Sheep
Inside the Insanity
Craving Lovely Books
Musings From An Addicted Reader
Feb 13
The Logoccentric Orbit
Whimsical Words
The Sexy Nerd ‘Revue’
IndiePowerd by No Sweat Graphics
Writing Dreams
Drako’s Den
Girl with Pen
Stormy Nights Reviewing & Bloggin’
Scrupulous Dreams
Why I Can’t Stop Reading
Feb 14
Lady Hawkeye
#BRVL Book Review Virginia Lee Blog
Letters from Annie Douglass Lima – REVIEW
4covert2overt ☼ A Place In The Spotlight ☼
Always Love Me Some Books Blog
Books all things paranormal and romance
Sylv.net
Bedazzled By Books
The Book Dragon
Feb 15
Books A-Brewin’
nanasbookreviews
lyndi alexander’s worlds of fancy – REVIEW
Romance that’s ‘Out Of This World’
Anna del C. Dye official page
❧Defining Ways❧
A Pinch of Bookdust
Midnight Book Reader
The Bookshelf Fairy
Eclectic Unicorn’s Book Reviews
Feb 16
The Faerie Review – REVIEW
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Literary Gold
Kayden McLeod, Author
Westveil Publishing
Books, Authors, Blogs
Teatime and Books
Insane Books
Twisted Book Ramblings
RELEASES TOMORROW! If you have read or are reading this novel of mine, I’m so happy you stopped by. Please remember to share these blog posts and let people know that they can Preorder ALL THINGS HUGE AND HIDEOUS here. Also available IN PAPERBACK!!
RELEASES SEPTEMBER 5TH!
I have three rules for my clients:
Pay at the time of service.
Control your animal.
Do not abuse the staff.
If you’re going to violate these rules, you’d better know another doctor, and you’d better be able to get there faster than I can run while carrying my No. 75 dragon scalpel, because one of the tenets of my philosophy of care is that rudeness is a malignant tumor that can be effectively treated by immediate excision.
So when I heard a snarl, followed by Harriet’s scream from the front of my practice, I was out of the back and fully prepared for surgery in about three heartbeats.
Harriet was clutching the desk, trying not to move. Perched on the hump of her back was a large, vampire bat, its wings outstretched and its fangs poised to strike the back of her neck. I whirled on its owner, raising my scalpel.
And then carefully laid it down at my feet.
“The Dark Lord will see you, now,” said the tall shape in the thick black robes.
There is one other way to violate the rules I mentioned and avoid having your guts resectioned. I don’t like to talk about it. But you can also be the Prime Minister of the Dark Lord of the World.
“Minister Praxitela,” I bowed. “What an honor that you came to tell me yourself.”
“Yes, it is,” the vampire said, her voice thick with disdain and fury. “And immortal though I am, I can feel my time being wasted every second you delay. Move, human.”
I straightened. Immortality didn’t stop me from killing you last time, would have been both true and extremely unwise to say. I looked over at Harriet, who was still flinching beneath the fangs of Praxitela’s huge bat. Harriet had never really explained how she had managed to resurrect Praxitela at the Dark Lord’s command. But it looked as though the vampire lord was anything but grateful for it.
“To best serve our Lord,” I said smoothly, “I should know what animal needs to be treated.”
“If you delay me another instant,” she said. “It will be you.”
“Very well,” I said. “Harriet, we are attending upon the Dark Lord. Close up.”
“Ah, James..?” she said, through gritted teeth.
“Of course,” I said. “Without my assistant, I shall be much less use to His Great Darkness,” I said, gathering up my scalpel and carefully sheathing it.
Praxitela fixed me with a glare, and raised her finger. “Very well,” she said. The great bat flew back to her shoulder, raking Harriet’s shoulder, casually. Harriet swallowed a whimper and walked as steadily as she could to the back room to gather our things.
I’m sorry if my behavior doesn’t strike you as badass enough for your taste, but there are times to stand up for your dignity, and they are not when facing the barely-leashed ire of a vampire lord you have already killed once. They hold grudges about such things. Besides, we both knew who was ahead in the game.
“The practice is closed for the day,” I said to the crowd, most of whom were on their knees before the vampire already. Even Baron Klathraee merely rose, bowed from the neck, and left. When the dark elf lord shuts up, it’s wise to do the same.
“And perhaps longer,” Praxitela murmured.
At these words, a chill ran down my spine. Praxitela knew something that I did not. What? I had no idea. But it was important enough to get her out during daylight hours, and it wasn’t that she’d been given permission to kill me outright. If it was that, she’d have just done it, and the more witnesses, the better she’d have liked it.
Still, I knew something she didn’t, too. Trying to look casual, I reached through my office door and, using all of my strength, took the cloak of Aurmor off its reinforced hook. Harriet reappeared at my side and I saw her eyes widen as she recognized it. I felt myself lose half an inch of height as it settled on my shoulders. I hoped it would be enough to buy our freedom. And the look on Praxitela’s undead face would make it just that much sweeter.
We passed through the gates of the Dark Tower faster than I was used to. For one thing, I wasn’t allowed to use the great gates. For another, the orcs on guard usually liked to make humans wait.
Before Praxitela’s cowled shape, they dropped on their faces.
Other humans always ask me what the Dark Tower is like, and answering that question always throws me. What’s it like? You know what it’s like. A half-mile tall, sticking up out of the earth like a needle from a wound the size of a continent. Some say that’s what it is. That it’s how the Dark Lord came here. That he and his Dark Tower stabbed into our world from somewhere else. For all that it’s made of black stone, the surface glistens like an oil slick. Volcanic glass, I think, though I’ve heard people swear it’s black diamond, carved into razor-sharp edges and crenellations like claws. Each tower reaches higher than the last until the pinnacle of it disappears in the clouds beyond.
You want to know what it’s like inside, though, don’t you?
Trust me, you really don’t.
Oh, on the most basic level, it’s perfectly straightforward: the interior walls are just like the exterior. The Dark Lord likes bare stone and dark metal. Or he doesn’t care enough to cover them. But there’s too much inside the Tower that no one ought to see.
I could tell you about the hallways that curve off in directions that shouldn’t be there. I could tell you about some of the windows – just some of them – that do not open onto the city that we think of as below the Dark Tower. But there’s a lot more than how it looks to worry about. There are the echoes that you hope you never see the source of. There’s the way the air hangs perfectly still until a chill breeze hits you and cuts right through anything you happen to be wearing. It passed through the Aurmor cloak like it was gauze. And there are the smells they carry. I would tell you not to eat before you go into the Dark Tower, but it’s not as though you’re likely to have a choice of when you go if you’re summoned to dinner. And you’re not likely to be the diner, either.
All that, and I haven’t even touched upon what you’ll meet in the halls.
Even if I’d been afraid of what Praxitela would do to me, I wouldn’t have run away from her in the Dark Tower. My chances of ever coming out again would be nil.
Harriet stumbled against me and I remembered with a thrill of dread that it was her first time. I closed my hand on what was supposed to be her shoulder, and ended up being the curve of her spine. “Do not vomit in here,” Guilt and fear made my voice harsher than I’d intended, and she pulled away, glaring at me. But she swallowed hard and her pace steadied.
We were taken directly to the Room. With any other ruler, it would be a throne room. But the Dark Lord doesn’t sit. He just is.
He looked the way he always looks. Taller than any man, cloaked and hooded in shadow and crowned with black iron. Tendrils of night flowed from him, hiding the floor. Is it really made of bones? I couldn’t tell you, but it’s not smooth.
DR. JAMES DEGRANDE.
I dropped to my knees before him and bowed my head. Harriet did the same. I waited to hear my assignment.
YOU ARE TO BE ELEVATED TO THE OUTER COUNCIL, TO TAKE UP THE POSITION OF BEASTMASTER.
What?
AURANGAZEB HAS BEEN EATEN. WE BELIEVE HE HAS BEEN CARELESS. WE TRUST YOU WILL BE MORE CAREFUL.
I blinked. But I was still in the Room, and night still swirled around my fingers. I was not having a nightmare.
“James…” Harriet’s voice was a rising whimper.
“Yes, Lord,” I babbled. “You do me too much honor.” Far, far too much.
INDEED. PRAXITELA WILL EXAMINE YOU. MINISTER, YOU MAY EXAMINE THE DOCTOR IN ANY WAY THAT TESTS HIS SUITABILITY TO PERFORM THE DUTIES OF HIS NEW POSITION AND TO FACE ITS RISKS, USING THE RESOURCES AVAILABLE TO HIM. NO MORE. SERVE WELL, AND LIVE.
I was dead. Praxitela, as my examiner? She rose. So did I. I caught my breath, clutching my last chance for life and more.
“Great Lord of Darkness, I beg you to hear your slave’s plea.”
Praxitela hissed. There was an endless moment of silence. I didn’t dare raise my eyes.
SPEAK, DR. DEGRANDE.
“With your permission, Great Lord, I wish to buy my freedom.”
Only my heart beat in that moment.
AND WHAT HAVE YOU TO OFFER FOR THAT WHICH HUMANS FOOLISHLY PRIZE ABOVE ALL ELSE?
Slowly, I undid the clasps that held the cloak on my shoulders. It fell as if sucked down to the floor. I heaved it up and ripped it open, showing the golden scales. “This cloak of Aurmor, Lord. Given me for services rendered.”
For once, I had the pleasure of seeing Praxitela truly shocked. Her face was frozen, but her red eyes darted from me, to the cloak, and back again.
FOR SERVICES RENDERED. AND WHAT SERVICE DID YOU RENDER, DR. DEGRANDE, THAT WAS WORTH THE RANSOM OF A HIGH NOBLE?
I had expected this question, but had nothing to fear from it. “I killed an enemy of yours, Great Lord, when he attempted to bribe me into conspiring with him to bring about your downfall. Afterward, he no longer needed it.” And every word of that was the truth.
RESOURCEFUL, DR. DEGRANDE, the Dark Lord said at last. TOO RESOURCEFUL TO LOSE AS AN ASSET. I DO NOT ACCEPT YOUR PRICE. I HAVE ALL THE MAGICAL ARMORS I COULD WANT. I NEED NO MORE.
The Aurmor hung in my grasp, weightless in comparison to my disappointment.
NOW GO, AND BE INDUCTED INTO YOUR NEW POSITION.
G. Scott Huggins 