Here’s my last two short stories — that are connected, or something? — in page form, so they can be read all at once.
I think I’m going to keep this going.
What am I even doing?
Tag: genre fiction
Knight of the Scroll IV
Plate XX – “Lancelot Approaching the Castle of Astolat,” circa 1867-69
Write only what you know. You are in danger, Scholar Dryden.
My name is Emory Dryden.
I sit in my study in the East Tower. I am left-handed, and have to hold the quill carefully to avoid getting ink on my palm. The fire has died to embers. There is a brown plate to my right with a stale piece of bread on it.
It is two hours before dawn, by my estimation.
I can remember my training, and my years of service in the Legion. The Iron Legion of Gilead. The surplice that I wear is a faded green, the color of my order. The Knights of the Scroll. Those that rise above the rank and file of the Legion join one of four chivalric orders. The Scroll, the Bow, the Sword, the Wand. The Scroll is the order tasked with military intelligence — espionage and research.
I am studying a recording. A recording recovered frm aaaa
I am sitting at my table, in the center of my chamber. The fire has died to embers. The brown plate, the stale bread.
My name is Emory Dryden. I am a Knight of the Scroll.
My mind is my weapon. I will not surrender.
There is something inside me. The plate is brown. I must remain calm. The bread is stale. I must keep writing. I am sitting at my table. Understand and defeat this enemy. The fire has died to embers.
The words. The words of Teon. They have infected my mind. Somehow, I don’t knowwwwwww. The plate is brown and my surplice is green and the bread is stale and the fire has died to embers. Is this what he meant? It isn’t over. The plate, the green, the stale fire has died. Is this the Dark ooooooo—- the green plate fire has died of stale, the fire green plate has stalled and died, I am Emory Dryden I am Emory Dryden and I am a Knight of the Scroll -fire plate stale green brown died embers, embers the embers, the embers the EMBERS I must fire stale bread, stale bread must fire embers burn, embers burn, embers burn, embers burn——-the plate the bread me the tower the embers the knight the night the hand the left the right the stale the end the fall the flwr–
it isn’t over
Knight of the Scroll II
Impressions of the Speaker: The Arkanic language is an oddity. Rhythmic and focused, but with a strange undercurrent – as if the speaker is humming a harmony to every word. When written, the complexity of the symbology and mathematics at work are staggering — but when spoken, it seems to hover on the edge of sensibility. As mentioned earlier, a simple Translation Enchantment is sufficient to make the words understandable– but I find myself listening again and again to Teon’s words in their original form.
The words are alien, but I find myself deeply affected by them. Teon is clearly in great pain, but there remains a quiet beauty to his speech. I compare it in my thoughts to an oboe, old and showing the impression of many careful stains in the wood. The moments where his reverie lingers on his lost companion Jalyx, his tone lightens before dipping again into the morose chords of his tale.
The beginning and the end of the recording, his words show clear signs of hysteria. His words crowd together, speaking too fast. Towards the end of his tale, his words grow further and further apart — until he falls silent for several minutes. When he speaks again, it is with great terror and desperation, referring to the removal [?] of his left hand. I have listened carefully to the silent minutes several times, but can detect no sounds other than a low sigh, which I presume to be Teon’s labored breathing. In the dark hours of the night, I half convince myself that I can hear a slight scratching sound on the recording — but my daylight ears can detect no such noise. I attribute this to a simple trick of my distracted imagination.
But taken all together, his words leave a clear impression. A learned, gentle man caught at the darkest of moments. I would not presume an unwelcome familiarity to such an august personage, but I must add: I like Teon. I sadly believe that much of the recording is a result of his delusions, or the pain of his mortal wound — but I still find his plight deeply affecting. It would not be wrong to say I grieve for his passing. Strange, I admit. This recording seems to come from the end of the Arkanic Civilization, which our scholars place around -1564 VA. This means that Teon has been dead for 2,729 years. But I am [perhaps?] the first to hear his valediction.
I mourn him, as if he had passed days ago. I will not mention this in my formal report, it is not germane or pertinent.
Origin of the Precursors: It seems clear from Teon’s words that the Arkanic race came from not only another planet, but perhaps an entirely different dimension. This flies in the face of much of current scholarly hypotheses. Also, the brief mentions of their sound-based technology is fascinating. I am not a specialist in that field, but I hope that these brief allusions will be illuminating to my colleagues.
I am uncertain about his description of how our world ‘pulled’ his ship into its orbit. Perhaps this is the memory of a child in danger and stress — being recollected by a dying man. I was startled to hear him use the name of our planet, Aufero, with practiced ease. I have never studied the origin of our world’s nomenclature, but I shall make it a point of study when time presents — but how remarkable that the planet has carried its name for nearly 3000 years.
The End of the Precursor Civilization: Here, Teon is maddeningly vague. Clearly it was a subject of great distress, but I wish he could have been more specific. What is this Machine that he refers to, exactly? It is clear that it was constructed as some sort of implement of war to battle the ‘Dark One’ that destroyed their home world — but what was it? If it was as potent as described, how can no signs of it remain? Something created by the Precursors’ own hands, that brought down their entire civilization — surely some relic must have endured for our study.
Side note. Teon refers to the ‘Dark One’ several times, but is strangely inconsistent about his usage. Initially it seems to refer to a Death-figure, similar to the depiction in many of our current cultures. But then he attributes the destruction of his home world to this being’s forces. Regardless, this Dark One seems to be a major figure in the culture/religion of the Arkanic people — I must cross reference this with the iconography of the murals found in the Gryphon Ruins near Quorum. So much study, so many new avenues opened by this simple recording!
Inconsistencies: There are several portions of the recording that do not seem to bear up to scrutiny…
[to be continued]
Knight of the Scroll I
Research Journal – Emory Dryden – Knight of the Scroll
The City of Corinth. Gilead. 9th of Arrowspan, 1165 VA
I find a growing sense of unease as I work with this strange recording. The elaborate sequence of investigation, research, espionage and skulduggery required to obtain it lend themselves to a certain expectation of menace and import. I should be above such ‘dramatization’ of the facts at my advanced age, but I must admit — this case has all the trappings of boiler-plate pulp. Two of my best agents perished while retrieving the object, and the third suffers from a wasting disease – sallow of skin, and characterized by an almost constant discharge of dark purple mucus. He was delirious when we recovered him, and was unable to give any coherent report of his activities investigating that abandoned manor.
Clutched in his hands, however, was a stone box. Small, not much larger than a travel valise — it was immediately obvious that is was of Arkanic fabrication. The Precursor civilization had some ability to create objects of passing durability and strength with the consistency of stone, but the the weight of birch. And inside the case, a marvel. The marvel that has consumed my studies for the past several days.
I recognized it immediately. A multi-faceted green gem, enclosed in a half-moon of white stone. An Arkanic recording crystal! My excitement blazed, and my hands shook as I took it out of the case. The written language of the Precursors is incredibly difficult to decipher, months can be required for scholars to translate even a small passage – but a recording of their spoken language can be made plain with a simple enchantment. These ‘sound crystals’ are incredibly rare, finding one justified the loss of my agents.
I set to work immediately. The enchantment worked as expected, and I soon found myself listening to the words of a Precursor, dead for thousands of years. I copied the words onto parchment, my hand flying to catch every word. I paid little attention to the narrative, simply copying each word as quickly and carefully as I could to ensure accuracy. A scholar must exercise restraint in all of his processes. I listened to the recording five times, checking that every word was correct. The recording is sadly brief, but it did allow me to be absolutely certain that I had completed the task correctly. Only then did I allow myself to read the words.
Teon? Teon the First-Singer? The Lightkeeper? Did I dare believe it? That these words were spoken by the leader of the entire Precursor civilization; it beggared credibility. I spent the next three days
Dariusz Zawadzki
performing every test I could devise to determine the authenticity of the case and its contents. In every examination there is a potential for error, but I do not believe I made any. The sound crystal was legitimate.
Which brings me to the present moment. And my unease.
The dying words of Teon. They tell us so much, so many small glimpses into the world of long ago — and final confirmation of the Arkanic society’s origin! But that is not what concerns me, it is when he speaks of the death of his people, the end of the Precursors.
And what is his fixation on his left hand? I can only assume that Teon was delirious, or had some sort of psychological malady.
It is dusk. I am due to turn in my report on this matter to Legion Command tomorrow, they will not be put off any longer. I have kept them at bay with my reputation, keeping all knowledge of this recording to myself. But tomorrow I must share my findings — and the feeling of dismay creeps up ever stronger in my soul.
What have I found here? Why do the words fill me with such dread? When I sleep they hang in the air around me, like a cage of ink.
Begin again, Scholar Dryden. Piece by piece. Assume nothing.
I will use this journal to codify my hypotheses, and sort through my ruminations. Calm and plain, for my eyes only — then at dawn I will take my conclusions, and present them in my report.
Begin again.
Impressions of the Speaker: The Arkanic language is a strange…..
[To be continued.]
Throw Up My Skirts
A recurring complaint from my Alpha Readers — and now one of my Beta Readers, is that I don’t tell them enough. They want more details about the world, more about the history of the characters.
I have two main characters, and I sort of summarily dump them into the plot together. They both have Dark Pasts and Important Backstories [tm], but…and this is the crux, their backstory doesn’t have anything to do with the plot du jour. The amorphous goals that I am moving Spell/Sword towards are pace, energy, and involvement. I don’t want to put any woolgathering or world history navel gazing — just accept the tropes and characters as presented, and show me a little trust. Epic fantasy tends to frontload all of the exposition and world detail, I just want the reader to strap in and 
go along for the ride. This is episodic structure, not an epic trilogy.
A good example of this would be the pilot episode of Firefly. Admittedly, not a perfect example — that’s a vast ensemble. You’re only shown enough about the world and the character to serve the plot of the episode.
Okay, it’s in space. Mal was in a battle, his side lost. Okay, time passed. Oh, it’s the Civil War. I get it. Hmmm, Asian influences have become culturally dominant. Evil Empire, band of mercenaries and thieves. Okay, Mal’s a rogue with a conscience, Zoe’s a devoted soldier, Wash is comic-relief — oh hey, he and Zoe are married. Jane’s a thug, Kaylee’s an innocent mechanic, Inara’s a diplomatic courtesan, Book’s a priest, Simon is a rich kid doctor on the run, and River’s nuts. Oh, she’s super powerful/insane/government project — the empire is going to hunt her the entire show, hook set for the arc of the first season. Ooh, Reapers are nasty.
You don’t get the description of every major location in the ‘Verse. You don’t learn anything about the actual setup of the Alliance government, or the name of it’s ruling body. You don’t know how Mal got from being a defeated solider to captain of Serenity, you don’t know anything about Zoe and Wash’s courtship. Book has about eighteen arrows pointing towards him that say MYSTERIOUS SECRET — but, none of that resolves in the first episode. Whedon throws all these tropes into a ship, lets them rattle around a little, then unmasks the sleeper agent who tries to capture River. The character and world exposition always takes a backseat to the action of each scene — and more importantly, the character relationships. The family dynamic of the crew and the budding connections between the new passengers — and their reaction to the imminent danger at hand is what makes that episode work.
We all know right off the bat that Book used to be an assassin. That’s a trope, the holy man who put down the sword. It appears again and again. Whedon could have spent 10 minutes explaining about the Alliance Death Squad and their memorable exploits, but that’s now what makes a work of fiction interesting or memorable. What makes Book more than a trope is his relationships — his seeking out of wisdom from Inara, his antagonistic mentoring of Mal, his almost paternal relationship with Jane.
That’s how I’m trying to view this first book. It’s the first episode. Here’s my wacky duo, here’s their powers, here’s a little sniff of their past, here’s some action, here’s some villains, here’s some crazy, there’s some weird, and hey, book’s over.
One of my favorite episodic novels. The Dresden Files is a good example. I almost stopped reading after the first one, because so many pages were devoted to explaining exactly who Harry was, the various supernatural forces around Chicago, how magic worked, how making potions worked, the backstory of his cat, the backstory of his car,etc. etc. — only when I picked up book two, and all of those details were read did the kick-assery truly begin.
So — to sum up. My goal is to write my very first book and have it be just as good as Firefly and Book Two of The Dresden Files. And I’m going to self-publish. And this doesn’t sound very likely does it?
I have been listening to my Alpha Readers — there was a significant increase/clarification of world 
and character information in the Beta Draft. But, there’s got to be a line. There is an argument to be made that leaving my readers wanting to know more is a good thing — but I’m a little terrified of leaving them annoyed, instead of motivated.
I am courting my readers, dammit. And I’m just not the sort of girl to throw up my skirts on the first date.
Ultimately, I’m in the weird position of being beholden to no one as a self-publisher. I don’t have an agent or a publishing house demanding that I add more romantic tension between the main characters, or insisting that I cut out the Steam-Skating Frogs as nonsensical. But I also don’t have the advantage of their experience either. I can write it however I want, and no one can stop me from spending a few days on Amazon putting it into print.
Man, it must be relaxing to have an editor.
I’m just starting to get weary of eighteenth-guessing everything in the book. I have a legitimate fear of totally abandoning my own judgement and just cramming in every possible thing into the book that anyone could ever want to see. And winding up with a big ungainly, craven mess. OR not doing that, and putting out an austere, confusing desert.
Book of Teon V
My left arm is moving. Every time I blink, it inches forward. I do not have the strength to kill this evil.
I must speak faster.
Days passed, and weeks. I slept and ate and healed and learned to speak the strange tongue of Jalyx
and his people. He was my savior, my first friend on Aufero – and I swore that his kindness would be repaid tenfold.
My left hand…it moves.
So much that happened, so many years. Must speak faster. We found the survivors of the crash and the wreckage. Both my parents were dead. I found myself made Captain of a shattered craft.
Must speak faster.
With time and skill we repaired the music hall in our ship, and called the fleet to the planet. We faced many dangers and complications, but I was determined to make Jalyx’s home a paradise — a place where we could share our knowledge with any who desired it. I should have guarded our knowledge more carefully, there were many who sought to abuse it. But the years were golden, and the songs we sang knew nothing of doubt.
Inside me the flower of evil slowly bloomed.
That was the curse, the horror of it all. I can see it now. The shining cities, the bridges of purest white, the towers of glass rose again — but everything we built, everything I built had in it a flaw. A shadow. Twisted lines carefully placed by my left hand. Note by note we sang, but each verse hid a darker chord.
And then my greatest achievement. The Machine. My left hand’s glory.
As I grew in power and fame, my people began to look to me for wisdom. In their grief the Lost could find no satisfaction in the things we built here, nor in the friends we gained. I tried to show them the wonder of our new home, but they would not listen. Their hearts grew hollow and sere — and they begged me. My own people begged me. ‘Oh, Teon – First Singer! Use your skill to take us back Home.”
‘But I cannot. The Dark One waits there, covering an entire galaxy with his malice.’
‘Then build us a weapon. A weapon of Light that can strike him down!’
I knew it was folly, but my hand itched to build it. A colossus, a pure warrior of light. I could not see…
——
I fell asleep. How long have I been asleep? My hand.
No. No. It is gone. My left hand is gone.
The blue flower blooms.
It isn’t over.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Jalyx, I’m sorry.
Book of Teon II
What can I tell you about Home? I have tried many times to describe it to the people of this world, but something is always lost in the telling. Home is a feeling, a knowledge — and no matter how many times I described the towers of glass, the river bank where I learned to swim, the smell of my grandmother’s library — I could not catch it.
It was a place not much different than this world. The sun rose, the wind blew. We only had one moon instead of the three that dance in this world’s sky. Such a greedy world, this Aufero, how could it have less than three moons?
I wander. It is what I do, in speech as well as deed. Even now, even as I wait for the end. There is something to that. Something mundane and comforting.
Our world shone. That is all I can say. It gleamed more brightly in the heavens than any other star, every one of the Lost can point to it in their sleep — even though it shines no more. It was our Home, and we knew as we left it that we would never return. And we knew that we would never stop grieving the loss of it.
The Dark swallowed it whole, and we fled. The entirety of my race crammed on half-a-hundred silver ships, flung into the sea of stars. But that is not the true beginning of my story.
My story begins with falling.
The fastest ships were chosen, to seek out a place to land – a place to begin again. My father was the captain and he slept not at all as our ship plunged ever forward into the dark. The far-singers hummed as we approached barren planets and balls of molten fire — every one was discordant. Ugly noise and static.
We flew on and on, day after day. Hoping to find a place that the Dark had not touched. A whole universe of empty rock and death. In desperation we returned to the fleet and found the same answer in the weary faces of the other captains.
I remember how my father took my mother’s hands and laid his forehead on hers. They looked into each other’s eyes and she nodded. They knew what must be done, and the risks. The other ships would wait, and ours would risk Beyond.
My mother sang the Song of Away.
The universe grew thin and we slipped through the walls as she sang. I stood next to my father and listened hard for the tune of another place, any place that we could go.
I think I heard it before my father, but maybe a heartbeat before. I still remember the joy in his eyes when he heard the faint melody.
And then the melody was a march — Aufero, the greedy – Aufero, the thief — reached out and pulled us in.
We erupted into that universe like a comet being born. The silver ship bucked and spun, the songs of my people becoming screams. Through the windows I caught my first glimpse of the planet.
It was blue. I fell in love.
Then the glass shattered, and I fell towards the greedy planet.
My story had begun.
Book of Teon I
My name is Teon.
There was a time, and there was a place where and when that name meant something. A bright name, a fell name. East of the Sun, and West of the Moon in the place we once called home. A place that is lost, a time that will never come again.
Now my name is rubble. My name is a relic. Here in the shattered foundations of Kythera it echoes and lingers, the voices
-guan-yu chen.
of my people scream out my name in pain and despair. I want to tell them that it wasn’t me, that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t bring the Machine.
It was my left hand.
It lies quiet now, folded on my stomach. Black blood whimpers out of a dozen small wounds, inflicted by the sharp instrument I hold in my right hand. It is a delicate instrument, best suited for aligning tiny wires or adjusting the fine components on a word-board. It served this purpose ably, plunging again and again into my skin. There was pain, but distant — not my pain. My left hand mimics true feeling but it is always false, the pain is no different.
I will die soon. At least, that is my hope. I fear that if I fall unconscious before my heart ceases to beat, that my left hand will rise and repair my wounds. I must stay awake until the Dark One comes. I have fled him all my life, running further and faster than any others of my kin. But now I welcome him as my boon companion.
To stay awake, I will tell my story. This sound crystal is fully powered, it shall last longer than I will. I will speak the story of my name. How we, who the people of this world call the Lost, came here trying to escape the dark, on our silver ships made of song and steel.
But we brought it with us.
I brought it with us.
Light help me, I brought it with us.
Spackle
Okay — finished with all of the individual edits from my reporting Alpha readers. I wrote some new stuff, cut a bunch of stuff [mostly chintzy dialogue] that wasn’t working.
Now it’s time to see how the spackle dries.
Now to read the whole book with subtractions and deletions to see how it holds together — I think I’ll record it again, and listen to it while I edit further, that was super helpful the first time around.
Oh Noetry Day
The Ritual of Tears
Druid-born and wild-blood meet
In roots of stone beneath the feet
of Six-Branch tree and seal the pact
made in love at Eld World wrack.
Last of all, a true-hearted knight
Breaks sword of green, ends winter’s blight.
Now weep and wail, and keep the Word
Sorrow-song forgotten, but always heard.
[ Some flavor-text from my current Pathfinder campaign, Titan’s Wake. I’ll try to do some more substantive blogging soon — but, I’m editing, intrinsically lazy, and tearing my way through Homestuck…so….yeah…. and it’s National Poetry Day!]
spell-sword.com 