January 2007

(Note:  This is not official version and may be removed in the near future.  This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter.  I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that.  This novel has since been rewritten.) Nub had tried hard to keep James in the room. She pleaded and begged, half dropping to her knee for him to stay. But he couldn’t. He had to know what the sounds were—the horns. He left the room; Nub refused to follow and curled in a ball near the door. Here and there he stumbled from weakness, succumbing to the effects of his wounds. It was all he could do to stay full upright, let alone see all that stood before. Each step, however, grew easier, and he felt his strength returning in groves. Yet, he paused outside the door, using the corner of a nearby wall as a support and nearly fainted. Rays of light ran along his exposed skin and lit up the face of the wall so he could see the paleness of the stone. Dawn, inescapable and unforgettably true, came at him as if a call from the Heaven that only he believed existed. He faced the mountains beyond and became overwhelmed by the greatness of the sun as it passed between two peaks, lighting everything in its path. For the first time, looking east, he saw the wide expanse of farmland that extended down the backside of Arlin City and on past the walls and into the country beyond, meeting up with the Far’anon River. Part of the river had been diverted into a series of canals and irrigation ditches like a giant maze of sparkling pathways. The farmland ended in a series of thickets, each round and independent of one another. They dotted the landscape like a group of toadstools. And then, like a massive blow to his gut, the reality of the situation presented itself. The euphoric moment ended and he realized that the sun was rising from the wrong side—the west. Panic struck through the inhabitants of Arlin City. He had been too blind to it to realize. People of all shapes and sizes ran frantically to nowhere at all. Below he could see nothing but chaos as men, women, and children of all races crowded around the western wall as far away from the main gates as possible. It was as if they hoped they could escape magically through the stone, but he could sense that the majority of them couldn’t use magic at all. Soldiers appeared from various sections of the city below, forming ranks and marching to the western wall, and though from this position he could not see the west, he knew there were more soldiers and people there. He walked along the wall to find an open view of the western side of the city. A few women brushed past and nearly knocked him over. Finally he found an open alcove that ended in a curved balustrade of aged gray stone fitted with alternating pillars carved with armored horses rearing high and regal and bowing as if to a king. For a moment, James feared to look over the edge. He couldn’t be sure what he would see, and at the same time he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know what it was that everyone was so eager to escape from. But, he bit down and pushed away all the fear and limped until slowly the east side of Arlin City and the great green field beyond came into view. As stunning as it was to see the sun rising from the west, the sight below caused every muscle in his heart to lurch as if he were having a heart attack. His throat seized up; a thick bulb that felt like a smooth golf ball swelled up there preventing him from swallowing. Below he could see lines of soldiers lining up along the walls and below, catapults that had not been there before inside the excavated forms of buildings, archers preparing lengths of flaming arrows, and then…beyond the walls. For several hundred feet there was nothing but green and gold grass. Then, where the Old Oak stood, the same place where James had appeared in the Farthland, stood a black mass a mile wide and half a mile deep, interspersed with long squares of silver. Thousands and thousands of creatures, armed and shuffling impatiently, were there, part of an enormous army. There were men there too, normal men indifferent from those of the Farthland. Near the oak a small circle had been cleared, in which was a tall figure in a bright burnished silver suit of armor, helm removed and flanked by the lyphon, who walked in lonely circles in a motion of obvious discomfort at being held at bay for too long. Three massive wooden horns, now bellowing again in such a deep, resonating tone that he had to close his eyes to make it go away, and a series of tarred catapults made up the rear. His heart sunk deep into his chest and he felt as if it wanted to trade places with his gut. An army, he thought. What have I brought down on these people? He started to cry, but stopped himself as the first tears slipped silently off his chin. Instead, he sucked it back; his muscles spasmed in protest. The army remained still, yet no messenger came forward asking for surrender, and neither did anyone leave Arlin City to suggest the same, or a different end. Luthien’s army simply remained still, anticipating, and antsy. A long, black shadow appeared over his shoulder. He turned and met face to face with a dark brown gryphon in mid-flight, diving straight for him. Two fiery amber eyes centered on his face. It shrieked and raised its claws and, just as suddenly as it had appeared, so too did

(Note:  This is not official version and may be removed in the near future.  This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter.  I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that.  This novel has since been rewritten.) James quickly came to realize that he had not entered into the same sort of paralysis he had when Dulien had spoken to him. Even so, voices rose up inside his mind and his vision went from clear as day to dismally blurry. He could see a flurry of figures, moving so fast he started to think that time was either passing him by at an alarming rate, or skipping like a rock on the water. From moment to moment, depending on the pattern of his vision, he could hear voices spoken from the real world, but before he could make out what was being said, the world of chattering entities drew him back into the fray. There were so many voices. He couldn’t focus on any one of them. Some were male, some female, and some even inhuman. Together they formed a loud, animalistic roar, all begging for his attention. He dared not focus, but for reasons he couldn’t be sure. A deep yearning inside his very person wanted to speak and mold with those within his mind, converse with them, but his mind fought against it as if it knew that nothing good would come of it. If he tried, his mind resisted, forbidding him from doing anything it disapproved of. He could only assume that this side of him represented logic, his logic. His vision faded back into the real world again. A scene played out before him, as if from a movie he had once seen. Triska and Pea—as best he could tell from their blurred appearance—spoke over him in sharp whispers. “A lyphon,” Triska said, her voice warbled. “Here? How?” “I don’t know,” Pea said. Then the scene continued, muffled beyond his recognition, until it finally receded as his vision phased out again. His mind felt utterly cluttered, as if he could focus on nothing. He started to sense that he was moving, up and down, up and down, in a swing-like fashion. It was dizzying. Pulses of sound, as if someone were barking orders through water, overcame the voices. He was not grateful, though, as the pulses furthered the nauseating dizziness. His vision returned to the real world, now a different scene. Someone, a woman, crouched over him, her giant eyes hovering inches from his face and her twisted nose nearly touched his lips. He couldn’t feel her, but in his hazy vision could make out the wiry hair that ran along her ears and down her neck, ghostly white. “Virnum,” she said, and then the scene passed away and he found himself back amongst the voices, the throbbing, and the pulsing. A flash of light filled the foggy world, and, to his delight, he found himself slipping from the state of paralysis and into a deep, rejuvenating, and altogether amazing sleep. When James broke away from the nothingness of his dreams he was overcome with pain unlike any he had ever felt before. Searing, agonizing, and unrelenting pain that made it altogether impossible to determine the origin. His head hurt. His body hurt. Even his jaw muscles hurt, preventing him from groaning or making any unnecessary motion that might trigger further pain—though he couldn’t fathom any pain more excruciating. While his eyes were in working order, he was unable to truly make out his surroundings. The room seemed…different. He couldn’t quite explain it, partly because the pain prevented him from focusing fully on any one thing at a time. Eventually he managed a tiny cry. Inside he cheered at the monumental feat. The wiry-haired woman from before appeared, poking her head into his field of vision like a giant bird. She eyed him; he tried to look back. Then in a tiny, whispery voice she said, “Virnum,” and the pain subside enough so he could bear it. He finally managed to see the features of her face. She had a long, thin face that forced her mouth to look as if it were constantly wording an ‘o’. Her skin was darker than his, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of her race or from exposure to the sun. For clothes she wore a pair of tattered robes over a supertunic that failed to hide her worn and beaten body from years of age and hard use. The robes were burned at the edges of the sleeves. She has lived a long, hard life, he thought. The woman walked away to a nearby table where she poised herself over a stone jigsaw puzzle. James felt ignored, but thankful nonetheless that he could now manage to move with only minor discomfort. The pain had gone from unbearable to livable. He hoped it would go away completely. Sitting up, he took in his surroundings. He was no longer in the dining floor of the keep within the Lord’s Hold. Rather he had been taken during his slumber to a small, yet cozy little room with one window next to a shining iron door opposite where the wiry-haired woman mused over her puzzle. He shook his head to find that the darkness still prevailed outside. The room itself was lit by several enormous candles twice as large as his arm, irregular numbers of wicks stuck into them—nine, four, seven, twelve, and more. The stone walls were covered in framed paintings of armor clad soldiers, noblemen, and gryphons. Among the furniture were two round tables, a pair of gold-lace covered rocking chairs that looked comfortable enough to make even the most raggedy old person feel at home, and two straw beds—one of which he lay in, covered in three layers of quilted blankets. Other than the wiry-haired woman, he was alone. “Where am I?”

(Note:  This is not official version and may be removed in the near future.  This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter.  I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that.  This novel has since been rewritten.) As soon as he had finished his meal James slipped out of the keep and searched for Darl. He found the old man swinging a battered wood sword near the eastern wall. A soldier, who should have been walking the walls on lookout, seemed fixed on the activity. James found the situation laughable, after all Darl looked no more fit to swing a sword in battle than he. In a wide circle where Darl stood were a series of evenly spaced torches laid out specifically for the lesson. When he approached, Darl tossed another wooden sword up at him. He grabbed at it out of instinct, managed to knock the hilt clumsily with the back of his hand, and groaned as the flat end of the blade smacked him on the crown of his head. His Fearl quivered, but to his dismay did nothing more. A feeling appeared deep in his mind and he tried to decipher it. I’m on my own here, he thought. “Expect more where that came from boy,” Darl said. He glared and picked up the blade. It was long with enough room on the handle for two hands, and when he lifted it he found it to be far heavier than expected. “First things first. Stances. There are five basic stances. Do as I do.” First Darl raised his sword so it ran parallel with the ground—left arm at the end of the hilt and right arm at the front, right foot straight back and body facing towards the blade. This he called the ox and James mimicked it as best he could. Then Darl showed him the plow—the hilt near the waste and the blade pointing at an angle upwards—the fool—the blade pointed towards the ground from the waste—and then the roof—the blade pointing back at an angle away from the shoulder. The final position Darl called the near guard, holding the hilt to the side so that the blade ran back behind him towards the ground. He attempted to mimic them all. “Pathetic, but good.” “How could it be pathetic and good at the same time?” “It’s pathetic because you have no concept of what you are doing, and it’s good because you’re at least attempting to do something you are completely incapable of doing properly. Now, again.” James repeated the five stances and again Darl insulted him. As frustration built up inside of him he pushed himself harder and harder to get the stances correct. The motions seemed to get easier, only after a while the muscles in his arms began to protest. At first he ignored it. Then the pain forced him to groan and he dropped his arms from the ox stance. “A few minutes of hard work and you fall apart. That’s wonderful.” “Get off my back Darl!” he snapped. Darl grinned wide. “You think that Luthien’s men will just get off of your back when you cannot defend yourself? Do you think his assassins will give you time to rest before killing you? No, my boy, there are no breaks in the real world. And to think you intend to use magic. Magic will suck you out from the inside. Imagine that. Now you feel physical pain, but what if your insides felt like they were boiling? Perhaps you enjoy the sensation of your brain cracking down the middle?” Darl jammed his blade into the earth and let it stand. “I get it.” James lifted the sword and started again. He tried to let his mind wander, to avoid thinking about the aches in his muscles as he continued to push them beyond their limits. He hadn’t thought about what magic could do to him. Every time he had used it, there had been side effects. Mostly blurriness in his vision, but that had been on relatively simple spells. What if I have to kill someone? What pains would I feel then? Would I even survive? He came to realize the limitations of magic, above and beyond what he had learned in the book. Magic could kill me. After what seemed like hours, Darl stopped him and let him rest. He dropped like a rock to the ground and panted heavily. His arms burned like fire and he dared not touch them for fear of making it worse. A soft sigh of relief escaped his lips. How long must I stay here before I can save Laura? How much can I possibly learn in that time? It had occurred to him that he might be in the Farthland for many months. It would take twenty days to reach Teirlin’pur, assuming he could acquire a horse and ride from dawn to dusk, and even if he could reach that far unseen, his chances of ever reaching Laura were slim at best. He had no friends in Angtholand, and the Farthland had no allies there. He would be utterly alone. Darl came to him with a large clay bowl filled with water. He thanked Darl and drank quickly, feeling the cold liquid pour through his body as if it were rejuvenating his tired muscles. The aches remained, but he sighed deeply nonetheless. Then Darl snatched up one of his arms. He protested angrily, trying with what little energy he had to get his arm back. But Darl refused to let go, instead producing a small, round wood box. Inside was an off-white cream, which Darl dug his fingers into and began to rub over the sore muscles of James’ arms. Immediate relief came to James and he resisted no more. The salve, whatever it was, had a pungent odor, yet he ignored it as the soft sensation of