Undead Son

Chapter Three

sargon999 — Fri, 20 Apr 2018 03:54:18 GMT

Chapter 3: Beside the Black Lake

The passing sun cast shadows through the intricate screens that shaped the large hall into smaller, more intimate spaces. The light dappled on the floor and walls in patterns of color and shape, and Umvara watched his shadow pass over it all as he made his way down the wide stair and to the shining floor of his great hall. This alone was a fit place to welcome the daughter of the Vovikar returned at last from her alien refuge. He was nervous at the prospect of meeting her, and of facing more of the Earthmen. These would not be like the ones he was accustomed to; they would be fresh from their world, filled with the light and strength of their kind.

His robe swept behind him, billowing with each step, and he gestured to the servants who began to shape the hall into a more open space. They easily shifted the screens into a pattern that reminded him of the twenty-fifth mode of the tenth dynasty – when the Vovikar had first taken power. He hoped it would prove an auspicious welcome.

The throne was covered with a white drape of silk, every fold of it carefully considered for connotation and overtone. The flowers were freshly induced into bloom, and the carefully placed lamps would keep them open far past sunset. He wore the metal caps on the last two joints of his left hand, and he tapped them together as he paused and looked at the chamber, weighing every detail.

He felt the footfalls through the floor and turned to see his honor guard enter the room. He supposed it might be taken amiss that he allowed the kur mercenaries in here, rather than using his own household men, but it was the one concession he would not make. The High Martians were far better fighters, and he wanted them here when the British came thundering in with their soldiers.

Turyan came in at the head of her men, and he felt the same mixture of unease and admiration for her he always carried. The wild kur were taller than red men, and their skin was as pale as new ice. She wore her robe loosely over her black armor, mask dangling unused at her side. In here, within the domes part of the palace, supplemental air was unneeded, especially for one who had been born to the hard, lightless deserts above.

She stalked like a predator, and it always gave him a secret thrill to watch her. Her eyes were wide and black, her hair gathered into three braids and knotted together at the back of her head. She walked with hand on the hilt of her sword, and she never seemed to look directly at anyone.

Turyan inclined her head and made a gesture of obedient greeting which was almost charming in its crudeness. She nodded to her men and the entire rend took their positions around the room. “My overlord,” she said by way of greeting. It was rude, but certain rudenesses were expected from the highlanders, and tolerated.

“You have worn your finest robe,” he said, looking to make sure the guards were evenly spaced. “You are eager to meet this girl.”

“I stand ready to meet the next Empress,” she said somewhat stiffly. “It is a moment of importance.”

“It is,” he said. He often found it easy to speak to her, because she would never think less of him for it. She was outside the systems of caste and rank. Her people were strange to him, but unlike many of his peers he found them interesting. “We shall see what kind of girl she has grown into.”

“Her mother was a great ruler,” Turyan said, and he almost laughed. He could not tell if she was being serious or not. The kur were not known for their sense of humor, and it would be unlike her to joke.

“She was assassinated,” Umvara said. “I would say that alone denotes a ruler who has failed in some essential capacity.”

Turyan stiffened and then he saw her force herself to relax. He wondered at that. It was not like her to be emotional. He decided to let it pass. Her feelings were not his concern, only her efficacy. “Have you seen Earthmen before? Their soldiers?”

“I have not,” she said. “Not closely. I confess I am curious.”

“They are strong as vulo,” he said. “Stronger, in fact. They tread heavily and speak loudly and they will find it too dark in here for their tastes.” He sniffed. “They have an odor. And do not be alarmed by their gesturing and waving of arms. They are a barbaric people and gesticulate wildly when they speak.” He looked at her sidelong to see if that barb touched her, but she seemed not to notice. He repressed a shrug. It was often his curse to interact with people who possessed no subtlety. Umvara paused and felt the shudder of many feet through the floor, a particularly heavy tread. “Here they come now.”

o0o

Anya held herself rigid, her back straight and her pace measured. The interior of the palace was so achingly familiar, overflowing with things she had not known she remembered. The low light was welcome to her eyes, and she found herself able to see the faint glow of the Earthmen around her, as she did when it was dark on Earth. It seemed brighter here, doubtless because of the cold. The colors of the walls and floor were muted yet complex, shimmering with little traces of silver and gold.

The soldiers around her marched as one, stepping so carefully, and yet still several times one of them overbalanced and fell. Sir James was close beside her, and he seemed to be more at ease, though she was amused to see Sir Wallingstone having more difficulty. They passed through a doubled door, and then the atmosphere was thicker and richer, and they all breathed more easily. Parts of the great homes were always walled off within glass domes to provide a refuge of luxury like this – thick air and a welcome humidity.

Now the halls were lined with cultivated plants and strung with vines studded with glowing flowers. Some of the plants shifted as they walked past, reaching toward their warmth and breath, and the soldiers obviously found it unnerving. Anya quickened her stride a little to draw ahead. She wanted to be first into the great hall, quick on the heels of the servants who led the way.

She went down a wide, shallow stair, the steps rounded and smooth, as if they had been grown rather than shaped. The hall opened out into a wide, high-ceilinged room lined with slender pillars that were far too delicate to support anything. On Mars there was little need for such flourishes, and in the light gravity architecture was often soaring and fanciful to an eye used to Earth.

The floor was polished and intertwined with deeper colors in patterns like knots, like a map of coiling rivers in red and copper and skeins of silver. At the far end was a throne draped in white cloth, and behind it was a wall that shimmered, and it was a moment before she realized it was a cascade – a thin fall of water flowing eternally down the wall, in this place an unthinkable display of opulence.

The man who came toward her was tall, and he looked taller because of the elaborate wirework headdress he wore, his hair worked meticulously in and around the gold and copper frame. He had the long face and deep red skin of a Martian, and she was surprised by how strange he looked to her. She had become so accustomed to Earthmen that her own kind appeared alien to her.

His wide, heavy robe swept the floor as he came to meet her, the sleeves rolled and rolled until they looked as thick as blankets. Jewels and gilded designs glimmered on his ceremonial breastplate, and there were small stones glued to his brow in imitation of the horns that only her line truly carried. He approached with hands outstretched, and then he inclined his head and made several small, deliberate gestures that she half-remembered the meanings of.

She had to resist the urge to bow in answer, or even nod. Here she was claiming the title of Empress, and she had to hold to that as strongly as she could in word and deed. Here no sovereign ever bowed or acknowledged such gestures. It was considered a fundamental mark of status that she hold herself above all such things, and so she held herself stiff, hands folded and back straight, neck stretched and her chin slightly elevated. She remembered how her mother used to stand, and she tried to emulate it.

“Anavasavsta, Shrad of Vul, Scion of the Most Ancient House of Vovikar,” he said, his face held in an expressionless reserve. “It is an honor for me to welcome you, once more, to your home. My house is yours, my strength is yours.”

Now came the moment to speak, and she caught her breath, worried that her tongue would fail her. It had been so long since she had spoken the language of her people aloud that she worried she would sound foolish, or her accent would be strange. She knew there were proper gestures to make, and she only remembered such as a child had known. In her nervousness, she held herself even more rigidly upright, and she made a small sign of acknowledgment. “Umvara, Shrad of Shal, Blood of My Ancestors. I greet you in this appointed hour.”

“I am small before you,” he said. “May I never tread upon your shadow. May I hallow the promises made by my forebears to uphold the lineage of Vovikar.” He made another series of signs and she resisted the urge to nod in answer when he inclined his head again.

Sir Wallingstone stepped forward and to her left. “Greetings, my Lord Umvara. I am Sir Henry Wallingstone, the leader of this delegation from Her Imperial Highness, Victoria of England. I am pleased to have escorted Her Highness, Princess Anastasia, on this momentous occasion.”

A silence fell after this, and Anya felt a moment of worry that Umvara had not understood and would be offended – for her own part she found Wallingstone’s intrusion set her teeth on edge – but he only smiled. Martians did not tend to show their teeth when they smiled, and so there was a certain sly quality to it.

“Of course, my good friend Sir Henry,” Umvara said in accented but clear English. “It is good to meet you eye to eye, after such a long correspondence of letters. We have both worked hard for this day to occur, and I am pleased that it has arrived.”

Wallingstone puffed up a little. “Please, let me present the commanding officer of the regiment we have brought with us. This is Sir William James, Colonel of the First Martian Rifles.”

He beckoned and Sir James came forward, stepping with care and holding himself with military stiffness. He sketched a rigid little bow. “My lord,” he said. He did not look right at Umvara, and Anya approved. She knew it was considered insulting for those of lower position and status to look their betters in the eye – and on Mars all soldiers were socially inferior. Sir James had been to Mars before, and he knew this well enough.

“Excellent,” Umvara said. “May I introduce my own military adviser and chief of my honor guard.” He held up a hand and made a small beckoning gesture. “Turyan.”

One of the pale High Martian guards detached from the wall and came to stand just behind Umvara. Anya was surprised to see it was a woman, very tall, so that she would be eye to eye even with Sir James. As a native of the dust-clouded deserts she was white as milk, with her dark eyes lending her an unnatural appearance. Her hair was gathered in braids that hugged close to her head and were knotted together in a kind of topknot. She wore a black robe that was small for her size – almost more of a wrap without sleeves or sash, and Anya recognized it was meant to be discarded in case of violence.

She wore armor made of the polished and treated black wood harvested from the mushroom trees, and a straight, slim Martian sword on her left hip and a pistol on her right. She looked them all over with a cold detachment, though Anya felt her gaze linger longest on her. It made her nervous. She remembered the High Martians – the kur – employed as mercenaries and bodyguards. But she also remembered the wild stories of their savagery and violence – the stories that they wore flayed skins and ate the flesh of their enemies.

For his part, Wallingford seemed discomfited that she was a woman. He coughed. “So this . . . this woman will be commanding your forces?” He tried to sound unsurprised, but his tone was easy to read. Anya wondered if the Martians could tell. They did not use the same kinds of obvious intonations in their own speech.

“The time for that will be soon,” Umvara said. “But tonight you have traveled far and there is much to be done before steps can be taken.” He tapped his foot on the floor and servants appeared, stood waiting in even rows. “You will need to billet your soldiers, unload their equipment, and see to their comforts. I have had rooms prepared for all of you, and will give no cause to doubt my hospitality.” He bowed again to Anya. “All honor to you,” he said, reverting to Martian. “Turyan, my constant sword, will escort you to your chambers, and see to your safety.”

“Thank you, Blood of My Ancestors,” Anya said. She turned to face the lean mercenary commander, who bowed to her and stared resolutely past her shoulder.

“This way,” Turyan said. “I will guide you.”

o0o

Anya felt strange leaving with the guards, but then she heard heavier footfalls and saw that Colonel James was following with six men. She was surprised by what a relief she found this, and intentionally slowed her pace. Turyan and her ten men had to slow as well, and so the Earthmen were able to catch up. Colonel James fell in beside her with a quick smile. “Can’t very well let you go off alone, Your Highness,” he said.

“Indeed, Colonel,” she said. “I am eased by your accompaniment.” She saw Turyan watching them, and from her expression it seemed she did not understand English. Anya resolved to remember this detail, as it might become useful. The warrior woman unnerved her, and she was glad not to be alone with her in a strange place.

They proceeded up a wide stair, and again Anya was given to marvel at the complex colors in the walls and the slim pillars. She knew much of this was made from the wood of fungi and vines. It was induced to grow together in patterns, and then it was bonded with a resin and cut and polished into shape. Dried and sealed, the wood-like material was tremendously light and strong.

They reached an upper level, and were gifted with a panoramic view of the city and the shimmering darkness of the lake. Luminescent creatures swam in the black waters, swirling and coiling. Anya knew the Martians had a great fear and reverence for the water, last memory of the great seas that had dried up before the rise of human civilization on Earth. Sea creatures were almost divine, and yet so strange they were feared. She knew few Martians could swim, or dared to.

Another staircase, and they were on the highest levels of the palace. The hallway extended outward from the main structure, with a dizzying fall to either side through the glass windows that stood taller than any of them. At the end was a door, and Turyan opened the door and led her inside, ordering her men to wait.

Colonel James made to follow, and the warrior woman turned and faced him, blocking his path with her hand on her sword. “You will not be permitted in the private rooms of the Empress,” she said, her voice low and dangerous.

He spoke in perfectly understandable Martian, and Anya saw she was surprised. “You have your duty, and I have my own. I will not allow her to remain here unless I have personally checked that these rooms are secure.” He gestured behind him. “And I will have men here to guard her as well.”

Turyan stiffened. “I will not be insulted.”

Anya resisted the urge to touch her arm, knowing Martians did not casually touch one another. “It will be permitted,” she said. “I have trust in the Colonel, and he is sworn to me.”

Turyan stood almost nose to nose with Sir James for a long moment, and then she stepped back. “It will be as you command,” she said.

Sir James nodded and moved gingerly past her. He paced through the high, spacious apartment. Martians did not tend to divide their rooms up, so there was only one large, open area with some screens to divide it as wanted. The windows were wide and high, though the Martian glass was stronger than what was made on Earth. They were high off the ground, the apartment supported by a single slender column that was as smooth as glass. Such chambers were all but impossible to infiltrate.

He nodded. “Good.” He bowed to Anya. “I believe you will be safe enough here, Highness.” He smiled a bit and took a breath from his mask. He hesitated for a moment, but then made his leave. Turyan watched him every moment, her eyes intent and depthlessly black. In the dim light Martian pupils expanded and almost seemed to fill the whole eye. Anya knew her own eyes were likely doing it as well.

Turyan faced her and bowed rigidly. “I myself will guard your sleep tonight. I will leave no one else to do so. I will trade my life for yours, if it is called for.” She seemed about to speak again, but then she simply left, and Anya was left alone with unasked questions, and the brooding quiet of a city older than the mind of man.

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Chapter Two

sargon999 — Tue, 10 Apr 2018 19:28:46 GMT

Chapter 2: Under the Crimson Sky

Princess Anastasia remained at the rail to observe, but William could not. They would be landing soon, and he had business to see to. He sketched a small bow and then made his leave, he didn’t think she even noticed. She was a strange girl, with that deep red skin – redder than most Martians – and those little horns on her forehead. Supposedly only her family line had those, and he’d never seen them on another. The almost demonic look of her contrasted with her reserve and her poise. She acted like someone born to rule, that was no mistake.

He went back across the deck and shouted a few commands just to keep the men sharp. They were mostly doing what needed to be done. A month of inactivity aboard the ship had them eager for something to do with themselves. He paused to press the mask to his face and took a long breath of sweet air. The one thing he really hated about Mars was how fast a man got out of breath here – the other thing was there were no horses, but that was another matter.

The troops were busy unpacking their rifles and ammunition cases, and he left Sergeant Bell in charge of the work and headed below. Now they were in the Delve they were in potential danger, and he had to start thinking of the security of his men as well as the princess. That meant he had to look to his artillery.

The light gravity made descending the stairs a white-knuckled enterprise of gripping and handrail and stepping carefully so he didn’t end up flat on his face. He hadn’t been to Mars in almost seven years, and he was out of practice moving around. He hoped it came back to him quickly. Only about a third of the men had ever been off-planet before, and that could be a problem. Under fire men forgot training and reacted, and that could mean troops stumbling and throwing themselves all over the place.

On top of that, riflery on Mars was complicated. The kick of a Martini-Henry .577 would knock a man on his backside here if he was not braced for it. It was one of the reasons they didn’t worry much about the Martians getting hold of Earth guns. A Martian firing a rifle would probably dislocate his damned arm. Here, shooters had to brace, and range was longer because of the gravity, but the stability of the bullet was worse because of the thin air, so accuracy at longer ranges went right to hell.

He emerged into the lower deck and followed the left-hand corridor to the armory. The men on guard duty stiffened and saluted, and he returned it easily. This was a new command for him, and these men didn’t know his history except perhaps by rumor. That was part of the reason he had fought for this command. It was almost funny that he’d managed to cock up so badly he had to get away from Earth entirely. Or it would be funny, if it were not simply painful.

He came into the huge, open space of the armory hold and saw the artillerymen here already, cataloging, marking, and prioritizing. The big guns were their real advantage, as the Martians did not have anything like them. Gunnery would be very different here, but explosive shells would make hash of the delicate Martian architecture if it came to that. He hoped it didn’t. He rather liked the Martians, as much as it was possible to like such a strange people. They were mercurial, reserved and then emotional, easy to anger but quick to forgive.

He returned salutes, then headed to the rearmost chamber, closed off from the rest of the hold. He was not really surprised to find Sir Henry Wallingstone here already, and he was not really pleased either. The man was a diplomat of that particularly shifty variety the foreign service seemed to produce by accident – like mold on bathhouse walls. He was glad to see, at least, that his guards were not letting the man into the secure room.

Sir Henry saw him and his expression brightened. “Sir William, just as well you are here. Your men are -”

“Obeying their orders,” William said. He smiled and the two guards drew themselves up stiffly and saluted.

“Colonel James, sir!” one of them said. He gave Sir Henry a look and William almost chuckled. The men didn’t much like him either. Ah well, politicians.

“Stand easy,” he said. “Open the door.”

“Sir!” the man said and opened the hatch, stepped aside and stood straight with extra snap.

William gestured to Sir Henry. “After you, sir.” It was a bit of a question as to who outranked whom here. They were both peers, and while Wallingstone was nominally in command of the expedition, William thought the man would wilt at the first sign of danger. He certainly had no illusions as to who the men would listen to.

Sir Henry smiled and preceded him through the hatch, and William followed. The room inside had been walled off from the main hold before launch, and the long crate in here was lashed down and protected by wooden forms that affixed it to the deck. There was a smell, something acrid and not like ordinary gunpowder.

“We’ll unload it last,” William said. “It’s delicate – or moreso than a cannon. I’m still hoping we don’t need it.”

Sir Henry went to the crate and stood beside it. It was almost as tall as he was, and longer than two carts laid end to end. He touched the wood. “A real heat ray,” he said, as if ruminating. “Have you ever seen one fired?”

“I have,” William said. “I was in the capital when they did the annual firing, once.”

“Of the only one that still works,” Sir Henry said. “The Martians have declined much from their supposed former state of greatness.”

His tone rankled, but William didn’t say anything. The Martians had once held a much higher state of technological advancement than they did presently. At their height they had created the great weapons known as heat rays – devices that projected terrible beams of annihilating energy. They had long since lost the secrets of making them, but the royal palace was still equipped with great mounted examples that had once defended the emperors. Only one of them now functioned, but the Martians fired it every year with great ceremony to maintain the ruler’s title as the Bringer of Fire.

“I’ve only seen them fired on Earth, the once,” Sir Henry said. “Made a dreadful racket. Easy to see how a more primitive people would worship such a device.”

William chewed on his tongue. “Can hardly be that primitive, since they built the thing in the first place.”

“Not this one,” Sir Henry said. He patted the wooden crate fondly. “The Martians haven’t built a heat ray in over a thousand years, so they tell me. This one was engineered by our boys in just a few years.”

“From the one we stole from them and took apart,” William said.

“Still, says something, don’t you think? I have read the theories of Mister Charles Debakey, who theorizes that the present Martians are not the people who built this civilization, but rather the remnants of a servant race dwelling in the ruins of their masters.” Sir Henry had a way of speaking that made him sound almost insufferably sure of himself. Perhaps it served him well in statecraft.

“We’re not here to overawe primitives,” William said, his tone going colder. “This is a dangerous, and delicate situation. We may have an easy time, but I would not wager on it.”

Sir Henry waved a hand. “We have a regiment of rifles and real artillery. The Martians will have never seen anything like it before. And we have the rightful and legal heir to their throne. This is not a usurpation, it’s a completely legal action on our part.”

“Henry, the great tragedy of humanity is that there is no law that applies between governments, or between different peoples. Sometimes men can agree, but when they cannot, there is war.” He looked at the crated-up heat ray. “This contraption is only here so we can impress upon them that Anastasia is the Bringer of Fire – that carries a lot of weight with them. I pray we don’t have to use it on anyone.”

Sir Henry sniffed, looking at him with obvious disapproval. “I had not expected a military man to be so hesitant to engage in violent action. You don’t have a reputation for such reluctance.” He gave William a sidelong look that said he knew exactly what William did have a reputation for.

Instead of showing anger, he laughed. “It’s not reluctance at all,” he said. “It’s the simple fact that if we are in the position of firing this infernal machine at someone, well, then things have already gone very, very wrong.”

o0o

Anya stayed at the bow of the ship and watched as they descended into the Delve. They were so high, and yet the distances were deceptive. The thin air made everything seem stark and near, and she imagined she could reach down and touch the ground below, when she knew it was miles distant. There was not much wind, only layers of thin mist as they descended along the ancient cliffs. The red earth contrasted sharply with the colors of the forests, and it was so vivid it brought a lump to her throat.

The sides of the Delve, even this high, were thick with the enormous mushrooms and more exotic fungi that grew everywhere in the canyons and river valleys. They spread wide hoods in mottled reds and blues, blazoned with patterns that looked like water dropped into inks and swirled by a painter’s hand. The ladder fungi grew everywhere the sides were steep, and they spread their fans of gold and azure, glinted with threads of silver. The fungi of Mars were believed to have been bred in the lost age of greatness, and they drew up minerals from the hard soil and wove fibers in their flesh that made it hard as stone when dried and treated.

The Elizabeth descended through the air, slowed by the thickening atmosphere, steered with care to keep it from the ridges and outcrops of red stone. Swarms of long-winged attla veered off to avoid the heavy craft, the bright colors on their webbed wings flashing as they flew past. Their calls sounded the ticking of marbles on a hard floor.

She began to see the shapes of farms, the fields sown with green shoots of grain or the wide leaves of cycads harvested for their fruit. The glint of waterways shimmered like a web through the haze of the low-lying mist. Irrigation spread outward from the meandering channels of the river, taking life with it where it went. She saw other airships moving here and there, but none so immense as the Elizabeth. Among the slim Martian flyers she was an armored behemoth.

When they reached the lowlands, the ground all but vanished below in a welter of fog, and all she saw were the wide umbrellas of the mushroom forests and the occasional tower. The legacy of tens of thousands of years of history was a world covered with ruins – places empty and forgotten, but still standing. Some were still in use, but many stood vacant, a testament to how much of their history had been lost in the scramble to save themselves from a dying world.

Here at the bottom of the Delve, the mist was thicker, and made it hard to see the cliffsides, and the sun did not reach here for very long. They sailed into twilight, and with the coming night the fungi below revealed their nocturnal phosphorescence, the mist shining with red and violet and golden light.

She smelled it before they saw it. The heavy scent of water and life was almost enough to make her drunk on it. Water was such a precious thing on this world, and that was something she had never become accustomed to on Earth. Her first sight of the ocean there had stunned her, left her with a feeling that was not fear or awe but almost a kind of anger that one world should be so abundantly blessed. She had seen the Earthmen waste water, bathe in it, foul it, piss in it. They did not understand the riches they were given, and squandered them. She wondered if her own people had ever been like that.

The mist parted and she saw the lake, and she let out a long, slow breath. Lake Ona, the greatest body of open water that remained upon Mars. It spread out before them dark and seemingly endless. By day she would be able to see the far shores, but for now it was mysterious and boundless. Fed by the canals that brought meltwater down from the poles, it was the wellspring of the power of the Empire, the very reason for it. To guard it and tend it and see that it was not wasted was the purpose of civilization itself, for without it there would be nothing.

To her left in the west, she saw the glow of lights and the sprawling, radiant shape of the city that was their destination. Shal was one of the three great cities of the Ona basin, spread out along the wide, shallow shore and the hub of trade and agriculture for the western end of the lake. It had been the nursery of her family’s power in the Empire, where they had grown strong before they took the throne. Her first ancestor had become Emperor before the first written word had been set down on Earth, and the line of her family stretched far beyond that.

The lord of the city was a Shrad named Umvara, and he was the nearest thing to a living relative she possessed. He had inherited lordship of the city after the fall of her family, for his house was a cadet branch that had diverged before the fall of Rome. She knew the British had been in contact with him, and that he was in some way expected to assist with the coup they were planning to execute. She had not been included in the planning stages of the expedition and now she felt that as a distinct lack. Everything was suddenly before her, and she felt unprepared for it. Was she to just stand and look regal? Was she merely a figurehead? She was sure the British expected her to act as a kind of subordinate queen under their rule. Once, alone on a foreign world, that had seemed worth it to return home. Now it began to seem more and more distasteful.

Lights came alive on the deck of the Elizabeth, illuminating her in their glow, and she squinted against the sudden glare. Bright beams stabbed down, splashing across the lake and the watery fields beside it. She saw people down there, gathering to look up at them, wondering what they saw. She realized these were the first people of her kind she had seen in almost ten years, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Martians did not shed tears, but in that moment she almost wished for the release.

They swept in over the city, the bright-lit towers all around them. The houses of noble Martians were always built high in defended places, to guard against the assassins that were simply a part of life in the constant wars between one family and another. The streets below were wide and thronged with people even in the night. Martians saw well in darkness, and so their world did not stop for sunset. In a Martian city something was always happening, no matter the hour.

The demesne of the Shrad was close to the water, and she saw the beautiful spires and the glittering domes as they drew closer. The Elizabeth could set down over the water itself, anchor and allow them to unload their men and cargo directly on the grounds of the palace. She wondered if Umvara knew quite what he was getting himself into, if he was really as eager to join an armed insurrection as they seemed to think he was. Lights blazed up to meet them, and the ship slowed and then turned majestically in place. She heard the anchors splash down, and then the ship settled lower.

She held still for a moment, looking at the palace there so close, like a spun-glass ornament hung in the night. She found she did not want to look away from it, for fear it would simply vanish, like a dream. All of this seemed like a dream, and she clenched her fists as she fought the fear that it would turn like a knife and become a nightmare. This was not the home of her hazy memories, it was a real and dangerous world, and she had best remember that.

o0o

They put down the long, clanking ramp from the middle deck to the shore, and Colonel James sent men down to form an honor guard. The men in their red uniforms and white helmets looked out of place here, but they moved with parade-ground neatness, stepping lightly so as not to overbalance. Twenty men to each side, they flanked the base of the ramp and made an aisle between them, standing stiff at attention. They carried their rifles at port with bayonets fixed and glittering.

Anya held herself stiffly as the Colonel sent two more men down ahead of her, one bearing the flag of Britain, one of the regiment. They marched to the end and stood to attention with the banners held up. She wished they could carry a banner of her own house, but they had none. Martians did not use flags to symbolize their nations. She, herself, would have to be the symbol of the hour.

Colonel James nodded to her, drew his sword, and held it straight against his shoulder as he preceded her down the long gangpank. She walked stiffly, with measured steps, careful not to stumble or reel in the light gravity. Sir James reached the bottom and turned to let her pass, staring straight ahead as though he were alone. “My lady,” he said formally. “You are returned to the land of your birth, and of your forefathers.”

She wanted to say something, but the words did not come. She was all but overwhelmed with emotion. This swampy patch of land beside the lake was, in that moment, indescribably beautiful. She only nodded to him, gathered a breath, and then stepped forward and set her feet at last upon her native soil.

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Chapter One

sargon999 — Tue, 03 Apr 2018 19:40:38 GMT

Chapter 1: Down to the Red World

Anya went to the bow on their final approach to Mars, desperate after weeks in the void to finally see their destination. The forward observation dome was quiet and lit only by small lights. She gathered her skirts and made her way between the benches to stand before the great curved window, and she looked out into the dark. Against the endless field of stars, the red world of her birth loomed large, and the color was a deep, copper red, marked by a swirl of white frost at the pole.

It was smaller than Earth, the totality of the surface only equal to the land area of all the earthly continents. A planet of dim light and cold air, thin and lacking in oxygen. The journey here had been like an enforced holiday no one wanted, highlighted by inactivity and impatience. On Earth there had been preparation and packing and urgency, and then came the long voyage when it seemed like everyone was trembling on the edge of something, forced to wait. The trip gave her far too much time to worry about her future.

It had been almost the opposite of her passage to Earth as a child – struggling to breathe the heavy atmosphere, prostrate beneath what seemed a crushing weight of gravity. She had been so frightened, and did not understand the speech of those with her. She remembered crying out in Martian, hoping someone would answer.

“I see you had the same thought as I,” came the voice of Sir Henry as he entered the room. He always moved so quietly, much moreso than other Earthmen, who always seemed to stomp as loudly as possible.

She half-turned as he came to stand beside her, far enough away to avoid any impropriety. He was the diplomat assigned to their expedition, and nominally in command, though he was not the officer who would direct the troops they brought with them. He was a well-knit man with a drooping mustache and intense eyes. The way he looked at things reminded her of the one time she had been presented to Lord Salisbury. They both had that same cold watchfulness.

“I wanted to see it before we land,” she said. “It’s been so long since I was here.” She wished he would go away.

“Ten years,” he said. “Almost as long for me. I left not long after you did, though my visit was shorter. Those were difficult days.”

“An understatement,” she said stiffly. It seemed a dismissive way to refer to the uprising that had slaughtered her family and stolen her throne. She could not remember any of them very well. They were still images in her mind, like old photographs. Theirs had been a dynastic family, and she had been raised by servants and guards and tutors. She remembered her mother, tall and proud on the throne, more a presence than a person.

Sir Henry half-bowed with a slight smile. “No disrespect, my lady.”

She made a noncommittal noise. She had decided some weeks ago that he had, in fact, no respect for anyone save himself. She tried to ignore him and looked down on her homeworld. The massive shape of the mountain the Earthmen called Olympus was plain to see on the red expanse. A volcano the size of France, the slopes thick with strange vegetation, fed by cooling winds that flowed down the sides. Rain fell on those slopes, one of the few places on Mars where that happened. It was a sacred place to her ancestors, and she wondered if she would ever see it in person.

“You are worried,” he said, in that way he had of assuming and then not looking back. “A regiment seems like a small force with which to reclaim an empire, but these are Queen’s Rifles, and the Martians have never had to face real riflery. Once your cousin adds his native forces to ours, we will push to the capital and gather allies along the way. It shall be like the Maghreb – we will find everywhere the enemies of our enemies.”

“My enemies,” she said.

He paused to take a small breath from his mask. The Elizabeth was an Earth ship, but she was only operating at half normal air pressure to prepare the troops to the conditions they would face on the surface. It had only taken Anya a few days to acclimate, and she continued to rather enjoy the discomfiture of the Earthmen. The bare surface of Mars would be much worse.

“Yes,” he said. “Your enemies, very much so.”

She had been taken from this world when she was just a child, the last survivor of the Vovikar dynasty that ruled the Empire. The uprising had placed a usurper on the throne, and so the British had saved her life, taken her to Earth. When she was young she had thought it a gesture of kindness, but now she knew they thought to someday use her to take back the Empire for their own purposes. Now the usurper was dead, the empire divided, and that day had come. Now she was returning to Mars at the head of a thousand British soldiers to try and retake her birthright.

“It shall be highly symbolic,” Sir Henry said. “A great deal of prestige for the Crown. It is already October back home. By the time the year turns we shall have made you a queen again, and the year nineteen hundred shall open with the British Empire expanding to another world.” He smiled.

There were many things she could have said, but she did not. She had learned that differing with Sir Henry only brought frustration, and made no dent at all in his air of superiority. He was what she found most frustrating about Earthmen, especially the British – the certainty that they were all that was best. Some of them had more admirable qualities, but they were few. She found her hand was knotted into a fist, and she hid it in a fold of her gown so he would not see.

She took a last look down at the planet below. That this view of her home would be intruded upon offended her in a way she could not have expressed. Instead she simply nodded to him. “A good day to you, Sir Henry.” She turned to go.

“And to you, if it is day.” He laughed a little, then made a bow that was almost sincere. “Princess Anastasia.”

o0o

She returned to her quarters through the dim corridors of the ship, glad that the thin air kept the troops in their barracks. It was so lovely and quiet here in space. One of the things she had first learned to dislike about Earth was how loud and how bright everything was. Thicker air carried more sound, and it was something she had been forced to get used to.

The gravity was lower on the ship, and she was working to grow used to that as well. Once they landed, the Martian gravity would be lesser still – about a third of what she had faced on Earth. She remembered lying in her bed as a girl, the air so thick it felt like sand in her lungs and the gravity like a hand pressing her downward. She had slowly, painfully become accustomed to it, but she knew it had changed her. She was tall for an Earth woman, but short for a Martian. Her bones would be denser and heavier than other Martians, and she would be strong. Already, she could move more easily, had to learn to walk carefully so she would not stumble or trip. Once they were on the surface, she would be three times as strong as any Martian.

She was a little dizzy when she got back to her quarters, paused to take a breath of oxygen from the little tube that led to the small tank on her shoulder. The thin air was affecting her as well, though she had adjusted better than the Earthmen. She had lived most of the last decade at a private chalet in Switzerland, high in the mountains where the thin air made visitors ill. It was dense compared to the surface of Mars, but the best that could be managed on her adopted world – if she could be said to have adopted it at all.

For the last ten years she had spent a great deal of time alone. They sent girls to be her companions, but they feared her and none of them became what she might call a friend. They rotated the girls out as well, presumably so none of them would become confused in their loyalties. Anya had had servants and guards and tutors, but no one else. She found this journey and enterprise far more frightening than she wanted them to be.

Her rooms here were small, but well-appointed. She always had the sense the British wanted her to project an image of royalty without developing appetites for luxury. It made for a strange mixture. It felt confined here, after the mountainous vistas of Switzerland, the terrible, bright sun and the cold winds. She sat on the bed and reached into her drawer, took out the folded photo case and opened it. Here she had a picture of her mother, taken the year before she had been assassinated.

Queen Omavarvisha, Shrad of Vul and Bringer of Fire, looked out from the photograph, the black and white image not conveying her deep red skin. She had the small horns above her eyes that Anya had – three in a row on each side, the largest the length of a fingertip, the other two smaller as they receded toward her hairline – the mark of their family line.

The queen did not wear a British dress with corset and gloves and a high collar. She wore the rich, heavy robes of a Martian queen over a body covered with little more than ornaments and jewels. Her hair was bound in many long braids decorated with gold bands and looped in elaborate patterns. Compared to a human’s, her face was elongated and her eyes were large. Her ears were set slightly high and had long points. Her gaze was direct and fearless, and she had a bared sword laid across her knees.

This was the only picture of her mother ever taken, and though it had been reproduced a hundred times – the original was in the British Museum – when she looked at it she felt her mother was looking right at her. Anya sat up and looked in the small mirror, touched her own horns, her ears. She wondered what she saw, and what she would think. Her mother had not been a warrior queen, though she looked fierce. She had been a daughter of a regal line, bred to command.

She folded the picture away, put it back in her drawer, and she thought of what was to come and she could not encompass it. The prospect of an invasion contained far too many elements that were simply out of her experience. It was hard enough to imagine returning to Mars – the world that was more like a dream to her now. And if she seized her throne, what then? The idea of having to be a queen was terrifying.

On Earth, when she felt alone and afraid, she thought of Mars, and took comfort in it. Mars was her home, and there she could imagine she would return someday. Now she was almost there, and it seemed a dread rather than a refuge. She longed for it, and she shied from it, all at once. She clenched her fists and pressed her arms against herself, feeling hard and tight and brittle. She knew she was a pawn, of sorts, in this great game, and pawns were spent and traded and lost. If she wanted to survive, she had to become a queen.

The Earthmen called her Anastasia, because Deep Martian sounded Slavic to their ears. They gave her a name that sounded like her own, but was easier for them to pronounce. But she had not forgotten her real name, and if she took the throne, it would not be under any name they gave her. She would be a queen like her mother had been: she would be Anavasavsta.

o0o

Landing was much smoother than leaving Earth, and she barely noticed the passage through the frail atmosphere. She felt the lurch when the ship shut off her planetary drives and shifted to the lift engines used by airships. Ships could not fly very high on Mars; with the air so thin, they could not generate enough lift to rise more than a few hundred feet above the ground. The normal drives would not push the ship either, as Mars had no magnetic field to push against. Ships had to deploy sails and drift on the Martian winds.

She went out as soon as she could, stepping from the heavy hatch and onto the open upper deck. Her first breath of free Martian air was not convivial, as it was cold and breathlessly thin, tasting of blood or metal on her tongue. She went to the rail and leaned there, fighting the urge to use her breathing tube.

The land spread out around her, endless rolling lands of stone and sand, the sky overhead hazy and dim with dust. She took another breath and then relented, took the tube and clipped it into her nose so she could breathe a steady supply of oxygen to supplement the thin air. She shrugged her shawl over her shoulders and wished she had a proper Martian cloak. She decided she would obtain one as soon as she could. A red robe fit for an empress.

The soldiers were on deck, carrying the stowed gear up from the hold and arranging it for easier access. They were on the planet now, and she watched them unpack crates of rifles and distribute them. It was funny watching the men easily hoist enormous crates in the lighter gravity, and then almost immediately collapse, gasping for breath through their masks. Their bright red uniforms were quickly covered in a fine layer of red dust, as were their conical white pith helmets. The fighting qualities of the British soldiers were not in question, but she had never thought they looked much like warriors.

Colonel James saw her and smiled. He came closer and bowed to her with a sincerity she always appreciated. “My lady. This must be a momentous moment for you.”

“Indeed,” she said. “It is actually my first time in the High Plains.” Her people did not live in the uplands. These dry, desolate plains were home to the High Martians, pale-skinned and savage of temperament, barbarians and raiders. They were the wellspring of mercenary armies that fought the wars for their red masters.

“Can’t come down in the Delve,” he said. “The jets would cause too much damage, and the pressure changes would make it hard to maneuver properly.” He smiled again, put his mask to his face and breathed deep. Sir William James, Colonel of the 1st Martian Rifles, was only a little older than Sir Henry, but at forty he looked older than that. His beard was going gray on the sides, and there were lines in his face from wind and sun. He was an old hand campaigner, and she gathered he was here to avoid some kind of scandal back home, though she had not heard details.

She liked him, smiled back as wide as she ever did, which was not very. He was a big man, and she had to look up at him. She knew he had been to Mars before, and though he didn’t seem to care for it, he remained rather cheerful. She had heard rumors that he drank to excess, but she had never seen it.

The soldiers were unpacking artillery, and she felt a pang at the sight of the guns. Sir Henry made it sound easy, but she knew retaking her throne would probably mean fighting, and she didn’t want to see Earth weapons used against Martians. The whole expedition had seemed theoretical back on Earth, but now they were actually here and she was confronted with the stark reality, and she didn’t like it.

William followed her glance, and his smile faded a bit. “We’ll hope this doesn’t turn into some kind of fracas,” he said. “Seems damned rude to come to another planet just to start trouble.” He winced. “Your pardon, my lady.”

She almost laughed. “Pardon granted, Sir James,” she said. She breathed fresh air through her nose. “I am not eager to see blood shed on my behalf.”

“Well, but you’re the rightful heir,” he said. “Don’t forget that. We are restoring you to your throne.”

“Well, and I suppose that’s all there is to it,” she said, somewhat sarcastic.

He laughed at that. “Well, also bulling our way into a political situation on another world that could blow up at any moment. We’re doing that as well.” He took another breath and then nodded, pointed ahead of them. “The Delve.”

o0o

She turned to look, and then clutched at the rail of the ship as the emotion overwhelmed her. She had not thought she would remember it so well, but she did. Ahead of them, the ground dropped away, and a layer of mist floated there like a sea lapping at the cliffs. It was the edge of what the Martians called the Tarivinan Delve. It was a network of canyons for which the word was entirely inadequate. The American Grand Canyon would vanish within it. The Delve was almost two thousand miles long, and on Earth would stretch from California to Maine and beyond. It was over five miles deep, in some places closer to eight, and hundreds of miles wide.

In the Delve, the air pressure gathered and built to a more habitable atmosphere, moisture was trapped and rain fell, watering the farmlands below. Thicker air made it warmer, and she felt it even as the first light mist settled on her face. She smelled it, and the scent conjured memory so strongly she felt faint. She remembered the mushroom gardens, the flowers on the vines that grew everywhere, hoppers bounding away too fast to catch with their red fins flicking.

The Elizabeth glided majestically over the edge and the mist rose up around them. She felt the ship settle, and then it began to sink slowly through the gradually thickening air. They dropped through layers of cloud and shadow, and then emerged into the open sky above the homeland of the ancient Martian civilization. She saw the cliffsides covered with the multicolored fungi, the red ridges leading downward to the shining silver ribbon of the river hedged in by the orderly patterns of the cultivated fields. The dim sun shone through only as a gentle glow, filtered through the mist to make a golden haze. Just the sight of it all stilled her breath.

Colonel James leaned on the rail and took a breath from his mask. “Welcome home, my lady.”

Come and contribute to my CAMPAIGN.

Mars

sargon999 — Fri, 30 Mar 2018 18:00:17 GMT

Not a dead world. Not dead, but dying. Once Mars was as green and fertile as Earth, covered with shallow seas and rich ecosystems, but that was long ago. Now it is a world of high, arid plains, thin atmosphere, and endless dust. The old sea bottoms grow with the fungi and other primitive forms that can survive, and life here is a harsh one.

The Martians achieved civilization long before Earthmen, and they have lived through more cycles of growth and decline than can be counted, or remembered. The crisis of their fading world threw them into chaos, and there were aeons of war. The people of the Red Planet once possessed a high degree of technology, but they have lost or forgotten most of it. On the high plateaus the pale inhabitants live a nomadic and dangerous life that has not changed substantially in thousands of years.

In only one place does a shadow of Martian greatness remain. The immense volcanic strike called the Tarivinan Delve – a network of canyons so vast the Grand Canyon would be lost within it. Two thousand miles long, and in places eight miles deep, it is here the last remnants of the old civilization live on. The depth allows atmospheric pressure to collect and increase, and traps moisture for a more livable environment.

The Great Canals bring down water from the frozen poles, and from there it flows into the rivers and irrigation channels in the Delve. Here there is rain, and the towering cycads, ferns, and mushroom forests that evoke an Earth of an earlier age. Here the last Martian cities still stand, rebuilt again and again over thousands of years – some say hundreds of thousands. The last remnants of a proud race cling to their old ways, and fight valiantly for the dwindling resources of their world

Come and explore this Mars with me. Help my campaign make goal!

Anavasavsta

sargon999 — Wed, 28 Mar 2018 17:40:19 GMT

Her name is not Anastasia. She remembers her real name, and often writes it down in the angular script of her native language. Anavasavsta. The British have a hard time with the pronunciation of it, often shortened it to “Anya”, or just called her “Princess”. The Deep Martian tongue sounds Slavic to an English ear, and so when they decided to give her an Earth name, they chose one that sounded close to her real one – or it sounded close to them at least.

She doesn’t look like one of them. Martian skin is red, and hers is especially dark – a blood red shade they find shocking. She has the small rows of horns on her forehead – the largest only as long as the smallest finger joint – just above her eyes. Her eyes are wide and dark, in the bright light of Earth they contract and look slitted to humans. Some of them call her a devil when they think she can’t hear them, but she has very good ears. She is tall for a human woman, though she is short for a Martian. On Mars she would have grown taller, on Earth she has grown up beneath the heavy hand of gravity.

The humans say her black hair is pretty, but they all look at her strangely, even the ones who are accustomed to her. She is different from them in so many small ways, and she notices them as much as they do. She has lived on Earth since she was nine years old, and she has become used to their pale skins and squat features, their white-rimmed eyes and flat teeth. Yet they cannot forget she was born on another world, and they never let her forget it.

Now she is going home. To the dim red world she remembers almost like a dream. She knows she will be stronger there, that the heavy gravity of Earth has made her muscles and bones dense and powerful compared to other Martians. The thin air will be hard to adjust to, as she has become inured to the thick atmosphere of Earth. She is in company with a regiment of soldiers, and they want her to take back the throne that was stolen from her mother and her family. She doesn’t know if she wants a throne, she isn’t sure if she wants revenge, or freedom, or neither. She is nineteen years old – very young still for a Martian – and she does not know if she can be a queen.

Come and see my campaign, help me tell Anastasia's stoy.

Anastasia, Queen of Mars

sargon999 — Thu, 22 Mar 2018 17:47:13 GMT

My new campaign is live! I know it seems like I just use this old LJ for campaign posts, but there are some people who only see my news here, even barren as LJ has become. But never mind, onward!

Her name is Anavasavsta. Born on Mars in the year 1880 to an ancient royal house, she was heir to the throne of an empire. She was only a child when the Earthmen came to her world, and changed everything.

When the British came to explore Mars in 1879, they found a harsh, ancient world teeming with new and strange forms of life, including the red-skinned people of Mars, who live in the deeps of the Tarivinan Delve – a network of ravines and river valleys five times as deep as the Grand Canyon, where the air pressure provides an atmosphere more suited for life.

The Martian city-states and federations had lasted for thousands of years. Often at war, using technology left behind from an ancient golden age, they were totally unprepared for the arrival of Earthmen. Trade and colonization disrupted the world’s balance of power, and a war tore apart the oldest empire on the face of the planet.

The British thought it would be useful to have an heiress to the throne at hand, so when her family was wiped out, they took young Anavasavsta to Earth. She almost did not survive the harshness of her new home – the heavy gravity and dense air pressure. But now she has lived on Earth for ten years, learning languages, customs, and, above all, to adapt to the hardships of her new planet. She has a new name, given to her by the British: Anastasia.

Now, in 1899, the coalition that seized the throne on Mars has fallen apart, and the empire is there to be taken. Now she will return to the planet of her birth at the head of a battalion of soldiers to take the throne in the name of the British Empire.

She is going back to a world she has not seen since she was a child, where she does not know if she belongs. She will be given the power to take revenge on the people who killed her family, but as a pawn of the British Empire. The Earthmen are her allies – some are even her friends – but is she willing to take the throne just to make it a possession of the Crown? Must she choose between being Anavasavsta or Anastasia? Can she become the Queen of Mars?

Click the THING!

Captain Blackstone

sargon999 — Wed, 04 Oct 2017 23:50:57 GMT

When we speak of criminals so horrifying that their names are spoken of in whispers, we must speak of Lady Fane Blackstone, the Countess of Warven. What can we say that has not been already said? That she murdered her parents in an attempt to inherit their fortune, then fled Britain when she was discovered. She appeared in Constantinople after, in the court of the Sultans, and was involved in an intrigue there which resulted in ten thousand deaths and her own banishment. Imprisoned in a remote fortress in the Caucasus, she escaped in company with a host of bitter criminals and took to the sea as a desperate and amoral commander of pirates. When last she was reported, her ship had become trapped in ice high in the Barents Sea and civilization shed a tear of relief that she was, at last, no more. Now that she has reappeared as a captain of sky corsairs, alive through some mysterious intervention and hell-bent upon vengeance, who can say what infamies she will pursue?

Well, with 4 days to go and just 63% funded, I am pretty sure I am not going to make goal this time. But every dollar still matters! Come and grab a perk and some sexy pirate adventure!

Captain Hawk

sargon999 — Mon, 25 Sep 2017 22:37:57 GMT

A rake, a rogue, and a privateer, Captain Avery Hawk has gone from navy man to licensed buccaneer and now finds himself a criminal. His mother wanted him to be a barrister, but instead he took to the sea, and soon after, he became part of the first generation of Britain’s airship-sailors. He was always more trouble than he was worth, with an unruly tongue and a knack for saying the perfectly wrong thing. Discharged from the navy, he became a privateer, and then a full-blooded corsair. After a rather sensational affair in Morocco he became famous, and dime novels making him out to be a hero began to appear. Now he has been caught and sentenced to hang, and the last thing he expects is a rescue by five strange schoolgirls...

There's 13 days left in the campaign, and I can't extend it any more than that. It's 54% funded and I still have a ways to go. Please come and help!

THE LINK IS HERE!

The Doldrums

sargon999 — Thu, 14 Sep 2017 06:28:20 GMT

It's always hard to maintain my own morale when a campaign is struggling. There's just 5 days left, and it's pretty obvious that I am going to have to extend the deadline. I hate doing that, because one: it feels dishonest. I use the shrinking window to build what salesmen call "urgency" and get money in the door, and then I reboot the whole thing. Two: it extends the time I am running the campaign, and it is tremendously stressful and emotionally exhausting to keep this kind of pressure up. It always wears me down and takes weeks for me to recover. I don't like doing it, but I have to. The third reason is the simple, practical reason that it pushes back the time frame until I get paid, which means some major belt-tightening for me. With the deadline set next week, I was looking at a payday in the next 14 days, now it may be more like 35, and that puts a strain on what remains of my budget.

I've been trying to diversify, get some freelance work, but it's slow and unreliable. I have to have a cushion to work from, no matter how low I get my expenses. (And they are loooowww, let me tell you.)

The worst part is the constant feeling that I should be Doing Something. The feeling that I need to get up at like 2 am and get to work on some brilliant piece of online marketing that will make my campaign go viral and launch it into the stratosphere. I always feel like the perfect thing is just out of reach. This is coupled by the incompatible feeling that there is nothing I can do. This is the wrong idea, the wrong time, people are sick of my bullshit, or are just broke for whatever reason. I don't know, and it's like a puzzle I can never solve.

So instead I come on LJ and complain about it, because, well, hardly anybody will see it here, but it feels better than just not saying it at all.

EDIT: I am looking back through and I am just like "holy shit I write a whiny post like this every time don't I?" Feel free to ignore me. Sheesh.

Ayesha A'Jharra

sargon999 — Wed, 06 Sep 2017 19:57:03 GMT

Ayesha is the newest girl at Bloodgood House. An orphan from Algiers, she has a rich uncle who is her benefactor, and who is responsible for her being sent away. She does not speak English well and is sensitive about that, though she speaks French, Arabic, Turkish, and Italian quite fluently. She is a tremendously intelligent, but is also terribly shy and timid girl, seemingly afraid of her own shadow.

She has a great fear of fire, and the rumor is that there have been several unexplained conflagrations while she was asleep. She takes a long bath in the evening, going to bed with wet hair and damp skin. She tries to keep to herself, and yet she is desperately lonely, and would do anything to have friends.

The campaign is waaaay behind, and there's a limit to how far I can push it and still be able to keep the lights on here. Head on over and help out!

Vittra Valdenheld

sargon999 — Fri, 01 Sep 2017 23:36:43 GMT

Vittra is Echo’s best friend, even though their families have been rivals for centuries. She is a quick, intelligent girl with an inquisitive mind and a fierce sense of loyalty. She is short, with dusky skin and dark red hair, and she is a little sensitive about her height. She has a great affinity for animals of all kinds, especially dangerous ones. She keeps a collection of bones and teeth she has found, and reads a voraciously about wild plants and animals.

She has a terrible temper, and she is given an injection each day to keep it under control and is not allowed any spicy foods. There are whispers of terrible violence she has done when she loses her grip, but she herself has no real memory of these events. She is bored and restless and wants to be free to wander the forests and see the world, but not without her friends.

Campaign is stuck at 16%, come help!

Echo Killwinter

sargon999 — Thu, 31 Aug 2017 18:12:08 GMT

Echo is a tall, slim, pale girl who has a rare blood disease. She has dark eyes, white hair, and cannot abide the sun without her special veil. She has been at Bloodgood House since she was twelve, and seven years later she sees no end to her stay. Her family is wealthy, and so her care is well paid for. She reads poetry, stays up late, and sings beautifully. Vittra is her close friend, and they are almost inseparable.

She is allowed no meat whatsoever, only a specially formulated gruel, and she is often found chewing flowers or eating small insects when she thinks no one is looking. Echo wishes she could live the high life; traveling, dancing, and drinking until dawn at fine parties, wearing the expensive gowns she yearns for. She wants to escape from Bloodgood House as badly as any of the girls, but she has become almost apathetic about the possibility, and fears she would never be able to survive alone. But she won’t be alone...

Campaign is stalled out at 16%, I really need your support!

Rebecca Baltimore

sargon999 — Mon, 28 Aug 2017 22:34:05 GMT

Rebecca came to Bloodgood House a year ago, and she isn't happy about it at all. The only American in the school, she already has to put up with the other girls making fun of her accent - and she doesn't take it well. Part of the reason she is in Bloodgood is because of her relentless willingness to start fights; the other reason is that she is. . . different.

Rebecca is a tall, blonde girl with a quick temper and impressive physical strength. She's never sick, never tired, never hurt. In order to control her the staff have used drugs that make her sleepy and a bit more docile, but it is always a struggle for them to keep her restless temper under control. Of all the girls in the school she is the one who most wants to escape, and the one most likely to seize an opportunity if it comes...

Come and see the campaign for Young Pirates of Distinction.

Diana Silverthorn

sargon999 — Fri, 25 Aug 2017 22:02:54 GMT

Diana has lived at Bloodgood House since she was fourteen - ever since her curious affliction manifested itself. At first it was only small items like pins and thimbles that danced when she came near and sometimes stuck to her hands, then tableware scooting across the cloth, and finally objects as large as anvils would shift and slide towards her. For her own safety she was fitted with the special bracelets and anklets that dampen the effect, but cannot entirely stop it. Now she is eighteen, cut off from the world, and she has found solace in stories of adventure and romance in far lands. She is most especially fond of the tales of daring aeronauts and outlaws of the sky. To fly away and be free, to see the world and find adventure, is all she ever dreams of.

She avidly follows the exploits of her favorite rogue, the dashing Air Privateer, Captain Avery Hawk. She has read everything she can find about him, and is almost annoyingly well-read about his life and the workings of airships. She knows she will never meet the hero she swoons for, but she dreams of him swooping in to carry her away to some grand adventure, where she can truly live, and not dwell in this small corner of the world as an invalid schoolgirl.

Come and join the campaign for Young Pirates of Distinction!

Slow start once again

sargon999 — Thu, 24 Aug 2017 00:00:34 GMT

Rather slow start for the campaign at 7% after a week, but I have been in worse positions and still made it. Came down with a cold over the weekend which has seriously affected my energy levels. But it seems to be finally fading out.

If you can repost or share, please do, and here is the LINK.

Young Pirates of Distinction!

sargon999 — Thu, 17 Aug 2017 22:13:11 GMT

My new book campaign is live! After a bit of a hiatus, I have returned with a new pitch for sexy steampunk adventure!

The Pitch...

In the Midlands of England stands the Wentworth Academy for Young Ladies of Distinction, a respected establishment for the schooling of wealthy young women. Yet it has another, secret side. Separate from the main school is the Bloodgood House – a place where girls with “special” requirements are housed. Now, as spring deepens into summer in 1875, there are five girls in residence:

Diana Silverthorn – Bookish, shy Diana has an addiction to penny dreadful tales of airship pirates and swashbuckling adventure – especially the stories of the fearsome Captain Hawk — and spends her time writing torrid pirate adventures she never lets anyone see. It is an unusual pursuit for a young woman, yet not as unusual as the heavy bracelets she must wear to control her magnetic affliction, which can cause every metallic object in a room to be attracted to her.

Rebecca Baltimore – An American girl of a new-money family, Rebecca has been sent to the Academy to try and educate her in spite of her forceful and wayward nature. Rebecca is athletic, adventurous, and very, very strong — so strong she is given a special drink every day at bedtime to make her weak and docile.

Vittra Valdenheld – A quick, intelligent girl with an inquisitive mind and a fierce sense of loyalty, Vittra is very fond of animals of all kinds – especially dangerous ones. She is not allowed any meat, and is given an injection whenever she becomes agitated.

Echo Killwinter – A pale, distracted girl who sings, stays up late, and covets fancy clothes, Echo might seem the least odd of the group. And yet she cannot abide the sunlight, and is allowed to eat only a specially-formulated gruel.

Ayesha a’ Jharra – The new girl, Ayesha is of an unknown lineage, but has a wealthy uncle for a benefactor. This would be to her advantage, except that she suffers from a belief that she will burst into flames if she loses control of herself, and so she is often sedated, and kept away from things that might burn.

Chafing under the rule of their headmistress, Miss Hench, they long for the chance to get away on holiday, like the other girls. They get their chance one night when airship pirates raid the school, and rather than be kidnapped by the menacing Captain Blackstone, the girls manage to steal a ship themselves and fly away.

With their own ship, Rebecca tells them they could escape Wentworth forever and become pirates themselves. But while Wentworth might have prepared them to be young ladies of distinction, it has not taught them to be pirates. They need a teacher, and Diana knows that the famous Captain Hawk has just been captured in London. If they could only break him out of jail, he could teach them everything they might need to know...

Come and see HERE!

Well, that was a shit-storm

sargon999 — Wed, 12 Jul 2017 06:43:44 GMT

So last week sucked for a variety of reasons. First, the 2nd was my anniversary. Now, not really, because I'm divorced now, so it was an "unaversary" as my ex put it. The first July 2nd in 22 years that didn't have any special significance aside from memories. I don't do well with milestones - they make me pensive and depressed, and so I was already off on the wrong foot.

Then a very old friend of mine (who actually made the dress for the wedding I just mentioned) collapsed and was in the hospital with swelling in her brain. At first it sounded like it might not be too serious - my former father-in-law has had like 3 strokes, and he is fine - but it quickly turned for the worse. She went into a coma and wasn't waking up.

Added to this was that my relationship with her husband has been. . . complicated. He and I were never buddy-buddy, but we were friends. We had a falling out some years ago, but I thought we had worked through that, and were at least in 'neutral' territory, even if we didn't see each other. And besides, for a situation like this, all that petty shit gets put aside. I went to see her in the hospital, made myself available to sit with her, so she would not be alone - I don't have a set schedule, so I could fill in when needed. I just wanted - in whatever small way I could - to help.

On the second day I met her mother and brother, who I did not know. I thought we had a nice enough chat, under the unpleasant circumstances. I had been told they were a fiercely conservative family, but they didn't seem uptight or anything. But the next day I was informed through intermediaries that I had massively offended her family and was not to come back to the hospital. Now, everyone was having a terrible day, and so I can't blame people for being touchy. That's not surprising.

But I can't think of what I could have said. I have racked my brain trying to think what would be the bad thing I said, but I can't. So in trying to make things a little better, I made them worse for a very old friend during the worst time of his life, and I don't even know what I did.

She died. They pulled the life support and she's gone. Her husband is pissed at me and has a right to be. I want to apologize to him but that will have to wait. This is not the time. All I can do is keep my head down for fear I will somehow make it worse.

And then Friday would have been my mother's birthday. On the 7th she would have been 73. It's been over two years, and I still remember how it felt when dad called and said she was gone. He's not over it yet, but he's doing okay. I saw him over the weekend, and we tried to have a nice time. It's hard for him. Harder for him than for me. But it's not easy for me either.

So it was a bruising week. Other people had it worse, obviously, but I didn't have any fun either. It was just a litany of pain and guilt and fear and regret day after day, and I am glad it is over. This week should be better. I do hope.

Finally...

sargon999 — Mon, 05 Jun 2017 23:48:03 GMT

Ugh

sargon999 — Wed, 29 Mar 2017 16:52:21 GMT

This is so hard, and only here on old LJ do I feel like I can still vent about it. This campaign is not working, and with just 6 days left I am not even halfway there and I don't think I'm going to make it. And it's hard to keep my chin up and keep pushing even though I have to: have to keep promoting it and keep working on it when it seems like nobpdy wants it, and on next Tuesday it will be over and if it fails then what do I do? Did people not like this pitch? This story? Was everyone broke? Was the porn more important than I thought? Maybe everyone is just sick of my shit? I'm going to have to turn around and run another cmapaign and I am already so worn down and stressed by this one I don't know if I can take it. Do I pick another book? Try more porn? What do i do? Fuck.

Gates of Empire

sargon999 — Tue, 28 Mar 2017 17:52:58 GMT

Down to the final week for Storm of Empire, and I need you help to make it a success. So here I present the entirety of the second chapter, where things start to get intense...

Chapter 2: Gates of Empire

Arthras held his side with one hand and carried the stolen axe in the other as he jogged forward. He heard the battle drums call for the charge, and he was swept up in a great forward rush. All around him were other men of his people, or of related tribes. They wore their hair in braids and their faces were dark with soot and paint. They surged forward with spears and shields and swords in a glittering, deadly wave, shouting as one, and he joined his voice with theirs. He felt as if he were part of one great animal, huge and hungry. The power of the Almanni released at last.

They entered the shadows of the gates, and arrows began to sheet from the walls of the city, rattling down like hard rain that struck shields and armor and men. Arthras had neither armor nor shield, so he hunched down, tried to shelter behind the shields of the men around him as they held them up to block out the missiles. Men screamed and fell wounded or dying, but the wave came on. Balls of fire hammered against the walls, and Arthras wondered if they would stop firing when the lines met the stone.

Closer now, those men with bows bent them and fired upwards. He did not see how they could hit anything, for down here there was no sign of the enemy, only unflinching stone. He was being swept in toward the gate itself, and men around him rushed forward with ladders and tried to fling ropes with iron hooks up against the towers. They could not throw them high enough, and the ladders went up but he saw they were far too short. They did not even reach halfway up.

Now they were close against the walls, and the defenders began to hurl stones down at them. He heard the terrible sound of them as they struck shields or crushed in helmets. He felt a sudden fear, realizing there was nothing he could do to avoid being hit – it was simple chance. He closed his eyes for a moment and offered up a prayer to Bora, that she might protect him.

Then the army was hammering at the wooden gates, axes and swords beating against the iron-hard wood. He was caught in the press and had to fight for enough space to move and breathe. He cried out, not sure if he was angry or afraid, pushing to try and get free of the mass of men. Shields and spear-hafts battered at him, rattling against each other and hammering on the gate. Stones fell and crushed men to the ground, and Arthras realized how helpless they all were.

There was a crushing wave in the mass of men, and more warriors appeared, carrying the body of a great tree. The end was cut to a point and armored with iron plates nailed into the wood. The branches had been cut off long and stripped of bark to leave handholds. They dragged it forward until the iron tip dug against the gates, and then they started to swing it.

It seemed to take a very long time, drawing back a distance that didn’t seem far enough to matter, and then they swung it in and it crashed against the wood with a sound that echoed off the towers and made the seemingly impregnable gates shudder under the force of it. More men rushed in to help, and Arthras tried to get closer and join, but in the press he was held back, fighting against a mass of sweaty, bloodied men. The ram swung back, and then forward again. There were too many men hanging on it, holding up their shields to protect themselves, and the second blow was not as powerful.

The men on the ram began to chant, getting a rhythm going, driving the terrible weapon forward to strike again, and again. Arthras could not believe anything could withstand such punishment. The whole mass of them became a single, heaving force, pushing the ram against the gate again, and again, until he almost boiled with frustration to see it remain unbroken.

Something splashed down from above, heavy and stinking, and at first he thought it was water, then he smelled it and knew it for rendered oil. Men cursed and fought to wipe it from their faces, their hands slipping on the wooden grips of the ram. Some of the men suddenly turned and tried to fight their way clear of the ram, and Arthras didn’t understand why until he saw torches drop from the walls above.

There was a moment when his mind cleared, and then fire burst alive and spread like a mantle across the men, igniting shields and arms and faces. The ram itself blazed with fire and the warriors dropped it, thrashing as they beat at the flames that clung to them. More oil came down and exploded into fire, covering the ground in a lake of flame and immolating men whole. They staggered like shadows, wrapped in light as they were devoured. He saw them fall.

Arthras was thrust aside as men tried to flee, but they were trapped by the press of men still dashing themselves against the walls. Arrows scythed down, and he fell, pinned under a man who writhed with an arrow through his neck. The ground was covered in dead men, the air thick with choking smoke. Arthras shoved the man off him and cried out as pain lanced through his head. He had lost his axe, and he had nothing to fight with. He looked at the smoke-blackened gates and bared his teeth, feeling a heat boil inside him. He looked at his hands, and he saw his skin turn black.

o0o

The pounding was distant, but steady, and Karana wondered what it was. It sounded like some terrible force beating against the walls, or the gates. She imagined it must be a ram, but in her mind she pictured a giant as were said to exist in the far north, striking down at the stone with a great axe or a hammer. She felt another wave of dizziness and clung to the windowsill until it passed. The wind coiled around her, cool but humid and heavy with rain, like a portent.

Tentatively, she breathed in, closing her eyes, feeling the air flow around her, waiting for it to answer her as it had, and there was nothing. She let her breath out in a long huff, almost glad. Of all the people who might seek the blessings of the gods, she was least among them. Karana was not even sure she believed in the gods. The Church of Attis was everywhere, the sign of the great warrior with his thunderbolt uplifted, frowning on all other gods. In her homeland they had several gods far older than he. Vaosea was the mother of the sea, and it was she who wrought storms with her sons thunder and lightning, and her daughters wind and rain.

She heard a noise downstairs, and she turned and hurried down, hoping it was Marius. She passed the stacks of books and felt her heart heavy in her chest. If all of these documents were left behind, they would be destroyed. If the archive did not burn, then ten thousand barbarians would use them all to wipe their backsides. She was afraid, and she wanted to escape, but she did not want to leave. There was too much here, and she had spent too much time here to give it up easily.

Downstairs, the great hall was dark as the light failed, and there was no one to light the lanterns. She saw the side doors were open, wind coming through, and there were people coming in, but she was close before she saw they were men she did not know. They looked rough, and dirty, and they had a gleam in their eyes she did not like.

One of them saw her, reached out and caught her sleeve. “You! Show us where you hide the gold!”

For a moment she was speechless, not even sure what to say in answer. She tried to remember and think if there was some money in the archives she had forgotten, but then he twisted her arm and it hurt and she cried out, and she realized these men were not supposed to be here at all. “Let go of me!” she said, and she wrenched at him, but he did not loosen his grip.

“The gold, where is the gold, we know you have money hidden in here!” He shook her. “Where is it?”

He was angry, and now she could smell wine on him. There were two more of them, and they were coming closer. She pulled again, but he was too strong. He was still talking but she could not make it out, it was as if he were speaking gibberish. He yanked her arm painfully and she screamed and a flare of lightning turned the world white for a flickering instant just before a thunderclap all but deafened them all. The man’s grip loosened and she ripped her arm free, almost fell down from the effort.

The others began angrily slapping scrolls and books from the shelves, and Karana lost her temper. The man grabbed for her again, and this time she shoved him back as hard as she could, shocked when he flew back more than ten paces and bounced off the door frame, his head striking with an ugly sound. The force sent Karana staggering back and she fetched against the balustrade of the stairs, stared at the man as he groaned and rolled over, the other two stopping their vandalism to stare at her. She felt a heart-speeding terror mixed in with her anger, and she saw their faces uncertain and confused in the flash of lightning.

“Out,” she growled, and then she raised her voice and shouted with a terrible rage. “Get out!” She shook with the force of it, and something seemed to flare inside her like a trail of fire up her spine, and then the wind shifted with a sudden and terrible roaring. Rather than gust in through the door it reversed itself and blew out through the open doors. The men were picked up bodily and hurled backward, sucked in toward the doors, only to slam against the stout wood as the wind yanked them shut.

The wind shattered the windows and sent glass scattering into the night, and then the doors gave way and ripped off their hinges and hurled out into the street along with the intruders. Karana clutched at the railing as the wind coursed around her, bringing up a gyre of loose papers and books that scattered across the room and billowed outward into the growing storm.

She sagged down to the floor, staring, unable to believe what she had seen, what she had felt. Her heart was pounding, and she found her veil was gone, leaving her hair uncovered. She felt a jolt of irrational embarrassment and then she focused on the scattering papers and hurried after them. Alone in the dark, she got down and crawled on the floor, catching scraps of parchment and vellum, trying to save them from blowing away.

o0o

Arthras thought he was burning alive. He was on his knees in the black, bloody earth, and he watched his skin turn black and screamed. He was filled with a terrible heat that grew and grew and then seemed to radiate from his skin. His tunic smoldered and smoked and then caught fire. Panicked, he tore it off and threw it away, found his breeches were on fire. He leaped up and tried to run, fell against the ram and tripped over the broken handles.

Then he realized he felt no pain, and he lay for a moment and looked at his black hands and down at his arms and his chest. He gripped one of the branches that had served as a handle for the ram and saw the wood smoke and burn under his touch. He did not understand what was happening. His heart was beating hard and fast, but he did not hurt, he was not burning. The pain in his ribs was gone – there was no pain at all. He pulled himself up, stood there as his boots incinerated from his feet and left him naked and smoking, black as a figure etched on an urn.

He looked around himself, saw the army was falling back, shouting and dragging wounded men with them. The attack had failed. He saw warriors pointing at him, staring and saying things he could not hear. He looked at the gates, then up at the walls, still untouched and arrogant above him. He snarled, baring his teeth. He knew his face must be black, and he wondered how he looked.

Something hit him in the chest and he grunted, looked and saw a broken arrow on the ground. He rubbed the place where it had struck him and felt no wound, nothing at all. Another one hit him in the mouth and he flinched as he felt it glance off his tooth. Anger grew inside, and he felt again that tremor in the earth, like the one that had made Thros stumble. Arthras spat out a piece of broken metal and then he began to smile.

This was the power of the gods. He had prayed to Bora, the war-goddess, and she had answered him. He did not know why he was given this power, but he knew it was meant to be used. He bent down and put his hands on the earth while arrows fell all around him. Not knowing what he should do, or say, he only closed his eyes and called the earth to shake.

He felt a kind of ripple pass through the ground, and it was as if he felt the earth and the rocks beneath as they coiled and gathered, and then convulsed. The ground seemed to leap, and Arthras dug his fingers into the soil and held on. The walls shook, and he saw them wave like walls made of leather or cloth, while mortar fractured and spat out from between the stones. The arch above the gate buckled, and cracks raced across the stones. The wooden gate bulged and twisted, and bolts shot out of the wood like arrows.

The sound was incredible – a deep-voiced roar like thunder that never ended. Arthras clung to the ground as he felt the vibrations pass through him, thrumming up his arms, down his back, through his skull. The gate buckled, and then the heavy wood snapped and tore as the arch collapsed. Once the cascade began, it spread, and he looked up as the gate towers twisted, slumped, and then disintegrated under the unending quaking of the ground beneath them. A wave of broken stone swept down and dashed Arthras aside, turned him over and ground him between heavy stones.

The shaking began to subside, tremors diminishing, echoing themselves again and again, and Arthras realized he was not dead. He shoved at the rocks and they moved as if they were made of straw. Broken rock melted to his skin, and when he burst free he was half-covered in a layer of molten rock covered by the dark, cooled surface. It cracked when he moved, and the red glow showed through. Still there was no pain, and he grunted as he scraped the stuff from his skin.

He stood in the towering column of dust arisen from the broken gate, and then he looked back and saw the army there, men all dashed to the ground by the tremors, staring at him as he climbed from the ruin. He stood there for a moment, and then he thrust his fists to the sky and howled a war cry. “Take the city!” he screamed, and a thousand voices rose up to join him.

o0o

Karana was on the floor, hands full of papers, when she felt the earth shudder. It began as a low roar, and she thought it was more thunder, but then she felt the floor under her ripple, as if it were the surface of the sea, and she looked up to see the whole building shuddering, heard the joints and beams of the structure creak and crack as though it were about to fall in on top of her. She tried to get up but she could not, lay clinging to the floor as if that would do any good. Two more windows broke and glass fell to the floor and shattered, echoes by thunder from above.

It stopped, and she realized it had not gone on very long, or so long as it seemed. She staggered to her feet, wondering. She had felt the earth shake years ago in Evanos, where such things were common, but not here. She had been three years in Ilion and never felt it, but now the earth shook as if under the tread of a giant.

Another roar came, distant but sharper, and she turned and ran for the stairs again. Up, up so she could get to a vantage point and see what was happening. The windows were broken, shutters ripped loose by the wind, manuscripts scattered on the floor. She climbed up until she could see east, toward the walls. The sky was darkening, clouds moving low and rain beginning to scatter down, but she saw the walls, and she saw the great broken gap at the center where the gate had been, and she felt a knot of terror in her chest like a stone.

What should she do? If she stayed here she would be killed, but was there any place safe to go? She wondered if there were still ships to be had in the harbor. If there was any way out of the city at all. She could not defend the archive. Or could she? She closed her hands into fists, remembering the strength that had hurled a man across the room like a doll, the way the wind had answered her. What was this power? What could she do with it?

Looking at the broken walls, she saw lights begin to move in the dark, and she knew the barbarian army was flooding in, torches in hand to burn and plunder. How could she do anything against so many? There would be thousands of them, tens of thousands.

Perhaps, perhaps she could at least prevent the city from burning. She looked up to the dark, roiling sky, flickers here and there as the lightning walked in the clouds, and she reached out her hands. She reached with her thoughts, with her will, into the sky, and she pulled.

For a moment, she felt foolish, a girl alone in a library wishing for rain, believing she could control the very storm itself, but then rain fell all at once like the stroke of a thousand swords, and she flinched back from the sudden downpour, felt it blown in on the winds to spatter her face. She felt the ends of her braids coming loose, tapping her neck.

She hurried back down, thinking to herself of the way to the harbor. Rain would perhaps keep the invaders from burning the city. What else could she do? Even if she were blessed by the gods, surely she had by now exhausted their favor. Why would they give such power to someone like her? Perhaps she was only going mad, or she was dreaming and would soon awake with her head pillowed on her arms, sore from sleeping at the table.

She almost ran into Marius as he staggered through the doors, soaking wet and wiping rain from his face. He caught her shoulders. “Karana! I can’t believe you’re still here.”

“What are you doing?” she said. It was hard for her to bring her thoughts back to the moment. Thunder echoed overhead and she seemed to feel it, in her bones. She felt dizzy again, gripped Marius’ arms. “I thought you left.”

“I brought a cart,” he said. “Help me load what crates we can manage, and we’ll go. I have a man with a small boat – he will take us, but he won’t wait very long.”

“The Almanni have breached the gates,” she said. “I saw it from the window. We don’t have time to take anything.” She felt her eyes burning, thinking of all the books and words lost to savagery. “We don’t have time.” She chewed her lips, trying to decide. She wanted to stay, wanted to find a way to protect the archive, but she did not believe she could. Instead she had to decide if she could live with abandoning what she so loved.

There was shouting in the streets, out in the rain. Karana would not have believed there were people still in the city left to flee, but there were. Marius went to look, and she followed him, gathering up the many small braids of her hair and holding them, feeling for the pin she used to keep them in place. She felt naked with her hair uncovered. The wind was less now, and the rain had begun to fade.

She stepped out under the sky, and the light was strange. The clouds were higher, their underbellies flickering with light as the lightning stalked here and there. There was almost no wind, and the light was greenish and pale, seeming to outline everything clearly yet to have no source. Karana knew it was the light of the star, filtering down through the clouds. She had hoped for a greater storm, and perhaps she could make it so. The thought made her belly feel tight and shivery. What was happening to her?

There were people running through the streets, frantic, wide-eyed. They had trusted in the strength of Ilion’s walls, and now that strength had failed them. Their robes and tunics flapped as they ran, clutching whatever of their possessions they had managed to grab before they fled.

More shouts, and she felt the earth shudder underfoot again. She looked across the plaza, toward the gates, and she saw men running, but they did not look like city people. They wore armor and carried spears and swords. She saw the strange light glint on helms and shield-rims, saw their pale skin and pale hair. Almanni. She had never seen so many in one place.

Marius caught her arm. “Come quickly! The cart, we can still get away.”

The oncoming horde of warriors moved like the sea, crashing against the houses and buildings, flowing in through doors, knocking over whatever it came upon. She saw fleeing people cut down and speared to death in the street, heard screams that made the flesh crawl on her arms and neck.

Then the crowd parted, and something else stepped through. It was shaped like a man, but was all black, as if the light could not touch him. Smoke rose from his skin, and every step made the earth boom and shudder at his coming, his footprints black and burning in his wake.

Lykaon

sargon999 — Mon, 20 Mar 2017 16:49:01 GMT

Lykaon makes his living as a hunter, both for food and as an exterminator of wild predators that plague herdsman and upland villages. He spends a great deal of time alone, and he drinks too much. It is hard for him to relate to other people. He does not like strictures, walls, or rules, and he will fight them when he encounters them. He drinks a lot, brawls a lot, and loses a lot. He can take a terrible beating and shrug it off, almost as if he likes the pain. He had a family once, but they died in a fire, and he doesn't remember if he started it. It haunts him. Now, under the star, he has become something else. Now, when he wants to, or when he loses control, he becomes something inhuman. Huge, powerful, indestructible. A beast.

Down to the last days of the campaign, and I really need everyone's help. 15 days remaining, and just over a third funded. This time, if I don't make goal, I get nothing. Come and join and spread the word. Help me make this book a success.

CLICK THE LINK

Omen Star

sargon999 — Wed, 15 Mar 2017 20:44:02 GMT

So here I present the first chapter of Storm of Empire. If you like it and want more, go over and back my Kickstarter so I can finish it!

Chapter 1: Omen Star

The star arched over the city, its tail like a curtain of colorless fire that glowed even in the daylight. Karana looked up at it from the narrow window of the archive and wondered what it really was. She had never seen one so large, seeming so close she felt she could touch it. They called bearded stars omens of evil in the histories, but she knew they were more often said to portend momentous events – things that might change the course of empires.

A pall of smoke fell across the sky above her and she flinched away as a cloud billowed down the street and filled the plaza below, obscuring the crowds all moving toward the harbor. The archives were too far from the walls to hear the ongoing assault, but the smoke of the fires of thousands of barbarians blew across the city, bringing the smells of burning wood and flesh. Perhaps the star spoke truly, and these were the last days of the city of Ilion.

She turned away from the window and felt another surge of dizziness, caught at the parapet to hold herself steady. For days now she had been caught by the sudden spells of vertigo and weakness. She told herself there was nothing to it but weariness. She had worked day and night for a week now, sleeping little and eating less. They all did what they could, those who remained.

She turned back to her work and drew fragile scrolls from their slots on the walls and placed them as carefully as she could on the rolls of untreated rawhide – they had run out of vellum and real leather days ago – and then rolled them up. The layers would help to protect the old parchments from crumbling when they were moved. Once rolled, she packed them in crates, pushing them down snugly. She already had three boxes ready to be nailed shut and carted off. The wagon was late.

It was hot in here, high summer outside and barely a breath of wind. She drew the veil off her hair and fanned herself for a moment, unobserved, but she quickly covered her head when she heard footsteps. She just had time to arrange the silk over her braids when Marius came in. He was the assistant Master, and while she did not like him as well as she had liked old Master Sabos, she got along with him well enough. He was a thin man just reaching middle age, and he was as tired as the rest of them, the few that were left.

“Three waiting?” he said, looking at the crates. He sighed. “I don’t know if they are coming back.”

“They’ll come back,” she said, wanting to believe it. “We have to get as many of the scrolls aboard ships as we can.”

“They said the harbor was chaos, last trip,” he said. “People are desperate to escape.”

“The Almanni have been only been laying siege for ten days,” she said. “Without ships to blockade the harbor I don’t see how they will expect to take the city.”

“If we had legions of old guarding the walls, I would not worry much either,” Marius said, sitting down. The fingers of his left hand were knotted up, and he could not straighten them, but he pushed things around well enough with his fixed fist it was hard to notice. “But the soldiers we have are not the best, and they are fewer than makes me comfortable.”

Karana did not argue with him. Second-guessing military matters was his special interest, not hers. She preferred histories of people, not armies. It made her nervous to hear him say it, though. Behind all the assurances that the barbarians could not possibly take the city was the crawling fear that perhaps they could. After all, why else were they laboring so hard to preserve the library?

“I am beginning to wonder if we should not go as well. We have packed a great deal.” He took out a cloth and wiped at his sweaty neck, then fanned himself with it. The upper floors were stifling this time of year, especially during the day. “If we put as much as we can in the cellars, it should be safe enough.”

“Do you think so?” Karana did not believe it. In her mind she saw the archive in flames, books and scrolls curling in the heat. The thought turned her stomach and made her feel sick in her heart. She took more scrolls down from the shelves and then stole a look at him. She saw the way he did not look at her, and she smelled more smoke and she knew he was afraid. He wanted to just run away, and perhaps that would be the wise thing to do.

There was a silence, and then she turned away from him, began to lay the scrolls out, her small hands with their intricate henna stains moving carefully on the aged documents. These were lists of kings from her homeland, Sydon, far across the sea to the south. The home she had never seen. “Well, and you may go if you wish. I am not going to prevent it.”
He was silent for a moment. “They say the Autarch has already left the city. He fled in the night with wagons of gold and took ship for Orneas – or even for Archelion.” He shifted. “I would say when the rats desert, it is time to swim.”

She snorted a little at that. Marius could be very funny when he wanted. “You and I both know that would be the story no matter what the truth is.” Autarch Desius – the Emperor’s vice-regent in Othria – was not a popular man in a good season. It was said to be his ill-treatment of the barbarian auxiliaries that had brought down the horde upon them, and so just now he was the closest villain to hand.

Karana heard him stand up, and she turned to face him, wondering how hard he would push her. Now she saw how afraid he was. “I think the city will fall,” he said. “I am going to load a last wagon, and then I am going down to the harbor to get on a ship. You should come with me. If the savages get inside the city. . .” He didn’t finish the thought, but then he didn’t have to.

Voices came from outside in the street. Calls and cries, shouts, the sounds of mules and barking dogs. She heard distant drums, the barbarians calling their men to war. Obstinate, she folded her arms and bit the inside of her lip. “I’m not going yet,” she said.

“Consider it, please,” he said. “I will call you when I am ready to go.”

She felt dizzy again, put her hands back on the table and leaned on it, trying to hide the way the room swam around her. Marius looked at her, concerned. “Are you all right?”

“I’m tired,” she said. She closed her eyes, and that helped a little. “I am very tired.”

“You should eat something,” he said. He came a step closer, then turned away. “I’ll call you, and we’ll go.”

She turned away and went to the window, leaned on the stone and took slow breaths, trying not to be sick. Her head hurt now, a slow pounding. The smell of the smoke was oppressive. She waited until he left, and then she wanted to sit down but she stayed for a moment, looked up at the sky and saw the tail of the star shimmering through the smoke. She felt as if the whole city was simply taking itself apart around her. The familiar sounds of the bazaar were gone, the smells of the bread baking two streets over beside the park were vanished, leaving the smell of war behind.

She looked west, down the wide avenue, and from here she could just see the waters of the sea between the tall towers there in the old city, the domes of the ancient temples. The horizon was dark, and she felt a slight breath of wind. Rain coming in, probably after dark. It would be a welcome thing, to cool the streets and rooftops, and clouds to cover up the cursed glow of the star. Three days now it had lit the sky. It could not go soon enough to suit her.

Karana wished for wind, closed her eyes and breathed in, imagining the cool air on her face, heavy with coming rain. She breathed out, and the air stirred, washing away the smoke, blowing through the window and rustling the papers, rolling the scrolls over against one another. Glad of the breeze, she breathed in, and the wind shifted, blew the other way, ruffling her veil and her cotton robe. She opened her eyes, wondering, and she breathed out, slow and even, and the wind stirred again, as if in answer. She gripped the stone parapet hard, feeling the heat of the day radiating out onto her skin.

She looked to the sea, feeling the wind die away. She wondered if she were asleep, and dreaming. There, on the horizon, darkness waited, and she saw just a small white flicker of storm.

o0o

Arthras spat the smell of pitch into the dirt and looked up at the walls. From the hills above the city they had not looked like much of a barrier, snaking around the cramped streets like a long worm, but up close they were tall enough. He was not even that close, stuck here making ammunition for the catapults. There was a mass of men chipping rocks into rough balls to make them fly better, and then they were carted over to Arthras and his companions. They dropped them in tubs of hot pitch, then pulled them out and rolled them in the piles of dry straw until they were covered. They piled them up on cowhides and then they were dragged off to feed the stone throwers.

It was stinking, sweaty, ugly work that made his hands black and sticky, and there was no glory in it at all. He heard the drums beat to muster the men for an assault on the walls, but he was trapped here, not to be given a chance to fight. He stood for a moment and glared at the stone fortifications, seeming to float on a cloud of smoke, and then he looked up to the star – the bearded star that filled the sky.

King Usiric’s red banner hung slack over his cluster of men, and Arthras wished he could march in there and rub tar in the bastard’s face. They’d had victory over an army in the north, chased them here, to the gates of the empire itself, but only a fool would pit this army against a city. They were not just warriors; their whole people was encamped in those tents – women and children and old men. They could not go back to their homelands – there was no harvest – so they came to war.

But there were good lands close enough. They had turned away from attacking Helicon in the north, and instead come to the seat of the Autarch himself. Arthras wanted revenge on that treacherous bastard as much as anyone, but now the army had been idle for ten days, sitting and staring at the walls, building useless nonsense like catapults. They needed to storm the gates with rams and ladders and ropes. Yet they sat while children went hungry and the fat cowards inside the walls packed away their gold and food and sailed away with it. From the heights the stream of ships leaving the city was easy enough to see.

Something hit him in the back of the knee and knocked him down; he came up fast and faced the hulking shape of Thros, his commander, and his tormentor. Thros carried a heavy axe in his hands, and though he had a maimed leg that slowed him down and made him limp, he was strong as a bull. Athras’ hands itched to draw his long knife and spill the giant’s guts.

“Get to work,” Thros grunted. “The battle starts soon, they need fireballs.” He brought his axe up and scraped it at his hairy cheek. His beard was patchy from old burns, and it made his face even uglier. Athras ground his teeth and turned back to his pile of stones and his barrel of pitch. He promised himself he would kill Thros another day. He was a thrall, and so while he might not be a slave, he was still less than a free man like Thros. The giant was denied the front line by his wounds, and so he took it out on anyone in reach.

The drums pounded again, and then the horns, signaling for the attack to begin. Arthras reached for another stone and felt a stabbing pain behind his eyes, grunted and winced. Another headache. This was the third one in as many days. He grimaced and put the back of his hand against his forehead, keeping his tar-smeared fingers away from his face.

“Get working,” Thros growled, lifting his axe threateningly. Arthras knew the big man would be more than happy to crease his skull with the haft if he stalled any longer. He picked up the stone. It was heavy, the size of a human head, and he looked at the bigger man, feeling anger boil in him along with the pain.

Thros saw the look on his face and stepped in close, slammed the haft of the axe into Arthras’ ribs and knocked him down, pain exploding in his side. He wheezed, the pain lancing through him, and then the pain in his head bloomed like a sunrise and he clenched his eyes shut, hands digging into the mud.

He looked up and saw Thros there, looking as tall as a tower, and he drew one foot back to kick. Arthras saw it all very clearly, and everything seemed to slow. The pain in his head and the pain in his chest twisted together, and he dug his fingers down into the earth, and he felt something tremble. A small tremor, and then it grew. He felt it through his hands like a pulse, and then in his chest, grinding through the pain in his ribs.

Then the earth shuddered, and Thros staggered away, off-balance, and fell against a pile of rocks. Arthras got to his feet and reeled to him, fell on him with his knife out, and he pressed it across Thros’ ugly face, digging the dark iron edge in against his skin. He thought of killing him – just cutting his throat and leaving the corpse behind. But there were men looking, and there was no honor to be won from killing a man with a crippled foot. There would be a blood price for such a killing, and perhaps exile.

Instead he got up, and then he reversed the long knife and smashed the heavy pommel into Thros’ knee – the good one – and heard bone crack. Thros cried out in pain and glared at him murderously. The pain in his side was intense, and he gritted his teeth. “I owed you that,” he growled. “And no more.” He turned and spat on the pitch and turned toward the walls of Ilion, watched as the war-banners marched toward the gates. He bent down and picked up Thros’ fallen axe, hefted it in his hands.

The horns blared and then fires kindled along the lines of the army as the catapults ignited their missiles. Each one went up in a sudden glimmer of flame until they all burned, like fallen stars. The drums called and he heard the cries to loose. Ten, twenty, then thirty balls of fire launched into the hazy sky, trailing dark smoke as they hurtled forward to smash against the stone walls. Some of them did not reach it, bounded along the ground and then cracked against the stone, but he saw two of them shoot clean over, and he smiled. That would rouse the defenders.

Arthras firmed his grip on the axe. There was an energy seeming to buzz in his joints and his bones, and he looked at his hands, saw they were not shaking, but steady. He felt hot, and angry. He was not going to stay here meekly rolling pitch and straw while the city was taken, he was going to fight. He left the onlookers behind and stalked toward the city. There was pain in his chest, and the earth seemed to thrum and shudder under his feet.

o0o

Karana woke with a start, seeing the light was dimming. She sat up, feeling stiff and thick-headed, her neck sore from lying bent down on the table. She had drooled on herself and she wiped at it with the corner of her sleeve. There was a breeze, and she heard a distant mumble of thunder, like a giant stirring in the sky over the sea. It was not yet evening, but the light had turned strange, seeming to come from nowhere. The sun was hidden, and clouds were creeping in to cover the shimmering light of the star.

She got up, listening for voices, for sounds, and she heard nothing. Her sandals made small sounds on the floor as she left the room and passed through two more filled with half-packed books, seeing no one. The incoming breeze rustled the papers, and she paused to pull the shutters closed and latch them in place. It smelled like rain.

The great hall on the ground floor was empty, the silence almost unbearable. She stopped on the stairs, then coughed and called out. “Lenscar? Destos? Marius?” Her voice sounded small in the big room, and it made the silence seem louder.

They were all gone. She had fallen asleep, and they all fled. Marius had said he would come back, but he had not, or could not. She went to one of the high, glassed windows and looked out into the plaza, saw it was almost empty, save for an old woman who looked lost, and a few dogs robbing a tattered vendor’s stall.

Thunder growled again and, as if in answer, she heard the drums of the barbarians. The sound was more intense this time, was it closer? She felt fear in her throat like a heavy lump she could not swallow past. She turned and went back up the stairs, then up to the topmost level and ran to the windows that faced the gates of the city. The light was not good, and she could not see very well, but she saw enough.

There was fire, in the dark, and light glowed from behind the walls, illuminating them with a red gleam like phosphor. She saw points of light that arced and fell – arrows, or something else – and she heard beneath the wind the oceanic sound of thousands of men, all moving as one. She breathed in and the wind reached through and almost whipped the veil from her hair, and she grabbed it and held it tightly. Ilion’s doom was coming, and it was coming now.

News!

sargon999 — Tue, 14 Mar 2017 05:02:58 GMT

Well, the Storm of Empire campaign remains stubbornly stuck at 36%, and as of now we are at the halfway point. Not terrible, but not great, and I would feel better if the most activity over the weekend had not been a donor backing out. I have been in worse situations, but it's always a stressful point, and I have to make myself bear down, when I really just want to hide under the bed until it is over. Three more weeks, I can do this. If you can, go on over and pledge. I need your help.

In other news, the books for The Dragon Throne have come in, and I will be shipping those out ASAP in the next few days. I really think I made a nice-looking book, and I feel more confident every time I design one.

Thessala

sargon999 — Fri, 10 Mar 2017 19:04:47 GMT

Born to a well-off family of landowners, Thessala had an easy childhood, and looked to have an easy life. But she had a torrid affair with a penniless young man who died, and she was disowned by her family and crushed by grief. Leaving home, she came to the city and entered into the reclusive Order of Uraria, giving up all material possessions and all worldly pleasures. She has devoted her life to helping the poor and the sick, giving especial attention to children, and the disabled.

But now her life is changing. Her skin has turned to armored scales, and she has grown so strong it frightens her. She has been remade into a warrior, when she has never sought violence in her life. But she is coming to a moment when she must realize that caring for the helpless can also mean fighting for them.

Campaign has been static for several days, help me get some money in the door! Every bit helps!

BACK IT!

Arthras

sargon999 — Tue, 07 Mar 2017 21:44:33 GMT

A young warrior of the barbaric Almanni, Arthras has no family, and comes to the siege of Ilion with a burning ambition to prove himself as a warrior. When it seems he is about to die, he is gifted with a power he believes comes from the gods themselves. When he calls upon it, this power turns his skin black and smoking, and he radiates heat sufficient to melt iron. But it is the power to shake the earth that breaks the gates of the city and brings him new fame as a warrior. Beset on all sides by those who wish to use his power for themselves, Arthras must learn that the world is far more complex than he ever believed. He will rise from warrior to king, and yet learn that rulership has its own costs he never suspected.

Campaign got a boost over the weekend, but there is still a ways to go! If you want to read this book, help me make goal!

CLICK IT!