Wednesday Exceprt, "Revenge"

In a rickety wooden chair at the table, toiled a diminutive man

adorned in a white robe with scarlet trim. He wore no jewelry. In

fact, there were only two features of distinction about the man. His

hair was a stunning shade of white. The other characteristic of note

was his eyes. They were a radiant shade of red only seen deep in

the heart of a raging inferno. No pupil was evident in them. The

light in them burned steadily like coals in a furnace.

The man was using a quill and ink to copy information from a

tattered paper onto a scroll. His calligraphy was perfect with good

reason. He only moved his eyes and hand while writing. His

concentration was complete.

The books surrounding him were a mix of older texts on

legends and newer ones on geography or various cultures. Without

warning he would snatch one and flip frantically through the

pages. When he found the desired page, he ran his fingers along

the words until he reached the quote of interest. Then he would

carefully transfer the information to his compilation paper.

His work came to a crashing halt when the door to the room

flew open and made a loud thump against the wall. The albino was

startled and knocked over the inkwell. The black liquid soaked the

scroll destroying his work.

He was furious. His eyes became searing white-hot in color.

Nearly invisible rays of magic fired from them and struck with a

concussion against the intruder. An imperial page was shot out into

the hallway where he came to a sudden stop upon reaching the

wall.

A moment later the page stumbled back into the room. He held

the frame of the door while trying to keep his feet. “Great, allpowerful,

Necromancer, I have been sent to bring you to Lord

Mandrean.”

Necromancer’s eyes returned to their normal frightening

appearance. “Never enter my chambers without permission again,

20

Vermin! Do you have any idea of what you have just ruined, you

putrid sack of flesh? I would burn you down right now if we

weren’t running short of ignorant pages to invoke my wrath. Count

yourself lucky and get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

“Please accept my apology for disturbing you but our lord

awaits your presence.”

“Then he will wait,” Necromancer yelled as he struck the books

and cleared the desk in one angry swipe. “Tell your emperor that I

will be there when I have time.”

Necromancer crumpled the paper he had so painstakingly

prepared and threw it at the wall. He stood silently for a moment

and then reluctantly began to search for the bit of paper he had

referenced. During his search, his eyes caught sight of a narrow

shadow in the doorway.

“Are you still here, page? Your life must mean less to you than

it does to me.”

“I beg thee, great Necromancer, I have orders from Lord

Mandrean himself to escort you to his chambers. He seems

dissatisfied with the speed you display when answering his orders.

Those are his words, not mine.”

Necromancer rolled his eyes and then hung his head. He

replaced the objects on the table with a snap of his fingers and

approached the trembling page. “Well then,” he said in a calm,

monotone voice, “let us not keep his worship waiting.” He

gestured politely to the door. The confused servant led him out of

the room and down the hall.

Tuesday Excerpt, "Crucible"

As the room parted, Necromancer came into view. He moved but his robe showed no motion from his legs. As he grew near his eyes became a deeper red and nearly appeared ablaze as he approached the elves. He stopped directly before the guards in the front of the column.

"Captain," he ordered. "You and your men may return to your duties."

The captain looked puzzled. "I certainly would never disobey you, My Lord, but we were told these are the most dangerous prisoners we have ever held. With Lord Mandrean about to begin Court, I would think it would be wise to stay with them. After all, Lord Mandrean’s protection is the most important factor."

"Your concern is noted," Necromancer answered as anger swelled in his voice. "There are over a dozen Imperial Guards already stationed in this room. That is more than sufficient. Your men have other responsibilities they are neglecting. I suggest they return to them. As for our Dear Lord Mandrean, I am here. There is no greater protection to be had. You are dismissed. Pray I do not recall you’re questioning of my orders in the future. Such a recollection may displease me and be detrimental for you."

The captain gave the fist salute and said firmly, "By your leave, My Lord." He turned on his heal and led the guards from the chamber.

Necromancer smiled a fiendish grin as he approached Linvin. "I see you have been restored to health. That is good. I may not have use for you but I will be prepared all the same, Grithinshield."

He walked over to the twins and looked at them with contempt. Then he glared at Linvin. "I can see why you loathe them. They are miserable excuses for elves. To be fair, elves never have impressed me as a group. These 84


two are particularly under whelming. Had I been you, I would have eliminated them long ago."

"They are my kin," Linvin stated indignantly.
"A fact I am sure you have regretted on more than one occasion," remarked Necromancer. "They may be of your blood but you would have done well to shed it long ago. Your trip would have been far easier. Then again, I may be giving you too much credit. Perhaps you enjoy having inferiors around. I personally despise it, but have no choice in the matter. I have no equal with whom to associate." He moved on to Anvar. "You certainly draw a pathetic comparison to me. What is the world coming to when everyone is so scared of a circus freak like you? An Orange Magician, eh? You are better served as a sideshow trickster. At least that would earn the slightest respect. Instead you pass yourself off as a force to be handled with extreme caution. You could not harm me on your best day.


"There are many here who may fear your tricks. For that reason I will be clear. I will be removing all your restraints soon. After all, we do not want the ‘Emperor’s Prisoners’ to be uncomfortable, do we? Then you will all sit where I tell you and do nothing until called upon. If any of you make the slightest effort to escape, you will only leave this chamber when your ashes are swept aside." He paced before the prisoners with his hands behind his back. "That means, no swordplay, fisticuffs or that sad thing Anvar Greenlith calls magic. Remember, you are nothing more than a means to an end for me. Even at that, you are a backup plan. Your incineration would at worst be an inconvenience to me. So do not bother convincing yourselves that you are indispensable."

Sunday Excerpt, "Quest"

The morning sun poked cautiously over the horizon.  It painted the sky in a dazzling display of vibrant colors.  The brilliant star seemed to pause for a moment while taking its first look at the world to which it was bringing light.  The majestic, glimmering light brought a caress to the silky spring clouds.  They would continue to carelessly banter about the sky, riding winds where they led.

As the dark of night retreated, a dense fog still stubbornly held the land in a cloak of disguise.  Such a spiteful deed by its dark counterpart seemed to displease the sun.  It resolved to rise steadily into the air and shine brightly down upon the usurper with all its might.  Being no match for such luminance, the night reluctantly withdrew its misty blanket and released the land to the dawn.

As the haze dissipated, it gradually revealed treetops where one might expect the ground to be.  With more and more of the air clearing, the trees appeared to spread out in all directions.  It was a great forest of redwoods which seemed quite normal at first glance.  Upon closer inspection, though, it could be seen that the trees were twice as wide as houses and were spaced out evenly, most certainly in a deliberate pattern.  It was not just a forest, but also a town.

The trees were actually the town of Missandor.  The spacing of the giants formed a grid, which created streets through the town. There were no houses there in a conventional sense.  The inhabitants lived within and upon the trees.

Missandor was a community of elves. The swarthy folk with brown hair and eyes were slightly more modest in height than their human counterparts.

As a whole, it could be said that elves were a friendly and kind people but also intensely proud and distrusting of other races.  In Missandor, however, the population was known to be accepting of different cultures and races, making for an atypical elven town.

The quiet streets soon erupted with the sounds of the market opening for business.  Stands, carts and stores of all types were opening.  In a matter of minutes, the town had gone from a simple forest to a merchant conglomerate.

Sounds of children playing all around blended with the haggling taking place at the vendors.  It created a symphony of sound which was pierced on occasion by the ringing of a bell on the local water wagon.  The wagon was pulled by two horses and driven by a kindly old elf who had been delivering this precious commodity to homes since he was a child.  He would most likely continue his task until his eventual demise.  He was a constant in the ever-changing township.

Guest Interview

Ok we're here today with Mark Stidham, the voice actor and owner of
Buddy the Dog, from the kid's show “Here be Dragons.”

First of all Mark, thanks for being here. Can you tell us a little about Buddy? And how'd
that start?

I bought a new PC, one of those all in one without a tower so it's just
one piece and with a touch screen that I never ever use. Anyway, it
came with a webcam and a webcam program. On this program it had
avatars where you could record a video with your voice and the lips
would move. One of the avatars was this beautiful golden retriever. So
I thought, hey this would make a good thing for video marketers and
such, and for ads and commercials. I already worked on Fiverr.com so I
set up the gig with this talking dog that I later named Buddy after
one of my own dogs, not a Retriever but basic same coloring. And there
you have it... Buddy was born.

Great! We hear you have a new book out. Care to tell us a little about it?

Yes, “Study Buddy.” It’s a children’s interactive book with lessons on
all types of subjects, and most important…coloring!!! Of course,
Cheshire Grin Publishing gets all the credit for putting it all
together for which I am grateful. It’s available through Cheshire Grin
Publishing via Lulu.

http://www.cheshiregrinpublishing.com/store.html


Sounds good. Where can we get our own personal Buddy vid for the kids?

 You can get this here:

http://www.cheshiregrinpublishing.com/merchandise.html

Kool. So tell us a bit about the show.

 I started getting some orders for Buddy to appear in this free
educational children’s show. It has puppets and diverse characters.
The more involved I became with the show, I could see how it would
appeal to children, be entertaining and they would also learn. My part
includes many different dog facts or related subjects. Secretly, it
appeals to me personally (in a hipster kind of way). I showed it to an
adult friend of mine and he freaked out thinking one of the coolest
things he’d ever seen. So that’s it in a nutshell.


Wow! Great! Okay you know we're not going to let you get away easy. Tell
us a bit about the man behind the voice. What's a good day for you?

A good day is a day I can survive with what’s left of my sanity… Just
kidding! A good day is when I can provide good services for people
whether that’s with doing a Buddy Video or creating other video and
audio services such as voice overs or Royalty Free Music tracks, which
is something I’ve been working on a lot lately You can check out my
work on that athttps://www.909music.com/gentleman/tracks
 Also a good day for me is taking care of my family and all if its
relative madness, which I wouldn’t trade for anything right now!

Interview on Two Sites

Today I have an interview up on two web sites.  Check it out on either http://buddytalkingdog.blogspot.com/2016/01/guest-blog-with-rival-gates.html or on http://streetlighthalo.blogspot.com/ .  I’d like to thank the good people at these sites for posting my interview.  They are really first class.  Enjoy.

Tuesday Excerpt, "Crucible"

Much of the Mandrean’s success over the years had been due to the fact they covered their empire with great roads. Uniform in width, six horses could hide abreast along their surfaces. A mixture of sand, gravel and lime held large quarried stones together. The recipe made for a strong, fast surface. It enabled the Mandreans to deploy their forces with greater speed than their opponents.

Messages could also travel the realm more quickly. Such logistical properties alone swung many a battle in their favor.

After years of war and little thought or attention being given to the roads, they began to crumble and had become a sorrowful shadow of their past greatness. Where once disciplined human armies marched like thunder rolling over the land, now goblin armies scurried along like rats. It showed the weakened stature of the empire and the short-term solutions used to bolster its ranks after its decimation in the war with Sartan years before.

Their ride was most uncomfortable. Potholes abounded where freezing and thawing loosened and eventually carried away stones from the well-engineered road. The elves slid back and forth in their prison with every bump along the way. It was clear from the debris on the roadside that advancing and retreating Mandrean Armies used the route on many occasions. Merchant wagon-wheels also did their part to loosen the stones as well.

The only break from the monotony of the trip occurred twice per day when the elves were released from their cage in order to relieve themselves and walk about. An idea occurred to Linvin to try to escape during that time but it was not to be. As though the goblins knew their entire story until that point, they watched them closely and never removed the shackles in spite of many persuasive arguments by Linvin and Anvar. Orders would not be disobeyed again by the troop.

For meals, the prisoners were given goblin rations. They proved to be completely inedible to anyone without the iron digestive track of a goblin. Even the salty biscuits would be welcomed. Instead, they were given rancid meat that had been improperly cured. The water they received was stale but would do. As the days blended into one another, their hunger robbed their strength. 16

 

The montage of days passed with the landscape before their eyes as the caravan followed the road north. Vineyards eventually gave way to livestock farms and small towns or villages. The people here were fearful of their own forces, having been overtaxed and treated with brutality by the impudent goblins. Townspeople peered through their windows at the elves. Linvin observed their faces as they passed. Each one wore the expression of someone looking at a person about to die.

Parents pulled children out of the streets to clear the path for the passing soldiers. Anything of value was quickly hidden. Kegs of wine were left in the center of town as an offering so the soldiers might take them and leave their home in peace. The ploy was successful as the goblins took up the kegs and continued on their way.

Sunday Excerpt "Quest"

He stood by the window with a snifter of brandy.  Swirling the container of precious liquor in his hand, he called out, “Jelena, could I at least have some ale instead of this lamp oil you’ve served me?”

“Anvar,” bellowed the woman, “This is an important occasion and I will not have it sullied by serving that swill you and Dirk took such delight in drinking. You are holding the finest brandy in the land.  Savor it and let me see to my tasks.”

Anvar inhaled the bouquet and then sipped in a conservative fashion.  His face wrinkled slightly.  “I honestly do not see why you are making such a fuss, Jelena.  After all, it’s just Linvin coming home.”

“Do you see him?” shouted Jelena as she ran to the window.

“No,” laughed Anvar.  “I was merely saying that this gala you have prepared seems rather…extravagant for Linvin’s tastes.  Would you not agree, sister?”

Jelena stormed over to Anvar.  “Having been through this past year with me, I would think you of all people would see a need for celebration.  This house has been like a mausoleum since Dirk left.  I have one good thing left in this world and that is my son.  Is it so wrong to shout to the world that he is home?”

“It could be,” Anvar said before taking a larger drink from his glass.  “You know how I feel about this.  It is an unwise and unneeded risk.  One that may very well get us all killed.”

“The gala will have tight security, I assure you.”

Anvar came face-to-face with her and said with frustration, “You know that I do not speak of the gala.  Has time blinded you so that you do not see the impending danger?  The risks have not gone away, Jelena.  Bringing us together again and announcing it to the world will only compound those risks.”

“Dirk has been gone over a year and there is not the slightest hint of danger.  You are paranoid, dear brother.  Even if there was a danger, it died with Dirk.”

Anvar struck his forehead in disbelief.  “Dirk is not what they wanted!  They have just been biding their time.  How can you be so ignorant of the impending doom?”

“Because all I can see is my son!  He was practically stolen from me as a boy and sent halfway around the world to be raised by strangers.  My boy has lived more years away from me than with me and I want him back!  I want him home!”

“Even if it costs us all our lives?” Anvar asked as he held his weeping sister.

Glass Full of Memories

You wouldn’t think a glass would mean so much, but it can.  Yesterday was bagel day in our house when bagels at Panera were on sale.  After purchasing some I drove home and immediately prepared one with cream cheese.  Then I decided to have a glass of apple juice along with it.  I opened the cupboard and I saw a very familiar glass staring at me.  It was narrow at the top and particularly at the base.  The sides were wide and rounded.  The color was smoked glass and there were a Detroit Lions insignia on it.  I chose the glass and filled it up.  Then I just stared at it.  It had been in my family for as long as I could remember and with rambunctious children who broke everything, it seemed, somehow this was never smashed or even cracked.  It was my father’s main glass.  He gave up drinking when I was 3 but was still addicted to his Diet Pepsi every day.  It was a ritual.  When my father would come home, my job was to get the glass, fill it with cold Diet Pepsi (he didn’t like ice in his drink or to have it warm so we always had to have it refrigerated,) and take it to him once he reached his chair.  Then he would watch the nightly news.  After dinner and a quick nap, Dad would use his short wave radio to see what countries he could tune in.  He was always excited when he found a new station out there he could barely hear.  It gave him such pleasure but made it so difficult to do homework with the BBC Home Service blaring through the house.  Then Dad would call me downstairs to refill his glass.  We had giant ceramic ashtrays we used as coasters.  No one in the house smoked and so we never thought of them as anything but coasters.  I would clank the glass down hard but nothing ever happened even in the hard ashtrays.  If Dad was out of town on business I would use the glass.  My oldest brother is Type 1 diabetic and has been since childhood.  As a result, my mother would make Kool-Aid with Sweet and Low.  No matter the recipe, she could never make it taste good.  So I would take the glass and fill it ¾ of the way with Kool-Aid and the rest of the way with Diet Pepsi.  Then I would stir it.  The end result was not bad.  I would watch my cartoons and drink but never broke it.  Years and years went by and still that glass was used, even by my children, but it never broke.  Without even realizing it I took the glass as one of the few items I kept from my Father’s house after he died.  So there I stood with my apple juice, holding the glass that had survived everything and I thought of my Father.  I finished my drink and put it safely in the sink.   One day my children might want it.  What a long life for a fragile glass.    

Tuesday Excerpt, "Revenge"

The Courtroom or Throne Room as Mandrean sometimes called

it was in the center of the second floor of the palace. It was a grand

hall. The floors and walls were polished marble with gold and

silver ornaments. There was a gallery in the back. It was along

either side of two colossal doors with brass handles. They served

as the main entrance and exit for everyone except the most

important members of the empire.

Precisely etched in the main floor was a map of the continent,

which reached from one wall to the next. It was complete and

detailed. The only odd thing of note was there were no political

boundaries anywhere.

Lord Mandrean was true to his heritage in believing that it was

his duty if not his right to expand the empire and let none stand

against its might. He saw no reason to chisel borders into the stone

when he would frequently be moving them.

The map faced the front of the room. Behind the map sat the

centerpiece of the hall. It was his magnificent golden throne with

jewels encrusted in its sides and arms. Silken pillows cushioned

the already padded seat and a golden stool was stationed along

side.

Still, the most intriguing part of the hall was the ceiling. It was

a crystal dome. Though the view was not clear through the frosted

glass, it allowed for sunlight to enter and illuminate the marble.

With the room shaped as a rectangle, pillars along the perimeter

supported the circular dome. A lantern hung from each pillar for

additional light. Torches had previously been used, but the format

was changed due to secondary fires they started two years before

during the room’s destruction at Linvin’s hands. Each column

stationed a goblin guard. The number of soldiers present seemed

exorbitant, but it was used more for effect than protection.

The gallery was full as it always was when court was to be held.

No commoners found a seat there, however. Rather, noblemen,

businessmen and foreign dignitaries filled the seats. They were

becoming restless waiting for the session to begin and openly

quarreled.

Four Chairs of Honor were placed before the mob. In each sat a

general. Though their uniforms were identically colored in

mandrean green, they each displayed their individuality through

the decorations that adorned them. The display went from modest

to extraordinary.

At last Necromancer entered the room and took his place

hovering next to the throne. He was melancholy as ever.

A trumpeter emerged from a side entrance and called for

attention. “Good people, please rise as I present to you the

emperor, Lord Mandrean the Thirteenth.” He followed his

statement with a chorus of the national anthem. The gallery took to

their feet and began to applaud as the emperor carefully walked to

his throne in an effort to not step on the sorest parts of his feet.

Mandrean was covered in the finest silks with military honors

sewn into the cloth. Gold lace brought an illuminating luster to the

navy attire. A modest crown highlighted his head. If it had been a

prestigious occasion, he would have decked himself in his full

ornamental dress. With the routine nature of the agenda, Mandrean

dressed the part and saved his neck the weight of his enormous

crown.

He sat and called a servant to bring a pillow to be placed on his

footstool to cushion his feet. He proceeded to rest them with

obvious pain.

Wgat is Good Music?

As an artist I have a built in level of tolerance for artistic expression that others might find offensive.  Even that layer of understanding, however, has limits.  Before Christmas It put together a playlist of Christmas songs I had on the computer.  I had the classics but also favorites like Bruce Springsteen playing “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” and “Merry Christmas Baby.’  I can’t get enough Clarence Clemens on the sax.  There was U2 and Bon Jovi playing “Please Come Home for Christmas.”  The list goes on.  As I was listening in bliss a rap song came on.  I have nothing against rap as an art form until it gets nasty.  This song went there fast.  It was by a group my daughter and son like called “Hollywood Undead.”  Being an artist I tried to have an open mind and listened to the whole song before passing judgement.  When it was done I was sickened.   Then I stopped and thought about a conversation my father had with me as a young boy.  I was heavily into progressive rock.  On this particular day I was listening to Genesis and imagining myself behind the drums playing like Phil Collins.  Then my father came in and told what I was listening to was not real music.  It was garbage.  He took me downstairs and made me watch Looney Toons cartoons.  He explained the background music was real music.  Then he played the 1812 Overture and used it as another example.  I actually liked that piece and respected orchestra music but felt in no way did it make my music garbage.  As I aged and went to college I admit I listened to less cerebral music like Guns N Roses, AC/DC and all sorts of alternative rock (which would now be mainstream.)  When I came home freshman year and played “Eruption” by Van Halen I thought my father was going to blow a circuit; and there weren’t even words in the song.  As I sat in my room I remembered my mother telling me about her parents’ reaction to Elvis and the Beatles.  They were so tame compared to what I listened to.  Music continues to push the boundaries of what they can get away with.  On Christmas I mentioned to my daughter that her song ended up on my playlist.  She begged me not to play it for her mother.  Then I looked at my granddaughter opening a present and said, “I wonder what the music will be like that she enjoys and you find offensive one day?”  I can’t imagine how crude it will be but I think I will be one of those people listening to the Oldies station by then. 

Tuesday Excerpt, "Revenge"

Unlike the rest of its lavish surroundings, the room was dull and

dismal with sparse decor. A straw bed sat in the corner by a table

with a wash basin. The rest of the walls were completely covered

in bookshelves. Upon them were ancient texts and scrolls on

parchment so frail one was afraid to disturb their solemnity. A

grand table of questionable sturdiness stood prominently in the

center of the room. Open books and papers littered its surface save

for a lone, four-wicked candle at the table’s center providing the

only light in the dungeon-like quarters.

In a rickety wooden chair at the table, toiled a diminutive man

adorned in a white robe with scarlet trim. He wore no jewelry. In

fact, there were only two features of distinction about the man. His

hair was a stunning shade of white. The other characteristic of note

was his eyes. They were a radiant shade of red only seen deep in

the heart of a raging inferno. No pupil was evident in them. The

light in them burned steadily like coals in a furnace.

The man was using a quill and ink to copy information from a

tattered paper onto a scroll. His calligraphy was perfect with good

reason. He only moved his eyes and hand while writing. His

concentration was complete.

The books surrounding him were a mix of older texts on

legends and newer ones on geography or various cultures. Without

warning he would snatch one and flip frantically through the

pages. When he found the desired page, he ran his fingers along

the words until he reached the quote of interest. Then he would

carefully transfer the information to his compilation paper.

His work came to a crashing halt when the door to the room

flew open and made a loud thump against the wall. The albino was

startled and knocked over the inkwell. The black liquid soaked the

scroll destroying his work.

He was furious. His eyes became searing white-hot in color.

Nearly invisible rays of magic fired from them and struck with a

concussion against the intruder. An imperial page was shot out into

the hallway where he came to a sudden stop upon reaching the

wall.

A moment later the page stumbled back into the room. He held

the frame of the door while trying to keep his feet. “Great, all powerful,

Necromancer, I have been sent to bring you to Lord

Mandrean.”

Necromancer’s eyes returned to their normal frightening

appearance. “Never enter my chambers without permission again,

Vermin! Do you have any idea of what you have just ruined, you

putrid sack of flesh? I would burn you down right now if we

weren’t running short of ignorant pages to invoke my wrath. Count

yourself lucky and get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

“Please accept my apology for disturbing you but our lord

awaits your presence.”

“Then he will wait,” Necromancer yelled as he struck the books

and cleared the desk in one angry swipe. “Tell your emperor that I

will be there when I have time.”

Necromancer crumpled the paper he had so painstakingly

prepared and threw it at the wall. He stood silently for a moment

and then reluctantly began to search for the bit of paper he had

referenced. During his search, his eyes caught sight of a narrow

shadow in the doorway.

“Are you still here, page? Your life must mean less to you than

it does to me.”

“I beg thee, great Necromancer, I have orders from Lord

Mandrean himself to escort you to his chambers. He seems

dissatisfied with the speed you display when answering his orders.

Those are his words, not mine.”

Necromancer rolled his eyes and then hung his head. He

replaced the objects on the table with a snap of his fingers and

approached the trembling page. “Well then,” he said in a calm,

monotone voice, “let us not keep his worship waiting.” He

gestured politely to the door. The confused servant led him out of

the room and down the hall.

Sunday Excerpt, "Crucible"

Their level of the tower had been vacant and silent other than them. As jails went it was rather well maintained. Such cleanliness could not disguise the sound of screams and cries filtering into the chamber from above and below. It was clear their level was the most desirable in the building.

The dreadful noise was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. Two human guards carrying an obscured prisoner thundered down the steps. Stopping at their floor, the guards could each be seen holding one arm of a young human woman. Her head hung down with a tangled mass of blond hair hiding her face. The woman’s feet dragged trenches in the straw on the floor as they carried her down the hall. Her clothing was tattered and shredded. Opening the cell next to the elves’ they tossed her in like a bale of hay.

“You’ll give us answers,” one yelled as he locked the door. “If you don’t I’m sure Hugon would be happy to interrogate you himself.” They laughed and then descended the stairs.

Between the cells were thick stonewalls that prevented prisoners from seeing each other. They did not, however, deafen sound. The girl cried as she lay on the floor. It was a painful, sorrowful sound.

Linvin sat on the other side of the wall trying to think of something to say. His usual greetings seemed wrong at that moment. At last he managed, “Are you hurt?” The sobbing continued. “Miss,” he called out louder, “Are you injured?”

The crying reduced and was interrupted occasionally by a sniffle. “It’s nothing that won’t heal,” she said meekly. “But it doesn’t matter. I will never leave these walls alive.”

Linvin moved closer to the bars by the wall. “My name is Linvin. What is yours?”

There was silence for a few moments and then one soft, beautiful word was spoken in return. “Mirianna,” she replied.

“You seem a little out of place here,” Linvin said.

“Everyone in this tower is out of place,” she answered indignantly. “I suspect that was their purpose in building it. You don’t sound like the usual criminals they bring in here. There must be a different reason you have checked in to this establishment.”

“I have no idea why we are here.” Linvin answered.

“Sure you do,” Mirianna said. “Everyone knows why they’re here. Some people just don’t want to admit the answer.”

Linvin was caught off guard by her banter. He tried to refocus on her. “Well then, why are you here?” he asked.

Her tone immediately changed. “So that’s your game, is it? They bring me down here and think I will tell you everything just by asking? Nice try Spy. I am wise to you. You can tell that red-eyed sorcerer you work for I have no knowledge of my country’s defenses. You can also tell him if I did know anything, I would never tell him or any of his agents.”

Linvin was stunned by the accusation. “Mirianna, you are mistaken. I am no spy. My kin and I are prisoners just like you.”

Mirianna snapped back. “That is just what a spy would say.”

Linvin sighed. “If I were a spy then why would they put three other people in here with me? Would it not be wiser to have a single person here to whom you could confess?”

 

Saturday Excerpt, "Quest"

Linvin and the others passed many open fires with fresh beef and pork roasting, continuing on to his command tent.  Upon entering the tent and leaving view, they collapsed.  Squires attended each of them.  They removed all their masters’ armor and soiled clothing.  Linvin passed out wine from his private stock to celebrate.

Fardar was attended as well.  He was shocked as the squire disrobed him and washed his body of the vile, pungent goblin blood that had stained his clothes black.  “These will have to be discarded,” the squire told him.  “Goblin blood does not wash out of clothing.”

Fardar observed the others in the room.  Linvin’s arm was being stitched and dressed.  It was a far more severe blow than he had acknowledged.

Sculla had been stabbed in the thigh and sliced on his arm.  He, too, was receiving treatment.

Victolin appeared unharmed and healthy until his armor was removed and he held his ribs.  His right side was deeply bruised and bleeding.

Only Githara looked to have escaped without a scratch.  She looked at Victolin and asked, “Was it an ax that hit you?”

He winced in pain, while lifting his arm to allow a bandage to be applied.  “A heavy mace.  I cut down one of their War Chief’s bodyguards and another struck my exposed side, knocking me off my horse.  Fortunately, one of my men cut him down immediately thereafter.”

“What happened to you, Sculla?” Linvin asked.

“Stupid, really,” he replied.  “When the line was advancing, this pathetic remnant of a swamp dweller reached up and stuck me in the leg with one of those cheap sickle swords.  Made me furious!  So I stomped his head.  Wretched, filthy, disgusting little lizard!”

The squire attending him finished cleaning the wound and prepared to stitch it closed.  “If you had not pulled the sword out by yourself, the wound would not be so large.”

“The blade was getting in my way!” yelled

Sculla as he shoved the attendant away.  “This stable boy acts like he was the one who was stabbed.”

“Easy, Stump,” Linvin consoled his friend.  “I think he is just frustrated with your disregard for your body.”

“Well, it’s my body!” Sculla snorted.  “I’m here to fight, not compete in a beauty contest.”

“We’reall glad of that,” Victolin joked.  “You’d make an uglier woman than Githara.”

Githara lashed out quickly at the insult and kicked Victolin on his injured side.  Victolin howled in pain.  “You’re mistaken for a woman far more than I am for a man,” she said.

“Enough, children,” Linvin said, gesturing downward with his hand.  “We do not need another fight today.”  They were in many ways like the siblings he had never known.

Once their wounds had been tended and they were all adorned in scarlet robes, the meeting broke up.  Githara and Victolin left to check their units.  Fardar left to prepare his report.  Entering the tent as they left was a centurion.

“Pardon the intrusion, My Lords,” he said as he saluted.

“What is it?” Sculla demanded.

“We cannot bury the goblins as the general ordered.  The water table is just below the surface, and whenever we start digging a hole, it fills with water.”

Sculla turned to Linvin for direction.  Linvin stood and tightened his robe.  He clasped his hands behind his back and paced.  After a few moments, he stopped, moved his hands to his hips, sighed greatly and dropped his head.

“Pile the bodies and burn them,” he ordered.  “There is enough disease in this swamp without leaving the dead to add more.”