16
May
This is an excerpt from an upcoming Splintered Lands story titled Kingdoms in Conflict.
Galdere muttered and cursed and shouted at the soldiers that reported to him as they struggled to fit together the second of the lever-armed devices. The technologically-minded soldier still hadn’t come up with a name for his creation, but he would, eventually. It was hardly relevant at the moment. And most people just called them giant slings anyway, which was accurate enough. It was what he’d based them on, after all. Just using the power of nature to do the tossing, instead of the power of a human’s arm.
As they assembled the second of the devices, there was another team in the woods, hunting down appropriately shaped trees and limbs to be used to create a third. And to create more spare parts, which were in constant demand. There was now a second set of embankments around the giant slings, one facing outwards, in case of an enemy raid, and the other at the rear, with a low trench behind it. That was where everyone stood when the device was being fired. No one trusted it not to throw splinters all over the place. Especially not after it had almost taken the arm from one unlucky soldier. Still, the risks were worth it.
Nearby, Hálsung and Iudas stood watching the assembly process, occasionally turning when there was a thump from the more distant device. First to see if anyone had been killed, and second to follow the flight of the ball as it impacted into the wall or flew over into the town. Although it was clearly damaging the walls, progress was slow, much to slow for the liking of the baron, and of his army’s food supplies. So now he debated ways to speed the matter up with his subordinate.
“And what would you fling into a town you wished to conquer, Hálsung?”
“I’ve always used arrows and sling stones, lord.”
“So have I, but neither of those seem to be that effective.” He drummed his fingers on his chin as he paced up and down, staring at the walls of Abboddóm. “Perhaps fire?”
“How would we do that?”
“Well, we’re throwing stones, right? Why not carve the spheres from wood, hollow them out a bit, and fill them with burning tinder? If we fire them fast enough they won’t damage the slings. Galdere, come here!” That last was in a shout that carried across the battlefield and cut through the technological soldiers meandering curses.
“Would firing partially hollow spheres of wood that were on fire work?”
Galdere pondered for a moment. “I don’t see why not. We might need to weight them down with a few stones so they flew farther, but I’m sure we can manage. I’ll play around with a few designs this afternoon after I get the sling up and firing, and we’ll try them out overnight.”
Iudas clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Just don’t take too long.”
The veteran blanched.
7
May
This is an excerpt from an upcoming Splintered Lands story titled Kingdoms in Conflict.
“If that is a precursor to the battle for Abboddóm, then we have already won. They die almost man for man with our poorer troops.” Hálsung gestured at the carnage around them.
“You’re an idiot.” Iudas waved his arm in the torchlight. “They used peasants, same as we do. And they managed to chew up better equipped troops without losing many of their own. They mistimed the ambush, but otherwise, it went well for them. Anyway, spend the night digging graves for our men. We’ll camp here for the night and bury them with the rising of the dawn light.”
“Don’t you mean organizing the men to dig graves?”
“I don’t think I said that. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t say that. So you can either dig a grave, or sleep in it.”
Hálsung grabbed a shovel.
The next morning saw Iudas’s troops advance on Castel. There was little doubt that they would meet resistance there, after the ambush in the woods, but even so Iudas kept them in tight formation, and sent out scouts. If nothing else, it was practice for those soldiers that needed the discipline.
They came out of the woods to find the village was still mostly occupied by those who lived there, a strange occurrence that surprised all of the men in the army. Iudas looked at the pitiful walls of the village, barely more than rotten timber, and began giggling.
Iudas rode to the front of his troops, waving at the village behind him. “The man who brings me the prettiest woman in Castel gets first pick of the loot, plus a gift from me!”
The troops surged forward, the peasants charging in headlong, the more experienced professional soldiers holding back and watching. Although those with bows did unlimber them and begin taking pot-shots at the peasants on the walls. It was pitiful covering fire, but would be enough to keep the defenders discouraged.
Iudas glanced over at Hálsung. “Do you think I should have used this as practice for siege warfare?”
Hálsung shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t think they would have gotten that much practice out of it. And the peasants need blooding. They need an easy fight they can win, so they think all fights are easy fights. Better that they cover themselves in slaughter this time around I think.”
“I like that thinking. Perhaps a little mayhem afterwards as well?”
“If there are any creatures left to play with.”
“No village ever dies in the first wave. But Castel won’t survive the day. Not any of it.”
There were screams coming from the village now, for Iudas’s soldiers had broken the barricades and charged through the mud streets, pulling people from buildings, slashing down any who dared to resist. The weaponry of Iudas’s peasants was rudimentary, and broken on occasion, but a stone mace was a brutal weapon against unprotected flesh, and soon the howls of the wounded began to float over the village, providing a backdrop to the scenes of slaughter.
The women, however, were kept unharmed, and as each of the few pretty young girls were found, the soldiers who captured them left the village, eventually forming a line before Iudas. Their ruler strode up and down, glancing at a face, touching their hair, and occasionally ripping their clothes open for a closer look at the important parts.
Hálsung gestured to the village. “They’re all done, lord. There won’t be any more to inspect.”
“Pity. None of them are particularly attractive. But I keep my promise to the troops.” Iudas meandered through the women once more, his hands roaming freely. After a little while, he settled on a young brunette, maybe fifteen years of age. “Take her to my tent, and tie her up there.”
Iudas glanced at the village. It was deserted, aside from the wounded who howled in its streets. “Hálsung, round up all the loot and pile it before the village gate. The men who found me my woman for the night get first choice. And anyone who does not share the loot they’ve found is to be locked into a hovel. I’ll burn them alive later.”
As those words were communicated through the peasants who had sacked the tiny village, there was a mad rush to drop any goods they had found in the communal pile. Losing out on a little bit of stolen food was far better than dying.
“Oh, and Hálsung. Tonight’s entertainments. I think we should have some gladiatorial games. Make fathers fight sons, women fight husbands. That sort of thing. And for the finale, I want to see two healthy men fight. Except cut a leg off of one, and an arm from another. And give them each big heavy weapons they can’t swing well. A large branch or something. You know, usual promise of freedom to the victor and all that. See to it, would you?” Iudas strode for his tent without waiting for an answer.
Hálsung looked over at the little collection of prisoners and walking wounded and grinned. Tonight was going to be a fun night.
3
May
This is an excerpt from an upcoming Splintered Lands story titled Kingdoms in Conflict.
Iudas grumbled when he looked out at the scene before him. It was all just taking too long. Too damn long.
“Gather up those bloody peasants!”
Hearing his voice becoming annoyed, his men moved faster. They had long ago learned what Iudas’s annoyance could do to a person. Soon enough, the villagers had been gathered in from all the little farms that surrounded the hamlet, and tucked into a small mass in front of Iudas. He sighed at the pitiful looks and thin bodies. What a worthless lot of cretins he ruled.
“You have been selected to join me, to fight for me, as we wage war on the horrid beast Inswán! He has invaded our lands, burned down our villages, slain our people! He sends spies to take what little we have, to steal from us! Now we bring him retribution. And you shall be the agents of our retribution!”
One of the peasants looked around, raised a hand, and spoke. “Begging your pardon, lord, but we aren’t much of a retribution. We’re just poor farmers.”
Iudas gestured. A soldier rammed a dagger into the peasant’s gut, then ripped it sideways.
“Anyone else want to interrupt me?”
The peasants cowered in fear.
“You’re learning. Good. That puts you above the village of idiots I burned down. With them inside of it, mind you.” Iudas took a slug of wine from a skin hanging off his saddle. “Soldiers, you know the drill.”
The healthy men were separated out from the rest, and a small cadre lead them off at a fast march, heading in the direction of Gárhéap, Iudas’s capital. There they would be given basic weaponry and training. Very basic, sadly, much as Iudas wished he could do better. But his lands were poor in metal, and what little he had was not going to be wasted on illiterate peasants. They would be little more than fodder against the walls of Abboddóm, anyway.
Once the new recruits were safely out of earshot, the remaining soldiers started pulling attractive women from amongst the rest who stood there. This was their reward, taken from every village captured. The prettiest of them all went to Iudas, although he thought that wasn’t saying much. Mud-covered farm peasants weren’t really his type, but he made do with what he could find on campaign. It was mostly just a form of tithing, anyway.
Shouts and cries began to echo around the little village. Iudas listened for a moment, then nodded. His men had been given strict orders to impregnate as many of the women as possible, rather than to harm them. After all, the world contained far too few people. The Breaking and the plagues that had followed has seen to that.
Pondering over what might have been if the world still stood as it once had, he took the peasant girl by the arm and lead her into a hovel. He was feeling gentle today. Mostly.
27
Apr
This is the continuation of a story I’ve been working on for the Splintered Lands project. Previous entries can be found here
“Náhte, why is there a net on your head?”
“I needed a hat.”
“Náhte, it’s a net. It lets the sun shine through. And doesn’t keep off the mosquitoes either. Also, it smells of fish. Dead fish.”
“I know. I’m hoping fish will jump into the net and I can eat them. I’m hungry.”
Butan just sighed.
They’d been in Át?san a week now, and had, for once in their lives, honest employment. Neither of them liked it very much.
“Kagdor didn’t bring any food, did he?”
“He brought me more nets to wear. Draped them over my head when he left.”
“That was probably because he doesn’t like you. You cut up one of his nets and used it as a fishing line.”
“He wasn’t using it!”
“Náhte, we’re supposed to be repairing the nets, not breaking them.”
“Oh, is that what this job is? I thought I was just a clothes rack.”
“You just might be.”
“Do I get more money as a clothes rack?”
“No, less.”
“Then I don’t want to be a clothes rack.” Náhte thought for a moment. It was a long moment. “I don’t want to be honest any more, Butan. Honesty is kind of dull.”
“You mean there’s nobody shooting arrows at you? Or trying to sell you into slavery?”
“Exactly!”
“You want people to shoot at you.”
“I think so. I like the sound that arrows make as they whiz by.”
Butan started crying.
–
“Why are we here?”
“Because I was bored of being honest as well.”
“But this is the Knights of the Broken Wheel mission. We can’t join them, they’re honest!”
“I don’t want to join them, I want to rob them.”
“Doesn’t that mean they’ll poke us with pointy things?”
“Given everything else we’ve met tried to do that, what’s the difference?”
Náhte paused.
“They have bigger pointy things?”
“On that, you’re probably right. Ready to go over the wall?”
“Why not swim up the little creek into their complex that no one ever guards?” Náhte pointed.
Butan clapped a hand over his eyes. “Náhte, that’s an open air sewer.”
“Oh, that means I’ll smell foetid. I’ll have all the pretty flowers again, and I can paint them.”
“Fine. Náhte, you can swim in, and I’ll climb over the wall.”
They went their separate ways.
Butan dropped over the wall, huddled in the darkness behind a crate, and looked around. There wasn’t any movement he could see, so he crept towards the storehouse against the back wall of the complex. A Knight stepped out from the barracks, heading to the outhouse, and Butan froze, posing himself like a tree. And then almost fell over.
When the Knight had gone, he made it the rest of the way to the storehouse and slipped inside. Oddly, the door had been unlocked.
“Butan, you’re slow.” Náhte was sitting on a chest, munching on some flatbread.
“How in the name of all the gods did you get in here so quickly?”
“I followed the stream. I knew it came here, after all.”
“You knew the stream came straight into the storehouse, and you didn’t tell me.”
“I’d swum in it before, Butan. I like swimming. Lets me be closer to the fish.”
“I thought the fish tried to bite your fingers and you didn’t like them.”
“We’re on better terms now.”
Butan shook his head, and started hunting through the stacks. Most of what was there was either sealed barrels of food, or military equipment that would be difficult to sell.
“I don’t suppose you’ve worked out a perfect way to sneak stuff out of here, Náhte?”
“I usually swim with it in my shirt. It gets a bit smelly though. And damp.”
“Selling urine-soaked bread is probably not going to go down well. Next idea?”
Well, we could weight a barrel down with some rocks so it floats just below the surface, push it along, and then pop it out of the stream when we’re outside.”
Butan stared at his friend. “Did you just have a smart idea?”
“I’m not sure. What makes ideas smart?”
Butan puzzled on that one. “You’ll have to ask a philosopher.”
“What’s that?”
“A man who thinks about the big questions.”
“You mean like ‘To surrender, or not to surrender’?”
“No, more like whether we perceive reality, or if what we perceive is only a shadow cast by the true reality.” He stopped. “Incidentally, why’d you bring up surrender?”
“Because there’s five Knights outside.”
They both dove for the open sewer.
–
The thieves came up spluttering, covered in foul smelling liquid. Unfortunately, the first thing they saw was a pair of boots. Followed by a sword tip, the rest of the sword, and a large angry man.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let us surrender?”
The sword swung.
“Thought not. Knights aren’t known for their mercy.”
Náhte ducked, and Butan grabbed a lump of, well, better not think about it and threw it into the Knight’s face.
With the Knight clawing at the adhesive filth, they ran. Well, Butan ran. Náhte charged into the Knight, knocked him to the ground, and stole his helmet. Then he ran.
After they were a good safe distance away, inside the edge of the swamp, Butan looked at Náhte and gestured at the helmet. “Why?”
“I always wanted a Knight’s helmet.” He plopped it on his head. “I look dashing in it, don’t I?”
A man in rags with the metal helmet of a Knight. Dashing wasn’t exactly the word that sprang to Butan’s mind.
“You look exotic, Náhte.”
“Oh, I like that even more.”
“Yes, I thought you might. That’s why I said it. Now, what are we going to do?”
“Well, there’s a nice sunset I could paint on the tree. With mud, of course.”
Butan shoved Náhte into a puddle.
“No, Náhte, big picture what are we going to do next?”
“Oh, hrmm. Die, probably. At least, I think that’s what comes after living.”
“You aren’t helping. Especially not since I think those Knights are organizing a search party.”
“We could flee?”
“I like your thinking.”
They fled.
13
Apr
Bloodaxe, my Viking-based fantasy short, is free today only through the magic of Kindle Select. It takes place in a northern fantasy kingdom, and the main character is the deposed former ruler of that land. He’s a villain with a wicked sense of humour, and a mum who’s even more skilled than he is, so Bloodaxe lets her rule while he goes a-conquering.
Reader Quotes:
It’s not often that we get to revel in the villain. Bloodaxe is a delightfully misogynistic cad, whose observations about life and people are surprisingly direct and spot on.
I love reading fantasy but I’ve never encountered anything like this. It’s a quick read, under an hour, but is so full of win!
Bweeheeheehee! This is the best book summary I’ve read in a while. Mr. Tallett, please take my dollar.
And with that I shall leave you with the blurb itself, and a link to download Bloodaxe for free!.
Bloodaxe thought he was in for a nice relax. He was, after all, dead.
And then some jumped up prick of a god told him he had to rescue a kingdom. His own kingdom, in fact. So Bloodaxe grabbed his, well, axe, and leapt back into the fray.
First, though, he had to be born. And learn not to crap his pants. Then he could get to the killing. Lots and lots of killing.
This is his story.
17
Feb
A land of speckled grey
A whisper in the mist
A hand of mottled clay
A shadow upon the grist
A bird at play amongst the skies
A figure in the shade
A child, one that dies
A darkness amidst the glade
All these things had clouded round
The village for to seek
A home, a hearth, a living speak
Yet buried upside down
Caper and dance, laugh and fall
The devil’s daily bread
Now slay them fast, now slay them all
And the leader you must behead
And piss upon his gravestone now
For tomorrow you’ll be drowned
10
Feb
Thanks to a couple kind readers, I now have a smile stapled to my face for the rest of the day. I was working away at the day job when a G+ notification email popped up. Not something I usually get, so, hey, figured I’d look.
This is what I saw.
The summary is question:
Bloodaxe thought he was in for a nice relax. He was, after all, dead.
And then some jumped up prick of a god told him he had to rescue a kingdom. His own kingdom, in fact. So Bloodaxe grabbed his, well, axe, and leapt back into the fray.
First, though, he had to be born. And learn not to crap his pants. Then he could get to the killing. Lots and lots of killing.
This is his story.
1
Feb
Update: Bloodaxe hit Kindle this morning!
I haven’t talked about Bloodaxe much on here, but it’s a new short story that will be released to Kindle Select in a week or so. I’m using it as a trial of the platform, and I’m hoping for good things after Breaking an Empire did 2,500 downloads in a single night.
The prologue of Bloodaxe is already posted on the website here. You might want to read it before getting to the fun below.
Being born hurts. A lot.
I felt like I was being squeezed through a rawhide bag by a former member of my personal bodyguard. The one who killed people by strangling them with an iron bar. Not wire. Bar.
After that, I got smacked around by a particularly ugly old crone, then cleaned up and handed over to a woman with enough gold cloth that she had to be a duchess. Not bad for a second time around. Much better than a peasant, although I had always liked dear old mum and dad.
I was small enough I figured it was better to be polite, so I said “Hello”. Turned out some of the connections weren’t working right, since all that came out was a squawk. And so it turned out I was going to have to go through a normal childhood, complete with all the annoying stages of growing up. Lovely.
Whichever god thought this was a good idea is going to wake up one morning with me standing over him with an axe. A bloody great one. And if I don’t find out which one it is, I’m going to start with Frethden, god of trickery, and work my way in from there.
I’ve been through childhood once, and it turns out the only reason I remembered it fondly was because I didn’t remember it at all. Learning not to crap your pants? I’m so very glad I now have complete memories of that.
Anyway, less faeces and deicide, and more storytelling. It turned out I had been born into the duchy of Trond, which was the smallest of the duchies that once made up my kingdom. Bigger than the three earldoms and two baronies that sat around it, but smaller than the other two duchies. Situated nicely in the middle.
Or not so nicely in the middle. The other two duchies didn’t like my new parents very much, and decided to do something about that. Specifically, they sent several assassins in the night, plus a rather large force of regular soldiers. And when you’re four years old, it doesn’t matter how many years of battle-hardened reactions you have, you still need to run and hide. At least being four meant I could hide in a tiny cubbyhole.
It turned out the gold cloth wearing woman who was my new mother was fairly skilled with a rapier. Significantly more so than my new father, who got himself skewered within moments. I’d have been sad, except I only ever saw him at a distance, or at state affairs. Not exactly a loving father-son relationship. So, new mum dispatches the assassins, including the one who got the duke, finds me, and decides to leg it, since there’s rather more soldiers around who belong to the other duchies than to ours.
She calls, I come, we’re whisked off through miles of secret passages and tunnels, and end up climbing out a trapdoor hidden in the back of the fertilizer shed of a local farmer. I liked that touch. Sneaky, devious. Gave me more respect for the duchess. What I didn’t like was the damage a shaggy pony can deal to four year old buttocks. I’ve acquired battle scars in less painful ways.
I also didn’t like the irony of the gods. Because my Mum and I ended up living in a peasant village. On a hillside. Farming. Yes, I was once more a peasant farmer. I hadn’t liked it the first time I was growing up and I didn’t like it now. And how the hell was I going to fulfil my destiny of returning to save Rudvic if all I had to work with was some dirt and the clots who ate it?
Today I’d like to welcome Emma Newman to The Four Part Land. Emma is the brilliant (and English) author of 20 Years Later and The Split Worlds, and an author who is always a joy to read, and to talk to. Two years ago, back when I was first bumbling around Twitter, Emma saved me from many a class of boredom by pointing me towards the first collection of short stories set in The Split Worlds, which I devoured with haste. So it is with great pleasure that I’m able to host one of her Split Word stories here today.
This is the eleventh tale in a year and a day of weekly short stories set in The Split Worlds. If you would like Emma to read it to you instead, you can listen here. You can find links to all the other stories, and the new ones as they are released here.
The Final Test
Michael came to his conclusion over the chicken soup. It was arguably the most important in his entire apprenticeship and it had killed his appetite.
“Are you feeling ill?” Alfred asked, seated opposite.
Michael looked into the other apprentice’s eyes, bloodshot from too much study. Could he lose his advantage by being open? No, he was years ahead of Alfred, and it could help to review his reasoning out loud.
“I’ve examined the tests we’ve been given over the years,” he said, voice low enough to blend with the general murmur of the dining hall. “I’ve passed every single one and I’ve never failed any assignment over the last decade, but I’m still just an apprentice. Why?”
“That’s for him to know and us to speculate,” Alfred said, dunking his bread.
“No, it’s because there’s a secret test.”
Alfred shook his head. “You sure it’s not your arrogance preventing your elevation?” When Michael started to pick up his bowl, Alfred reached across, pressed his arm down. “I’m sorry. Do you know what the test could be?”
Michael settled again, bit off a chunk of bread and chewed it slowly, giving himself time to consider whether to share. “The door at the end of the corridor in the northern wing,” he finally said. “The one we’re forbidden to open. I think the test is to do just that.”
Alfred’s eyes widened in a most satisfactory manner, giving Michael the sense of superiority he enjoyed so much. “Surely not. It’s one of the first rules of the house.”
“Exactly,” Michael replied. “We were too green to question anything then so we don’t even think about it now. We all know about the room, but no-one goes near it, because that rule was laid down so early.”
“You’re wrong,” Alfred said. “Why not have faith in him knowing when you’re ready?”
“But that’s my point!” Michael stopped himself from banging the table. “What if he’s waiting for the first apprentice to show some initiative? Perhaps he’s been waiting for hundreds of years for just one man to come to this same conclusion.”
“Perhaps he’s waiting for a man who knows as much as you but has kept his humility,” Alfred said, taking up his spoon. “Be patient, this is a way of life not-”
Michael stood, unable to stomach that platitude again, and left his supper on the table, ignoring Alfred’s chuckle. No more languishing amongst the hopefuls, waiting for a moment that might never come. It made perfect sense; why else have a locked and heavily warded door in the same wing of the house that the apprentices studied in? If it contained something genuinely secret or dangerous it would be out of sight, and certainly not pointed out during their first week. Alfred was just another mediocrity, it was time for him to show them what it really took to become a sorcerer.
The northern wing would be empty now, it gave him the perfect opportunity to study the wards and warnings engraved on the door and its frame. He was astounded by how easy it was to deconstruct into component parts, applied his knowledge as Alfred ate his soup and condemned himself to never being anything other than an apprentice.
The gentle hiss as the ward broke told him the room had been kept airtight. Interesting. He opened the door, reaching for the light switch only to find it wasn’t in the usual place. He stepped in, fumbled along the wall as the door shut and sealed itself behind him. Finally his fingers brushed the Bakelite and he flicked the light on.
That’s when he saw the bones.
He could make out three skeletons and the tattered remains of their clothing. The outline of a doorway was being burnt into the opposite wall, an effect he knew well; a Way was being opened. He forced himself to stay calm, the room could have been staged to frighten him, and he mustn’t show it had worked.
The outline became a wooden door which opened. The sorcerer stepped through, clapping slowly, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. “I knew it would be you Michael.”
Once he’d got past the mundane clothing, Michael saw only pleasure, no anger. His chest swelled. “Thank you master.”
“I always knew you had great potential.” The sorcerer reached into his pocket, pulled out a plain silver band and held it towards him.
It looked identical to the only ring his master wore, was this the subtle mark of one of the elite few? Michael slipped it onto a shaking finger.
“Tell me,” the Sorcerer stuffed his hands in his pockets and leant against the wall, his usual formality gone. “What exactly did you think would happen if you broke the wards on the door?”
Michael felt like a five year old again, terrified by the cool intellect of the man who had become his parent, his teacher, his master. It didn’t matter that he was as tall as him now. “I hoped you’d be pleased I’d realised there was no other way to progress, that I found the last test.”
“I am pleased,” his master said. “A sorcerer answers to no-one in his own kingdom, so your instincts were correct to challenge my rules. But the test wasn’t realising thus, nor was it a test of your ability to break the wards, even though I suspect you’re the only apprentice capable of doing so.”
Michael looked at the skeletons, feeling a droplet of sweat trickle down to the small of his back. “Have I passed?”
The sorcerer laughed. “Look behind you. What do you see?”
Michael’s imagination furnished him with a slavering beast, a sword about to run him through, his peers watching and laughing and even one of the Fae themselves as he turned around. Instead, all he saw were formulae. But when he looked closely at the sorcerous markings, he only recognised a small fraction of them.
“Wards,” he guessed, and mercifully, he was correct. “Ah! So the final test is to break these?”
“Almost. You’ve spent practically all your life under my tutelage. All of your training, all of the trials have led to one question Michael, one you’ve already answered without even knowing it: Do you think like a Sorcerer?”
“I do! Otherwise I wouldn’t even be here!”
“Then break the wards.”
“I… I need an artefact from my room, and some time and a-”
“Stone.”
At the sorcerer’s command, Michael felt his body become rigid, realised what the ring was there to do.
“You failed. If you truly were ready to be a Sorcerer, you would have brought every artefact, every tome, every tool for any eventuality. But you still think like an apprentice, believing I was waiting to congratulate and elevate you for being brave enough to break a rule. If you’d truly been ready, you’d have been prepared to murder me, to fight for your life or even just break the most complex formulae without a moment’s hesitation. I’ll leave you to contemplate that amongst your peers,” he waved a hand at the bones. “And when you can no longer bear to examine your failure, and instead turn your anger towards me for not giving you a second chance, ask yourself this; when there are seven sorcerers for seven kingdoms, why on earth would we need an eighth?”
6
Jan
My soul sat forth, ‘pon my hand
and lectured ’bout my goal
It spoke of things far away
things dreamed in far off lands
“Go!”, it said, face all full of fury
“Go and find another one,
for I am done with thee”
And off it went, slipping from my palm
I looked around, but saw no soul
wandering then, I went
I searched high and low yet found no hint
I begged and cried and sought to steal
but never came within my grasp
Till one fine day, I settled down
my face within the grass
Life had passed me by
and I expired there at last