Updates and Notes

Well, I have a new tale, but unless it gets totally rejected out of hand, it will not be posted here. Sorry, folks, but this guy is making his try at the semi-pro writng market. I will keep you all posted as to whether this tale gets accepted or not, as well as something else still being shopped around.

Now, you should get chapter 7 of Clansman this weekend, and perhaps even chapter 9 from the rewrite of Billenius' Tale. Unless I get job, in which case, well, Clansman just needs a good edit, so I may still get it done, but no time promises.

Last, I am on my way to true insanity, working on 9 Works in Progress, which means don't stand close, if my brain boils over, the splatter will be ugly....
Its 4 novels in some stage of writing, four shorts in progress (counting Clansman) and a poem I am still not happy with. Its a Small Town America one, which is what makes it harder to do.
So, be well, hope to have folks enjoying tales soon, and please, leave a comment, even if its just using the buttons at the end of the tale or poem.
Sinc.,
-Dyfedd Rex

A Friendly Game of Crib with the Adversary - A poem of Cribbage and Metaphysics

Old Scratch came around
looking for a soul
but only found me
and that cribage board,
shuffling cards in boredom.

So the Devil smiles,
taking the facing seat
and says: "Deal, mortal."
grinning as he adds
"Your soul for losing."

I give him nothing
but a smug grin
looking to ask why
only to strangely find
tears on his face.

"I gotta meet quota"
he admits in chagrin
as I deal cards
"But days like these,
the Other Side wins."

As he lifts up
his cards to play
I break his heart.
"No bets today, Scratch.
But coffee's on me."

We played as viscious
as any other time
when bets were made,
but without the cheating
and muggings of old.

Its sad when folks are down on their luck
And old Adversaries come to commiserate over bad times
But over the board you form a bond true,
that is not shownb the pegs' final positions.

When he finally left
I watched his back
curved and slumped over,
and had to sigh
as he walked away.

If it's this bad
that Satan feels beaten
by the sagging economy,
the why do I
not smile in joy?

Or is it this:
that over our games
as he tried stealing
my immortal soul away
we each earned respect?

Besides, I only won this time by getting in a fifteen-two
before having to tell him "Go" for one-twenty-one.

Blade of the Eagle Clansman - Ch 4 - The First Hunt of Scorpio Kenrai

Before you read this, I apologize that it never got posted. After a long discussion with my computer, conducted in the friendly confines of a batting cage with a piece of wood from a town on the Ohio River, it coughed up and confessed to misrouting it to a flash drive. Here is the missing chapter. Sorry again, my computer promises to behave, under threat of becoming a line drive to center.\ - D. Rex

Two nights and two days after the fight with the buhatar they walked, both men dragging a travois with what supplies they had to have, as Tagrun could barely function with the broken ribs. Galen had found the mule, still living, but severely wounded, and given it the cut of mercy. Then they had spent several hands of the stars across the sky making the carrying device, loading it with what the hunter could not carry, and other items, as well as bandaging their wounds up.

When they at last moved on, they gathered up one last item, the broken off spike of Galen's bladed mace. The assassin held it with a bleak face, not speaking for a few fingers of the sky's rotation, then gently stowed the hand long curved piece in a pouch. Tagrun wanted to ask what was wrong, but something in his uncle's face kept the half-breed from doing so. Soon, it was into the ash filled prairies, and the remains of the many creatures killed by the spell started wildfire. Some beasts the hunter sorrowed over. But a few were the half rotted corpses of the pod of buhatari, which still tried to move, skulls filled with that same glowing of purple and black flames as the rocks and corpses of the dwarves on the Aqi.

Their pace was slow, using cloth from some goods Galen had meant to trade for information or food to cover their faces, as the choking clouds of ash kicked up in the still northerly wind. Each step was a danger, with numerous hot spots, burnign stubs of branches, or hardened cactus needles in the ground threatening to make one lame. The glow of the fire ahead of them gave them more light than the moons, and by day the wide spread of the fire became evident to both men of the disaster unleashed by Galen's spell. Both men were very aware of the horseman on the ridge above them.

The Kenrai clan disdained mounts, preferring the old ways. The true clansman, Tagrun's folk felt, walked into all things, trusting to only his or her own legs, not those of other beings. This came from the fact that the lands of the Eagle clan were the ones most haunted by the predators that sought out horses and other mounts. It was not worth the effort to the small group that was left of the Kenrai to keep mounts and protect them as well as the small encampments of the clan.

As they moved down to the valley, the fire lit the sky at night, vying with the moons, and its smoke clouds turned the sun from a bright white to orange. Great billowing clouds of the smoke rose up, the prairie still dry after a long spring with few rains. But with the third night's fall, clouds of another kind appeared on the southern and western horizons, as the spring storms at last came. That third night, the rains made the ashen plains impassable, turning the burnt area into a sea of mud, with pockets of grass still left by the vagaries of the wind and flame.

Tagrun's ribs were at that ugly stage where they only popped and ground when he moved too fast, or overextended himself. Sitting turned into a nightmare, as it changed the pressures on that cage of bone inside him. Just shifting his weight made things move around inside him in ways that he was not enjoying. At least they had the shelter of a tent to stay relatively dry within. The air was so filled with the rains and fogs that rose from the still hot earth it was falling upon. Steam still rose, even from the unburned grasses they camped on, as the residual heat only slowly fading. This left the land a place of mists and shadows as the sun sank down behind the clouds and mountains that were much closer to the Aqi this far south.

Galen had built a small fire for warmth, but the chill in the rains was slowly winning against the heat of the wildfire and the small stone circled flames. The winds were not the strong ones of the summer storms, but still not anything either man wanted to be moving out in.

All around them were the rotting remains of the buhatari pod, the smell of their corpses a mix of the decay and flames that had ended their existence. Tagrun looked out from time to time, wary of the carrion beasts coming to feast and turning to fresher meat, as he was certain what lay on the surface was not palatable to even the most jaded vulture's taste. Up on the ridge, the light of another fire gleamed, off the sides of what had grown from one to several tents now. He was not sure if the clan had gathered up there after the worst of the storms passed or just a warband upset over the conflagration Galen had caused.

They took turns sleeping, neither getting a deep sleep, feeling eyes they could not see, but knew were upon them. Tagrun twice was certain someone was near them, scouting in to see if they were keeping watch on his times awake. The younger man did not speak of them, but made a simple drawing of an eye and then motioned to the area he was sure the scouts were using to watch them from. The elf merely nodded, and stepped on the eye, scuffing it as he stood up to walk around their tent outside, acting like he was tightening the ropes that secured it. As the winds earlier had loosened them a bit, it was believable.

When the elf came back inside, and took up the seat at the front of the tent, his nephew was gone. The hunter had moved out silently, using the motion Galen had been making in the tent to allow him to exit unnoticed. Galen did his best not to expose the fact that the younger man had left, talking softly, as if telling him that the tent was secure again. He set more wood upon the fire, to ruin the vision of any who would look at the flames, if they were foolish enough, and keep any focus on him as the one moving.

Out in the ashes, the hunter crawled slowly on his belly, moving into a nearby draw, then scrambling up that narrow stream bed quietly, working through the rocks and stumps to reach the ridgeline. Once there, he moved just below that crest on the far side from the camp he and his uncle had made. The mists and fogs worked for him, as down the slope they were thicker, but the light of the greater moon made any closer to the crest stand out against the sky, as they blocked the great constant glows in the sky of the Wheel's blue and the spread wings of the Flame Crane.

Tagrun moved slow, like the cat he was named for, walking the distance a step at a time, the soft soles of his moccasins letting him feel his way to avoid dislodging stones or breaking anything to make a noise in the night to silence the insects or alert someone above him. He counted the watchers as he moved, using the method his mother had taught him so long ago. The fingers of his left hand extended with each watcher, the thumb opening as the other four closed to reset the count as he passed five, and the right hand having a single finger extended as he noted the tenth spy on the ridgeline. In the end, his right hand had a thumb and two fingers opened, his right one finger still. Seventeen as his mother counted, three hands and two in the speech of the clans.

He had not seen the lean man who had watched them during the buhatar fight. Nor found the horses these ones had ridden here upon. Southerly breezes kept his smell, and that of the buhatar he had fought, from drifting ahead of him, as Tagrun pressed on. So far five hands across the night sky the stars had marched since he had left his uncle. With each step, he knew the chances of being noticed increased, but he had to know if these indeed were the Otters or some other clan. On rare occasions, the young hunter knew that some clans with less honor would imitate the trappings of other clans, to stir up war or break up alliances they feared.

The fog thickened to a point Tagrun worried about making it back to his camp, as the first hints of light touched the sky in the east. Then he nearly spooked the horses, finding the stand of trees left free from the burn, where the watchers had tied them. And the man who had watched them waiting, patiently, staring at him.

"Kah-von, Tagrun, You are good, until you flinched, I did not know you were there." The words drifted on the air, moving softly as the strands of fog. It was a voice the hunter knew and trusted.

"Kah-von, Arklo. How has hunting been?" Tagrun kept his own words as soft as those given to him, moving slowly towards the man.

"Poor. The snows were too deep, the cold too bitter, and those beasts you burned from the grasses were spoiling what game was left." The hunter shifted, leaning on his spear. "The dead should not walk, tusk-cat. Who stirred this abomination up from the lands over the hills?"

Tagrun squatted down beside a bush, realizing the older hunter was testing his students on the ridge to see if they could figure out he had gotten past them. A smile creased his face for a moment. The Otters were great hunters, known as ones that may make a game of the hunt or its components, but only to teach the next generation the skills they would need. They kept that playful nature, giving them a reputation as fools and children to the other clans. Yet they were the largest clans save that of the Gafchar, the buffalo of the lands closer to the sea.

"No, the dead should not walk, and the one who cast magic to start the fire says that not all would have died. There will be ones who slept deeper in the ground that will survive." Tagrun kept an eye on the ridge, trying not to chuckle as the ones on that height suddenly heard from the close in scouts that only one man was at the fire still.

"Good job with that. Magic is not to be cast, but the way the fire spread tells me the totems wanted those beast removed. Buhatar that die and stay dead are bad enough, to have them still walk when dead was disturbing." The older hunter took out his whetstone to sharpen his spear blade. The screech of stone on metal carried up to the ridge well, and the fogs suddenly lifted as the wind increased with the coming of the sun. The closest watcher was a mere spear throw away, and hung his head in shame at how close Tagurn had made it undetected. He gave a long undulating cry to alert the others, then turned to walk down.

"My son, Arzintho. He will talk your ears off, tuskcat, trying to learn how you got by him." Arklo chuckled. "After I tease him a bit. Who is the elf with you?"

The insertion of the probing question in the conversation did not rattle Tagrun, who knew that Arklo was a blood relative of his grandfather's. "Galen Longwind." The terse answer dropped into the air like a stone as the boy arrived.

Arzintho was not yet fully grown, and moved with the awkward gait that said he had grown too fast of late, as all children do at some point in becoming an adult. "Forgive me father, I did not think to check the fog."

Arklo laughed. "I did check the fog and he got into thrust range on me, boy." He smiled softly, "Learn from this one. He is like his name, a cat of the grass, moving like a hunter should. Study how he moves, and see the tuskcat for what he is. A hunter, like you may become someday."

Arklo suddenly spoke to Tagrun. "Galen, you said?"

Tagrun knew this would be a sore subject, the Otter clan did not like the elf at all, as they felt they had something to hide from him. Something even on this journey, the younger hunter had not spoken of to his uncle. "Yes, and he is the brother of my mother, or so my family tells me."

There was a long silence that followed, one filled with the sounds of the rising mosquitoes coming back for one last attack before settling down into the grasses for the day. The world seemed at peace, save for the occasional snort or pawing of the horses, the hissing of the wind and the grass and branches making their own songs.

"Well. That explains much. You need to speak with him about fires, but this time we can forget the mistake. Galen's fire destroyed things that needed ending." The older hunter smiled in the twilight. "You will both talk to the elders, I fear you have more bad news to give us. Gather in the elf, and tell Galen to be on his best behavior." With that the man turned to the horses, calling over his shoulder, "Camp is at the three forks island. Chanti will be glad to see you, as will most of us, even with the ill wind you blow in on."

Tagrun merely grunted his assent and began his own trip back to gather up his uncle, laughing as he passed the youngsters and two very skilled warriors of the band he had snuck past. The older men laughed with him, those his age and younger seemed resentful, until they saw who had done it. Then they laughed as well, knowing him from the many times the clans met and traded.

Back at the camp, Tagrun found Galen looking puzzled by the sudden laughter and noise from folk he knew to be very somber outside their encampments. The young half-elf smiled at him, and told the tale of the sneaking up, as they packed up. Galen knew the Otters, it seemed, and enjoyed knowing how skilled his nephew truly was in the grass.

The trek to the place the Otters had gathered took the whole day, but as they moved along, Galen came to realize why his sister's chosen people were so frugal in their belongings. He stubbornly drug the travois behind him, refusing to give his nephew the satisfaction of tossing the goods aside, but realizing now that they would have to lighten the load to catch their foe. His mind was occupied by those thoughts so he missed the look on Tagrun's face. One of grave concern.

Their prey had doubled back many times to set traps. Was he endangering the Otter clan with this stop? Only the days to come would tell him that. Days in which his normal joy amid these folk, and with one in particular, would be dimmed by the shadow of this monster of a man.

They came to the camp, where Arklo and the elders awaited them. And another, a young elven woman, with the green tinged, coppery hair of the woodland clans. She was a stunning beauty, whose eyes found Tagrun's face, and lit up in joy. Galen smiled, knowing the tale of the elves slain by the ogres of the plains raiding the trade route decades before, leaving only a babe to be raised by this clan of wild men of the prairies. By the time her kinfolk had found out she lived, she was so a part of the clan they chose to leave her among them. Many of the woodland folk traveled the route now, trading with this clan over the others, all to check on the girl, as she grew into a woman.

A woman who had snared the heart of a young clansman, he could tell, as Tagrun met her gaze. That part of the tale had yet to spread, it seemed. His nephew followed the ways of the grass, greeting the elders and Arklo formally first, then acknowledging the woman he obviously loved. But rather than kneel while taking her hand, the young man showed the practicality they had both been raised in, turning to the eldest of the tribe.

"We must speak, a death mage has entered the grass, as you may know. We seek him to drive him off." Tagrun's voice was soft, so as not to carry beyond the ones gathered.

"We have heard. Come, join us at the fire, where we will speak of matters for all to hear as we eat." With that, they were welcomed to the tribe. No great celebration that Galen had feared, just the solemn acceptance that bad news was walking with them.

With the sinking of the sun, they gathered around the great fire a wild auroch had roasted over most of the day, and took their meal with the elders and others of the tribe, talking of the dangers that had come to the grasslands, what had already gone on, both here in the south with the corpses that still hunted, and the events in the north. The folk were subdued by the end of the talk, worries showing on the faces of all.

Then the elders asked them to take a short walk, as they discussed things for their clan. Galen was quickly grabbed by Arklo, who talked of the magics they could face. The elder hunter had left the grasslands several times over his life, giving him the experience with the outside world, and the very real dangers of magics his folk had never known of.

"Trap spells, death magic, and fires in the grass. Galen you have come to

Blade of the Eagle Clansman - Chapter 6 - Scorpio Kenrai's First Hunt

Tagrun walked the woods with Chanti, worried that the others would get upset over his missing the council. Not enough to walk away from the woman he loved, but enough to be uncomfortable. Chanti sensed his unease, but was not yet ready to share her man, young though he may be by the standards of her bloodlines. But he was the only other with any significant amount of the green blood of her kind in him. Only one with at least a grandparent from her people would live close to long enough for her not have to mourn his passing on too soon.

That she had known him since childhood, at times it made her feel awkward, knowing he was born at a time of her life that others would have, and were, dying. But elves aged far slower than humans, already the woman who had raised her was gone from her, dying this past winter from the ravages of old age, and that ones husband, who she called father, was soon to follow her soul to their next life, in another world she could not join them in. But the boy, when he was ten summers, she had seen him, seen he had the ears of her folk, ones she had seen since on her true kinsmen who had left her amongst these folks for protection, had come looking for the fate of her family.

Chanti held Tagrun's hand firmly. He had talked of the death of his friend and partner, and they had both shed tears for Hathrad. She had never thought that the violence of the outer world would find the area of grasslands the Eagles preferred most of the year. And it was the darkness of that shadow that she had felt in the wind as they met, she was sure. For the last two greater moons, her sleep had been disturbed by shadows and nightmares of death and horrible beasts. When the buhatar herd had risen from awful deaths to walk after dying, those dreams became worse. Dreams of a shadow that came between her and Tagrun, that grasped her and stole her into the darkness. A darkness that entered her.

The dreams left her disturbed and excited. There was a sense of strange power in the shadow, a power she could taste and feel moving all over her, like the breeze after she climbed from one of the many hot springs here. It was incredible, yet there was a sense of horror that came over her at it as well. There was pain and death in that power as well, some price to be paid for it. Something she had not encountered before. There was a ban on magic in the clans, for reasons so old she had no knowledge of why, and like many young people, she had reached the point in life she felt she understood more than those who held those rules as sacred to be followed.

Beside her, Tagrun was just content to be with her, he had not sensed the shadow, nor the discontent with the rules of the clan his love had. No hints of the taint the shadow had sowed came to him. As they walked along the paths, turning back to the convocation at the fire at last, he spoke.

"I am on a hunt, one I must finish. The sands said it may take a long time, but it must be done." Now he stopped, and turned to face her. "When I come back to the grasslands, I ask if you will wait for me here, accepting a tent and my family as yours."

Chanti laughed. It was the normal proposal of the clans, to join together, but she was the one who owned the tent, the goods and the meats he would provide to share with the clan as she wished. "Which clan would we be? By the river or on the hills shall we live?" This was also part of the response, asking him which clan they would be of after they married. It was crucial, though sometimes the clans would rule on it, trading a couple to another clan for a skilled couple from them whose talents they lacked.

"I say we lay it before the council, let them decide." He then looked down to the ground. "It is not for us to make this decision until I return though. I merely ask if you will wait for me."

His shyness made her heart warm, forgetting the touch of the shadow. "I have waited for you since I saw your mother and ears, Tagrun. I will wait longer, just try not to make this a long courtship, my love."

The both laughed, then walked slowly to the council, savoring the rare time allowed them alone yet together.

At the gathering by the fire, the elders listened to the tale of the necromancer's deeds that Galen told them. The assassin had held up the blade at the first question of the elders on the reason he was there. The sight of an assassin's blade, one bought to end a life, left the elders quiet for a long time. He spoke softly, revealing what they knew to be some but not all of the truths he knew. Tagrun and Chanti came back as they had begun to ask questions of the events, if he knew of a description they could spread among the clans to prevent more deaths, whether he knew the destination this one sought. Galen's answers were considered well, choosing his words with care not to upset the elders, or those gathered in a larger circle outside the benches around the fire.

Tagrun listened to the questions, especially the ones Xibo gave, worried at the tones in his elder's voice. The man was mad over the fires, more that no member of the clans had thought to burn out the undead. But the anger he had at the killings, of beasts as well as people, was hotter. The young hunter was still deciding if the words would need his talk of the sand casting, when the old men and few old wise women signaled they had heard enough.

Xibo grumbled some, though he nodded his acceptance of the changes. Drixaz merely laughed at his former competitor, and his lack of patience in all things.

As they parted though, Arklo had stepped back up to grasp Galen's elbow. "You will be asked to join with stone and grass tonight my friend." His words were soft, filled with a tension not normal to their talks in the past. "I worry about what will come of that, and which totems will come."

The totems were the great spirits, the embodiments of the world that the tribes lived in, and symbols of which clan one was of. Galen knew they honored them as he did his distant and cold gods, but never knew these totems would manifest to the people. He had never been touched by more than the sand castings of these folks, and a few other open rituals before. Even his levir, the husband of his sister, had never spoken of other types of religious ceremonies they had. It disturbed the assassin, that one of his guild would be asked to take oaths he might not be able to keep, for he was vowed to keep only secrets of his mission in progress from the Allegiance of the Blades. To make oaths to keep this place secret might conflict with his duty to his guild. Nor could he guarantee keeping his mouth shut if he got in his cups.

The clans, in showing him this place, had made taken the decision from him. He either went through with this or died here, his blade still thirsting for the heart of the necromancer he sought. Or could this be some way the clans sought their revenge upon the sorcerer? Possibilities, thoughts and glimmers of ideas yet to form moved in the mists of the otherworld he often perceived when thinking. His gods he had left aside long ago, as the ethos of his folk did not take kindly to his profession. Yet from time to time, he found a hint of their hands on his journey through life.

In the end, the elf shrugged off his misgivings. They could not give him a choice, as he had entered something beyond what he had dreamed, and this necromancer had indeed stirred up the anger of the clans, something not to be taken lightly. Few remembered the past like elves, many of whose elders were young children in lands here about that the ancestors of the clans had destroyed, leaving a vast area of farms, vineyards, and ranches to turn to untamed prairies again. While some of his folk found that a good thing, most agreed the deaths it had caused among all folk were not.

The wind was rising, lifting a myriad of sparks and embers off the slowly dampening bonfires of the council into the air, to mingle with the lights of the stars above, making many shapes there. Shapes that some said could tell the future as well as sands cast in the duwim of the elders. Fate was not something so easy to read though, Galen knew. Many years ago, in his own temples, a haruspice had spoken of his own doom, to come at the hand of a pale spider, though a scorpion would rise from the dust of the fight to avenge him.

Galen snorted, making Arklo look at him sternly. Assassins had no gods, save the dark gods of death that most folks seem to have as forces of evil in their legends. To think any save the one holding a blade or his foe could determine something so it could be seen far in advance was foolishness, and why most prophets spoke only in vague terms and timelines that none could confirm.

"Thinking of prophecies and readings from my youth, Arklo. That is all. Things that have never come true, and never can." Galen let soft words fall into the air, not wishing to offend those still nearby with scoffing at beliefs they held dear.

Galen sensed more than saw the nodding head of his friend. "Yes, until the day comes that one sees prophecies proven, one often doubts their worth, or wonders if some action has let him avoid them." The hunter shifted the long pipe he carried from one arm to the other, not so much to ease a burden, but to set it away from his fried who hunted men not beasts. "We all think little of our gods, until they reveal themselves to us, my friend. Perhaps this hunt of yours is for you to find your own faith again."

Galen laughed aloud, realizing that some folks could not be swayed from their set beliefs as easily as one who had lived a life filled with death, such as he had. "All things are possible, I guess. Though some how I doubt I will believe again in gods, until the time comes for me to be judged and given my next life, my friend. I only hope I remember you and your contentment with hunting when that time comes for me."

Arklo words were like the wings of an owl in the night, soft and nearly silent, meant for Galen alone. "This way, my friend. Let us see if your hunt is not just for a man, but to find your belief again."

They walked into a thicket, leaving the great crater, and seeking one of the vast dykes of frozen lava that the place was made of, leading south from the crater to the next plateau. The wind and its embers moved with them, the latter slowly dying away into specks of deeper black in the night as the lesser moon rose above the horizon. As so often in the spring, the chills and tastes of winter were still in the North wind, leaving them to wish for warmer clothing than what they had on. The trail led to a narrow and rugged ridge between the central and southern mesas.

For the elf the weak blue light of the lesser moon was like walking in daylight after a bit, but for Arklo, the illumination was insufficient for more than a slow walk. Several times the hunter held up his free hand as he scanned the path ahead. Two of those pauses there was movements on the trail ahead, a snake and a stench mink. As the snake had been a rock rattler, and neither man wished to be sprayed by the stench mink, Galen kept quiet, following Arklo forward, his worries of the conflict of oaths to come growing as he walked. The way ahead for him would prove he was sure, as narrow and treacherous as the one they walked now.

At last the saddle was passed, the way widening a small bit as it rose back to the level lands. This tableland was less brush and more trees, the air rich with the familiar scent of cedars, and a touch of some other trees that had perhaps, by the feel of the now strong wind, bloomed to early. The earth here was softer, more a loam of some kind laid over the rock somehow, perhaps built up by the trees and ages of fallen leaves and needles. Still, they moved into the mesa, in a twisting trail the assassin was sure had crossed itself many times, but never once could he tell for certain, as there were no distinctive landmarks for even his excellent night vision to make out.

At last they reached an open area, yet another crater. To Galen's relief, this one had no signs of activity under the earth, nor even a hint of the rotten egg smell he associated with such places. He could no longer see the stars, even, to tell how much of the night had passed. Not even the glow of Athalan, the great ringed giant of the sky shown, but that only told him that perhaps he lay in the horas when the inner planets hid with the sun. That was still a long period of darkness to make an estimate of traveled distances on, leaving Galen worried that he had not pulled out his string of bacae for counting paces with. It was far too late now.

In the center of the crater, as in so many the elf had visited seeking his prey or from just sheer curiosity, there was a dome of rock that had risen back out after explosions had dug the crater. Rough hewn stairs led up the mound of slowly crumbling rock. It was strange, Galen thought, how this place was made up of large flats around craters raised high in the air. This showed the gods had a sense of humor, as well as disliked those who tried to explain how they did everything in detail.

At the top of the dome, again, there was a ring of idols. His own people had stopped making representations of the gods ages ago, but he understood the reasons for these images of the gods of the grassland folk. To them only by seeing could they believe. Then again, that was why he was here, it seemed, to find out if he believed enough to convince them of his connection to this land.

There was an altar in the center of the dome's top. One that sent chills into Galen's blood. The stone of the top had blood channels carved in it, and only a humanoid being would fin those channels. Despite his promise to Arklo to follow through and make a commitment to the tribes, now he wondered exactly what he had committed to doing. There were still tales of blood and human sacrifice by the clans, but not from those who knew them well, now he wondered if all he knew of the clans was a ruse.

Arklo senses his halt, and spoke into the night. "The altars we still use, yes my frined, but as reminders of what the totems asked us to leave behind when they gathered us back tino their arms. Hear me Galen, and know. Yes, during the times my people came to this land, and for many snows after we were here, we did do awful things, even practice the dark magics. We leave these here to warn the children to come that there is a price to pay for the easy way of magics. A price they must never choose to pay, lest we all fall back into the darkness again." The hunter's hand slapped the stone. "But these stones have been wet with dew, rain, snow and honey since those days, Galen. Relax. We choose not to deny our mistakes, but hold them out as mistakes. Yes, from time to time, one of ours breaks the oaths and bonds. They forget they have joined the grass and stones, and taken the pledges to live better than our ancestors had. But we do not sacrifice friends upon them."

Galen stared off to what had to be the west, where flashes in the sky sometimes showed a jagged horizon. Storms were coming, the big night time ones that marked the coming and reign of summer. Storms that could impede or aid the hunt for his prey. Which was already taking too long, as others besides those he had agreed to avenge had died.

"I will take your word for that, Arklo. Pray I do not find out otherwise." Just that cold reminder of his profession normally shattered friendships in the past. The hunter did not give him the reaction of fear.

"By joining to the grass and stone, that is what you pledge. That if you find someone using the dark arts, and not to use any magics in the grass yourself. We do not ask those who make their living by magic to give it up, just to show restraint in its use, here in grasslands." The rasp of a knife being drawn set the assassin on edge, despite the words of assurance, the near silent whisper of his own blade finding his hand answered.

Arklo laughed. "You are too tense, my friend. This is to lift a clump of grass to the altar. Nothing more." Soft strikes into the wet ground told the assassin the truth. The change in what he knew and did not about his friends and their ways, coming too fast these past few days. Galen no longer knew if he trusted the world, or the people of the grass.

"Being nervous has kept me alive this long, and in my work, that is what matters, living to retire." Galen left the knife on the altar, it was not one of his guild ones, just a simple throwing blade, well-balanced and of finest craftsmanship, to be sure. But it was made to be left if need be, as often one had to do, when killing someone.

Turning back to the altar, a clump of grass was set there. "Now, here is how we do this. No blood, no magic, just set you hands upon the altar, covering the grass, and repeat after me."

The oath were not a dangerous as Galen feared, had plenty of room for free interpretation, and only were strict on the point of never revealing the location of the Vault of Sandor to any not of the grass and stones, or agreed by many to be allowed to join with them.

The rest of the night passed in a short discussion, and sleeping by an altar that still radiated the nightmares it had seen over the ages. Nightmares that even an elf could not block out. Nightmares that opened his eyes, not just to the actions of the ancestors of the Kensori, but also those of his own and other peoples. The Vault of Sandor had other names over the ages, and the Loom of the Spider-gods was one of those names, Galen found, as he walked into those nightmares, wishing his weapons had come with him.

Telemarketering Triggers "The End" - a satire

I will probably wind up in a hot, sulfur filled place for this little story some day....... I just hope that being made in God's image means He has a sense of humor too...

Pete had stepped from behind the front desk again, the Boss noted. Not having a receptionist in place had become something of a problem of late. Mr. Y understood, but still, just for a few drags on a cancer stick was all he normally took, but since the first of moon of Harvest, it had gotten worse. Mr. Y. settled into the chair, knowing routing the calls to the right agent to deal with was something someone like Him could still do. Ever since they had gone digital, though, volume was up from the old days, when it had been just Him and Enoch and the boys not chained to cubicles, but out there delivering the product.

One hundred million calls waiting, though, made the Boss blink twice. That had to be a glitch. When Pete came back in, He would get on the IT guys about not pulling jokes other than April First and Fifteenth. The Boss sighed, if this was the problem, the desk would be manned more if needed. Even if He had to contract out to the folks downstairs.

Placing the headset on His noggin, Mr. Y bravely hit ready and took the first call.

"Heaven, this is God speaking, how can I help you My child."

Normally, answering in person used to lead to five or ten minutes of total silence, which could be used to look out for the constantly in trouble sparrows. But the modern world was not the place He used to deal with anymore. Folks assumed He was being humorous.

"Nice answer, look, my name is Joe Smithers, and I have a one time deal for you."

"Deals are not how We work here at Heaven, young man." That old stern tone His Son so often tried to get Him to drop snuck into His voice. He had not dealt with Faust, why should He for this wayward lamb. "You ask, I determine your worthiness, and you get what you deserve. No more, no less."

Again, the child of Adam laughed. Mr. Y was beginning to understand why a certain member of His staff had left to make the firm downstairs, besides the obvious temperature on aged joints joke they often shared. "Look mister, I have a plan for your car that allows you to extend your factory warranty for your lifetime."

The kid was starting with a joke, the Boss thought for a second. Out of concern that His Son might be in on the joke, He decided to play along. "Make it quick, My child, there is a hell of a mess in Japan I need to clean up it sounds like."

"Look, this plan will cover your car with a near match to the factory warranty, minus any defects actually coming from design error, normal wear and tear or accidents." The joker rushed into his pitch, talking faster than Noah had when He told him about the Deluge to wash off the evil folk. "For just ninety-nine dollars a month, we will fix only those errors caused by acts of God."

"Son, you were not listening to Me. If acts caused by Me, namely accidents, are not covered, how can you fix an act of Mine?" This was getting old quick. It was not as bad as waiting for the boys to find their destined wives back in the early days, but the Boss had a feeling that something almost as long was coming along. And He did not shake those feelings off easily. He had His hunches for a reason.

"No sir, if you caused it, its an accident. But acts of God cause more problems in the insurance industry than all Hell combined." A disturbing thought, the Boss realized, knowing just who was downstairs, why they were there, and what they dreamed of doing if let loose. "Now, like I said, we cover those events, unless they are predicted by any form in a two year range, including psychics, prognosticators, erroneous computer programs and weathermen. Buts still, we all know how often the weathermen are wrong, right sir?" A recent inside the office joke made Mr. Y smile widely for a few moments. Weathermen were wrong because their wives called upon Him to "fix their pompous butts".

"There is that. Now son, lets cut to the chase, what is the problem you need Heaven's help with, and I will send you to an Angel or Minister of Mercy to deal with the issue, based upon your piety."

"Look, Mac, You have to buy this, its the only way to protect yourself from acts of God!" The child was no longer being polite.

"Call back again, and I will assign you to Hell for all of Eternity!" Mr. Y managed not to roar this, though He was tempted to set the bush nearest this backwards fool on fire and give him the kind of dressing down He had not dished out since Moses broke the first set of Tablets.

The disconnect button felt good under His finger. He was sure that was an invention of some lad in the back offices who needed a week over in the Garden. He grumbled then hit the next prayer button.

"Heaven, this is God, what ails you my child?" He chided himself internally, as a bit of the anger was still touching His voice. He would have to work on that, or Junior would be on Him about His blood pressure again. Not that it was a problem with the health plan here.

"Hi there, my name is Monica, and I am calling on behalf of the National Endowment for Edsel Repairmen. We would like your help in supporting this long suffering group in their chronic plight of under-employment...."

Mr. Y almost laughed. He remembered this issue. "I told Henry not to buy that company out when he prayed about it, child. I don't hand out money here, just mercy. Now, if you have any other problems, state them fast, there is a big backlog while Pete takes his break." He felt better about this one. His recollection was that He had advised all the mechanics not to specialize when they had asked Him for guidance, back in the day.

"But sir, for a donation of just five hundred dollars, five percent of which we guarantee will make it to the afflicted group, we can support one of them for two to three days." The girl had an earnest tone, but it was just a slick and oily as the one the Daystar had used, before being given his walking papers and the chance to make his own firm. "Seriously, sir, we really could use your money. We would have called you, but the 'do not call' law prevents that, so we had to reach you this way. Think of the good you could do for the millions of out of work Edsel Repairmen."

"Five, actually, and they are all making a bundle. I know, they thank Me nightly for advising all the fools who collect cars of the value of antiques." That got a gasp, then a laugh.

"Sir, see, its just that kind of mentality that prevents these deserving folks some compensation...." CLICK.

The Boss thrummed His fingers on the desk. Down on earth a line of thunderstorms stalled over Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee, unleashing the greatest number of tornadoes in a one hour period ever recorded. One stirred up set out to beat the record of being the deadliest, strongest, widest, and duration record holder for the western hemisphere, making the Tri-State Tornado look like a dust devil in comparison.

Hoping it was a joke, or Lucifer playing a joke with the gear from downstairs, He hit the ready button, after cooling off.

"Heaven, this is the Lord. What is troubling you My child?"

"Sir, I am with the Internet Addicts of Africa, and we desperately need cash to improve the service in rural African nations to allow more spam to be sent out by the various gangs and mafias. Think of the return on this investment, why you could see a twelve thousand percent return on every dollar you give us to invest, just from the lonely men of America sending money to other men in Third World countries, minus our handling fee of course..." The speaker got no further, as a bored Deity spiked the cutoff button with a stern finger. The stab was echoed by a series of nine plus Richter earthquakes around the Ring of Fire.

The Pearly Gates opened slightly and a waft of tobacco smoke drifted in, making an irritated God desire a smoke Himself. Resisting temptation, He took the next prayer.

"Heaven, this is GOD. What problem do you need help with?"

"Sir, my name Mikey, and I am with the Committee to Elect Rob Bobblehead to Congress......" The name set off twelve off season hurricanes in the southern Hemisphere of Earth, the four in the South Atlantic alone being more than mortals could recall ever happening. Congress with Bobblehead in it was not something He, THE Almighty Lord wanted to see. There were enough idiots in Washington DC already. Not to mention the messes they made he had to listen to complaints about.

"Why, I say he will lose, and what I say, goes!" The button creaked under the Hand of God as He poked it in irritation. A scowl on His face, He checked His book, and sure enough, Bobblehead was marked down to have his philandering and gambling problems hit the presses two weeks down the road. It was not merciful, save to the voters and fools who might contribute to his running. Some of those were good hearted folks destined for Heaven themselves, just gullible to the sly tongues of the shysters out there, like Bobblehead and Mikey. Mikey would find his own quick little payback for disturbing the lines of communication with such drivel. Mr. Y made a note to have his past as a democratic fund-raiser leaked to the Tea Party Movement and all the radio commentators that supported his PAC.

Pete had come back in and stood in the Gates, face ashen, trembling. "My Lord...."

Mr. Y forestalled him, scowling as He hit the ready button, motioning for a cigarette and lighter with the other hand. Both went to it reluctantly, until the Boss shook one out, stuck it in His mouth and fired up for the first time since some fool had asked Him to support smoking and drinking as being evil. The best part about being Him was He got to decide what was Good and what was Evil. After this, smoking had dropped from Cardinal Sin all the way down to "Quirky habit that can be overlooked" again.

He let the petitioner wait as He took a long, noisy drag on the butt. Filters, He noted, ruined the taste He remembered.

When the Boss spoke this time, all Heaven heard and trembled at the volume and tone. "Heaven! This is the Lord God Almighty, make it brief, and you better be in Good standing!"

His Son bolted into the room, his eyes wide as a gas planet's rings. Yeshua did not say a word, though. He remembered that tone from the day He asked for a burden to be lifted. Not that the Gentiles had really been a great problem, until the last few centuries.

"Good evening. This is the Right Reverend BillyBob, and I am calling to tell you that the Mercy of our Savior can be yours! All you need to do is give all your worldly ways and goods up......" A crook of His index finger ended this pitch, cold.

"William Robert Wastedbreath, you are scum, and I told Peter to call ME when you get to the head of the line! You make your parishioners live on crumbs, working to support you, the wife, kids, six concubines, four prostitutes, one of them who was not born a girl, and so many bastards I have trouble counting them! Well listen up, go to that camera, confess your sins, or I will be down there to tell the whole of the congregation just how little mercy I have for you! Now SCAT!"

This time the teleprayer shattered under the closed fist that slammed the buttons. Silence ruled almost as quiet as in the days before the Creation for a whole eternity between human heartbeats. Then the Voice of God rang out.

"URIEL! FRONT AND CENTER!"

All Heaven trembled, down to the foundations, which let the devils down at the foundation level know there was about to be some boom business in souls.

"Yes, Oh Lord?" Uriel walked up slowly.

"WHAT IS THIS CRAP!"

The archangel charged with dispensing wisdom sighed. "Politicians don't come to us for Wisdom, like Solomon did, Sir, they just want more power and wealth." Wiping an angelic brow with a handkerchief, the messenger of God pressed on fast. "So, those idiots in the Washington....well Boss, they, um... passed a law that prayers could be regulated by their Federal Confused messages Committee... and well, it took effect Monday..."

Mr. Y stormed out of the lobby, finding His way out back to the stables. Plague and Pestilence were lounging around, taking pot shots at the world with the tools of their trade. "Where is War and Azrael?" God said in a cold, low voice.

"Azrael is busy with some disasters that appeared not on the schedule last hour, and War is somewhere in the Mid-East. Libya, I think." Plague was never one to stand on formality, which had taken the Boss a long time to get used to, but he had his uses to Him.

"Go down there, forget the signs, forget the trump blowing, just do it, boys. But promise me one thing."

Pestilence grin spread at the thought of rats and locusts staging comebacks, not to mention many others he had not used in ages. Bedbugs were not worthy of his concentration anymore.

"Sure thing, Boss. What is it?"

The Lord God paused, then changed His mind. "Two, get me some cigars from Cuba and take out all the Telemarketers first." The Horsemen were saddling up when the Boss spoke again. It was a sweet syrupy tone they had not heard since the first Passover. "And no need to rush things with the telemarketers, take your time. Then the Politicians. After that, have fun."

Plague turned back to ask one last question. "What about the Lobbyists?"

God's grin tore the fabric of the Universe just from sheer malice in it.

"Forward all the tele-prayers, emails and the like to them, and glue them to their chairs."

The boys rode out, grinning, happy to be back at work again. The people of Earth found their faith again, as phones fell silent for longer periods of time. Until it was time for their own Last Judgment. Mr. Y contracted the job of making appointments for Judgment out to Hell, and told them to be really nasty to anyone in the telecom industry who had survived.

Like I said, I see a burning ring of fire in my future... or a laugh while smoking a good Havanna hand rolled. Somewhere, and I am still looking for it, I have a tale of a poker game between angels in grace and fallen, as they complain that humans are just.... strange. I may share that on a later date.

　

For the mobile crowd

I am allowing this blog to go to a mobile template as well, it does say beta, so not all the crashes will be my overly long and excessively wordy and strange tales.....

enjoy taking my blog, and the blogs of others you read, mobile as you head out into that brave digital world...
Me, I am heading off to  ludite heaven to find crickets and other nightly noisy critters.....

Where do you get the monster hit PR jobs from.... a questioning rant

So, how do they do it? Those megastars who get somebody to flip out for their work, and do an homage online to the artist they love, how do they get this to happen?

Is it just the nobody seeking fame, fortune, attention or just goofing off?

Thankfully, I will only have my small audience, it seems, and never have to be accused of going to hell (which I will, by the way... I never keep kosher in my diet as bacon cheeseburgers scream for me to devour them, lust after women, forget mom on mother's day and her birthday until the day after... lots of reasons there). I don't have young women swooning over my looks or "yumminess" (except after eating beans all day, when everyone downwind passes out, regardless of sex). Its great... its freedom from the pains of the burden of the highborn fools to entertain the masses. I just entertain myself and a small circle of friends.

I guess the real question is the eternal one.... Why? I mean, why make a fool of yourself over some celeberity, go online, make videos for or against them, just feeding the egos.....
wait.... Ohhhhhh, I see, its all from Madison Avenue, ain't it?

These things are all driven by the suits on that drive, and other insane folks who feel we all have to watch our image every minute of every day, and keep two extra eyes on the polls showing if our name recognition has slipped or increased.

Bah...  That is for the vain. Me, as long as there is coffee, a bowl of tobacco and a lawn chair, I am happy.


Yep, those folks have it bad... to paraphrase L. Ron Hubbard, its better that you kill me than PR me....
And really, how many of them look happy? If they are happy, why the drugs, the booze, and all that?


wait, have they outlawed coffee and tobacco yet? I might have to join them....

Radio and the Traveler - A poem still in progress

Stations fade and pulse back in
snaps and crackles of static flaring
in tune to the storms ahead
or one behind as I travel
Perhaps not even sharing my hemisphere
Walkovers and crosstalk, echoes and squeals
as the radio waves skip across sky
giving frustration and humor to listeners.

As one drives, you learn quick
about the tricks those signals play
which areas block their dancing motions
where the convergence of skips occur
And that no matter what's tried
You will miss out some bits
as the Mistress of Electromagnetism's Realms
denies you hearing the next pitch.

Memories of bygone days rise up
as you listen to a ballgame
of your ancestors having no television
or Internet, only the party-line phone
so to learn of the world
gathered around the radio each night
for music, news or even ballgames
having to imagine each by description.

Travelers in the age of automobiles
learned more intimately radio's strange limits
as you would find cars stopped
along a road where signal faded
to catch that last pitch or song
before moving on into the silence
between the coverage areas in daylight
or seeking Night's sweet skip zones.

And when roaming far enough North
You see the curtains and streamers
that bounce around the sky's vault
like colors bleeding from dyed fabric
into the deep black of night
the echoes of Sunlight's fatal flows
giving rise to interference in air
that marks our orb as livable.

With many changes in tech
few now know the old tricks
as radio's abandoned the gain knobs
for digital smoothing and signal enhancement
and yet still fail in receiving
Constant signal in vast empty lands
Where coyotes' serenade still rule nights
and Travelers pray aloud and fervently...

.."PLEASE repeat that final score!"

Sorry for the long delay in posts of late folks, will be getting back to the posting of the stories soon!
Billenius is still being worked on. Yes, the Blade of the Eagle Clansman will be resumed posting soon, it is written, I just cannot find time to edit with the job search going and other things... and we have two new sets of adventures coming your way here soon perhaps... SciFi fans, brace for Neville Carteblanche, a detective in a future that is really insane, on a tough planet with extremely nasty politics, not to mention gravity. And I have deigned to take a full look into the depths of the tales of fantasy I have written, and touch upon a few of the characters who had back stories hinted at. Expect excerpts from "Crossing of Shadows",  as well as some bits and cuts from "Paths of Damnation" soon!