Category Archives: Writing

Writing

Lolly-Pops of Peril

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Genre: Action, 998 words (including the header and teaser)

—

The Adventures of Grant McSwain–Doer of Daring Feats, Explorer of Forgotten Lands, and Acquirer of Exquisite Treasures, accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway–continue!

Ragtime piano flooded the air from devices like phonographs atop poles. Contraptions of metal and electricity thrilled spectators outside the bar, which smelled like spilled beer and cigar smoke despite being empty. Teagan’s fruity seltzer—an appropriate beverage for the fairer sex, the barman said—quenched her spirits more than her thirst.
The fairground belonged to crime-lord Pops Kimble’s syndicate, with whom Grant had occasional business. Or scraps. Mostly scraps. And Grant loves dashing headlong into danger.

‘Hear the sound of the future,’ signs proclaimed, ‘at the Springfield World’s Fair.’

The present sounded most displeasing to Teagan’s ears, much like the frilly dress she’d been compelled to wear.

Her partner recounted his harrowing tale to their patron, the rotund Master Hamwich Roquefort. “With care for the priceless contents,” Grant said, “I quickly placed the last pack in the boat’s hold and signaled to cast off.” The satchel near Grant’s feet contained the Ixthacan treasures, including that cursed sun plate Teagan nearly died to retrieve.

“A powerful ruckus befell my ears,” Grant continued. He sprang into a rifleman’s pose and shook the table, jostling the shot glasses. “I steadied my Remington and steeled my nerves. The Amazon tribes are known for their unkind nature and bone-craft jewelry. I had no desire to wind up in some cannibal’s pot, my skull strung about a savage’s neck!

“Then what to my cool, collected gaze did appear but Miss O’Daire, stumbling through the bramble like an oliphaunt on the African plains!”

Roquefort gave the expected guffaw and an altogether unnecessary slap on the knee.

Teagan’s eyes narrowed. “Cool and collected? You shot my hat off.”

Grant brushed aside her concern. “Ah, the fragility of womenfolk. So easily spooked. Merely a warning shot to dissuade the heathen cannibals I saw behind you, Teag.”

“No one followed me. And you said you always aim for the chest.”

Grant raised a finger and smiled. “What fortune yours is minuscule, lest you suffer a mortal wound.”

Roquefort coughed and swallowed his entire glass of whiskey, which stoked Teagan’s jealousy and frustration more than Grant’s insult. What I wouldn’t trade for a shot or two, and a reliable pair of trousers instead of this frippery.

“Say,” Grant said, “how did you escape the depths, Teag?”

Roquefort turned to her with genuine interest, and her hopes of being taken seriously swelled. “Well,” she said with a wide grin, “the pit led to a flooded chamber, where an underground river had carved through the—“

“That reminds me of another remarkable expedition,” Grant said. He began another account of a distant land full of dangers he’d overcome, treasures he’d brought back to civilization, and of course exaggerations about both.

Teagan’s eyes wandered and settled on a pair of children—twins, a boy and girl. They sat on shipping crates across the walkway from the bar, wearing matching sky blue and white stripes, the boy in a vest and trousers, the girl in a knee-high pleated skirt. The girl’s blonde locks burst from her floral bonnet in an explosion of curls. The boy’s straight hair swept back beneath a newsie cap. Both held rainbow-colored lolly pops up to smiling lips.

But their joyless eyes stared at the boisterous Grant.

The pair noticed Teagan’s attention and fixed their shared gaze on her. Then something out of Teagan’s view distracted them. They jumped from the boxes and scuttled off.

A couple of burly dockhands followed close behind—chasing them away from the bar, perhaps? Even at midday, the establishment was no place for impressionable youth.

Grant crouched, reenacting their stealthy observation of an illegal dig in the Peruvian foothills. “The fiends,” he said, gesturing toward imaginary Spaniards. “Clearly they meant to claim Vallarte’s lost hoard. ‘Teag,’ said I, ‘we cannot permit such louts to despoil this sacred site!’ After all,” he explained to Roquefort, “one Vallarte chalice fetched a thousand pounds at Sothesby’s. Imagine a full set!

“So, using their powder kegs and my keen understanding of trajectories, we—”

“Master McSwain,” Roquefort interrupted, eyes darting toward the windows, “I am awed by your exploits. But I must know. The Ixthacan lunar phases and sun plate from the ziggurat—you have these in your possession?” 

Teagan’s head spun toward the sweating man. “Neither Grant nor I mentioned the sun plate… only that I fell through a trapdoor.”

The barroom doors slammed open, revealing the two children, each with a lolly in one hand and a shiny Colt revolver in the other. The dockhands flanked Grant, their muscles rolling with malicious intent.

Master Roquefort crumbled into a blubbering heap. “So sorry,” he wailed. “They assaulted my home a fortnight ago, when your telegram first arrived. My precious Ginny, I couldn’t let them hurt her.”

“Shut up, fatty,” the girl hissed, “or I’ll plug you full of lead faster’n a racehorse’s hoofbeats.”

Up close, Teagan could make out the weight of years in those youthful faces.

“Pops Kimble, I presume,” Teagan blurted out. “People expect one boss, and a full grown man at that. But both of you run the show.”

The boy shrugged. “Growth disorder. What can ya do but play the hand you’re dealt?”

His sister gestured with her Colt. “Back away from the goods.”

Teagan did as instructed and locked eyes with Grant. The bait worked.

He gave her his most charming wink. Then he laid out one of the toughs with a right hook to the jaw.

Teagan darted for the pack. Gunfire erupted from several directions, spraying wood chips and glass shards across the polished floor…

[To be continued, in A Heart of Pure Gold…]

BlogBattle, Writing

A Clash with Death

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Genre: Adventure? Action? I’ll see what options fit best but I think it’s obvious what I’m going for.

Flash fiction with the prompt: Chasm

God, I had more fun with this than I meant to. I wanted to go a little further with the “chasm” concept, but my original idea wouldn’t fit in the word count.

And really I just wanted to get myself back in the blog battle even if the piece isn’t my most competitive effort. I think you’ll see more of Grant and Teagan in the future.

—–

The Exploits of Grant McSwain, Fearless Adventurer, Man of Mystery, Acquirer of Fabled Fortunes, and Doer of Daring Feats 

(accompanied as always by his hapless asssistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway)

This week’s episode: A Clash with Death, and the Chasm of Despair…

The sun beat down on the thick jungle foliage Grant McSwain brushed aside with the flat of his machete. “Told you,” he said with a grin as he offered his assistant a view of the ziggurat ahead. “The Temple of Ixthapocl, right where I said it would be.”

Teagan clambered the rest of the way up the slope, then took a knee and brushed red bangs away from her dripping face. “The fifth time’s the charm, I guess. As usual.”

Grant ignored the jab. “Now the true challenge begins!”

“Finding the way in?”

“No, that’s easy. I’m talking about sneaking artifacts past customs when we get back to America.” He trudged down the hill toward the vine-covered ruin.

“Always ten steps ahead,” Teagan said. “Sometimes you forget to plan for the obstacles that still block our way.”

Grant shrugged and strolled across the open ground toward the base of the temple. “Who needs a plan when you have style?” His machete made short work of the intertwining vines blocking the entrance. “Already we know that no one else has been in here in years.”

“Through this entrance,” Teagan muttered. The Ixthacas always built secret passages for their own use. Many a conquistador had been ambushed, thinking they found unattended wealth.

A heavy metal door blocked their way, a ring engraved with animals and men in different poses at its center. Grant unfolded a parchment and double-checked the sequence, then turned the ring to the appropriate symbols. “Dance like the serpent,” Grant read aloud, “fight like the bear.”

The lock clicked and dust shook loose as the door swung open.

Grant stepped inside, and Teagan saw the stone sink beneath his foot. She dove into him, bowling him over as three darts cut through the air where he’d been standing.

“And duck,” she said, “like someone who wants to survive.”

Grant dusted himself off and rose, face red as her hair. “Thanks,” he said finally. “Get the flashlight, wouldya?”

The light revealed walls of carved stone, with rows of faces at eye level. Every other mouth hung open, potentially hiding more traps. They took a slower pace, testing any stone in the floor that seemed odd.

The halls inside the ziggurat led to several empty chambers—living quarters, based on the provisions and furnishings. Stairs wound up to the higher levels.

Grant checked each room for anything of interest, a process that took a full hour on the first floor. “I’ve only got one set of spare batteries,” Teagan said. “The rest are back at camp. Ceremonies would be held beneath the moon and stars in the top chamber. Maybe that’s where the good stuff was kept?” 

“Or that’s what they’d want you to think,” Grant replied.

Teagan rolled her eyes and dutifully followed.  

By the time they reached the highest level, the flashlight dimmed and the full moon shining through the open ceiling did as good a job. Stone pillars rose into the night sky at each corner and on each side of the ziggurat’s rooftop. Every pillar bore a plate of silver and obsidian displaying a phase of the moon.  

On a low platform before the altar in the center of the top floor, silver spheres the size of golf balls glimmered in the moonlight, arranged like the brighter stars in the sky. Grant pulled out a knife and immediately pried one from its setting. “Yep, they’re loose, we can grab these.” He drew out a thick leather pouch and began filling it. 

Then he spotted the shining gold plate set above the altar. Engraved lines radiated from the golden sun. “Hey Teag, grab that, will ya?” 

Teagan smiled at the thick gold and approached. But something felt off. She checked the floor, and it looked solid. She inspected the plate from every angle, but saw nothing indicating a trap or trigger mechanism. She tapped the ground in front of the plate with her toes, then put full weight on it. The stones supported her. 

Grant had begun plucking the lunar phases off the pillars, sliding them into his backpack with newspaper padding between each plate. “You gonna get that thing?” he asked. “I don’t want to be out here all night.” 

Teagan couldn’t spot anything amiss. So she jammed a flat steel file between the golden plate and its setting in the stone, then pried the treasure out.  

The Ixthaca worshiped the moon. Why would they put up a valuable image of the sun? 

The plate slapped into her hands, and the stone at the top of its indented setting dropped with a sharp clack against the bottom. 

Teagan groaned. To identify enemies and intruders, of course. 

The floor fell away and she plummeted into darkness with a stifled yelp.  

With her weight suddenly removed, the spring-loaded doors snapped back into place. 

Grant collected the last plate, hefted the sack onto his back, then turned about in confusion. “Did she seriously just take the treasure and run?” 

[To be continued next week, in “The Lolly-pops of Peril”]

Bordermarches, Writing

Chairacters

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So I started writing chapter 4 of Diffusion, the sequel to my fantasy book. And this is the first scene readers get with Josephine Delumiere, the Soulforged character from the first book. (Picture a “paladin” from Dungeons & Dragons, or some sort of holy warrior whose order alone is empowered to stand against the Fractured creatures of darkness that spawn throughout the world.)
In the first book, and in all four books that I have planned in my head, Josephine always had long blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. Maybe that started with my wife’s World of Warcraft character, who once upon a time (before they put in a Barber Shop) was a blonde with long hair. 

But as I wrote the scene, suddenly Jo showed up with a haircut–short, unkempt, easy to care for, nothing for an enemy to grab hold of… the sort of “do” that you can run your fingers through and call it good to go. Enough hair to wave in the winds as Josephine dashes with divinely empowered speed, but nowhere near the length that for literally eight years up until half an hour ago I had always envisioned on this character.

Something like this sketch I whipped up in about twenty seconds for my wife…

   
I’m no fan of what I’ve heard described as “character development by haircut.” Tris Prior getting a short, pixie chop-job in Insurgent is the most recent example I can think of. So I’m not trying to tie a new hairstyle to some “new” Josephine.

But this is one of those rare instances where a character comes along, surprises me, and says, “Hey, I know you had such-and-such planned. I did this instead. Deal with it.”

Weird.

And awesome.

I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m having a blast.

Writing

Out of Stock

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When I self-published Diffraction, I had no idea how many hard copies I might need and guesstimated 15.

  
Those got claimed faster than expected. So I ordered another 12 after the 15 arrived. 

But when people saw me handing out the signed copies, more friends said, “Me too.” So now all 12 are claimed before they even get here. And now I need to order more.

I never anticipated writing would be something I do for a living, so I’m realistic about the fact that 30 or 40 copies of a self-published book does not equal best-seller.

But it puts a smile on my face nonetheless.

Thanks to those who gave my writing a shot!

Writing

Sick Sucks

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One of my goals for writing is to reach 20K words / month, preferably on the sequel to Diffraction. Between that, finishing my NaNoWriMo book, continuing Echoes on WattPad, participating in occasional Blog Battles, and maintaining a somewhat frequent blog, I have plenty of writing options. 

Brandon Sanderson posts his word counts and percentages complete for various projects. That struck me as a great way to inject a little discipline or intentionality into my own writing–something I lack. I’m used to winging it, writing when I feel like it, for however long the mood strikes. But like many disciplines (dieting, exercise, learning an instrument, studying for school), a little organization and tracking can show you how much (or little) you’ve done.

I finished 50K in a month for NaNo. I chose 20K a month as a sustainable pace (given I have a full time job). And I thought, “This will be easy.”

Yet my word count tracker tells me otherwise:

 

It hurts to insert so many 0s.
 
I flew twice for work over the weekend (Saturday and Sunday). I spent Monday thinking “I’ll write some in a bit.” Then I spent pretty much all of Tuesday confined to bed with a terrible nauseating headache sinus combination of death. Still, the excuses don’t make me feel much better when I have to hit ‘0’ for that field. 
Looks like I have some catching up to do.

Writing

Real Artists Ship

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It’s a quote attributed to Steve Jobs. I found it in a book by Jeff Goins, called You Are A Writer, So Start Acting Like One.

I’ve been reading it in the winding line at the Postal Service Center, waiting to pick up packages that invariably contain anything but what I was waiting for. (My wife had fun with holiday shopping.)

Today I got my present in the mail:

 

Sometimes shipping takes a while!

And all but one of the books are already claimed. I got my signing pens ready!

Thanks to all who support in various ways – the Facebook shares, the GoodReads review, the “me!” responses when I post an offer. 

This gets me going for the next book (the draft of which currently holds 5,600 words).
Blessings.

Writing

Word More!

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I’m always grateful for a little motivation from my friends and co-workers. Whether it’s the question, “So when’s book two coming?” or a simple, “I got a copy of your book the other day,” every little bit helps spur me on to put words to paper.

I’ll say I would write these stories anyway, because I do enjoy the process and the accomplishment. But it’s easy to wonder if anyone cares. 

Then I get a text from an old friend:

 

“Guess what I got in the mail?”

He actually asked, “Think I can get the author to sign it for me?”

The answer of course is yes, gladly.

Another friend, whose feedback has been the most thorough and constructive, said to me, “I’m thinking of writing a story in your world.” He asked as though this was the most arrogant of requests.

I saw it differently. By writing a book, I’ve invited readers into a world that only exists in my head. Someone wants to play in that sandbox? That’s amazing. 

And one of my long-time WoW buds is starting writing. I guess he figured if both Dave and his wife could knock out a book, then anyone can. 

Motivation is everywhere… So I have no excuse but to get those words down. It’s a hardship but I think I’ll be okay.

 

Writing

This Year's Projects

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So I discovered that roughly two months of NaNoWriMo pace at my “second job” / “jobby” is too much for me. 

 

Yay! But also “OW! Thank God it’s over!”
 
I wasn’t about to miss out on November. I had a project bouncing around in my head since last November, waiting for its moment in the spotlight. The idea of psychic reconnaissance 30 years in the future proved to be a lot of fun for me to write. So 50,000 words later, Perdition is probably 80% complete. (I had some scenes I toyed with beforehand, and I have some gaps to fill in.)

On December 1st, I transitioned to my new goal–the “Christmas present to me” of completing and self-publishing my fantasy novel I’d written and revised off-and-on since 2008. Diffraction made it out the door laaaate in the evening of the Winter Solstice here on Okinawa, an appropriate timing for the struggles of the main character as an outcast and religious rebel in her community. Several friends bought copies, and a couple people read some of it on Kindle Unlimited. Then I ran a NYE giveaway and got 70 Kindle copies out there into the ether. Plus I have a shipment of paperback copies coming my way, with a few committed purchasers waiting. 

It’s no break-out success but I’m happy with it. 

What’s on tap this year? 

1. Finishing Perdition. It would be silly to leave it on the back burner when it’s this close to done.

2. Critique my wife’s NaNoWriMo draft. Jem surprised me, our writers’ group, and pretty much everyone who knew how her progress had been going. A day into the event, an idea sparked her creativity and she started brainstorming. But with about 4 days left in November, she had maybe 10K words. So instead of giving up, she declared “I am doing this.” And she knocked out the 50K before the deadline. She did awesome, and as she’s my biggest supporter and fan, I want to be the same for her. 

3. I hope to return some attention to short stories and flash fiction like Rachael Ritchey’s Blog Battle. I also want to get back to my Echoes project on WattPad, which has been ignored for the past two months. 

4. Most of all, my goal is to return to the Bordermarches and pen another book in my fantasy world (I have six or seven planned, in different time periods). I hope to put Diffusion into public sales by Dec 21st. In fact, I took time last night to touch up one of the first scenes.

I figure if I could manage 50K in a month while forsaking almost everything else, then manage touching up and publishing a 140K word fantasy novel in the run-up to Christmas, then a goal of 20K words a month is reasonable. If I do really well, I’ll finish the first draft of Diffusion in time for Markday (Midsummer), which would be a lovely treat.

Hopefully, I’ll get to spend more time with all of you lovelies on WordPress along the way. I always enjoy reading about your journeys, wherever they may lead. Thanks for joining me on mine. 

Bordermarches, Writing

New Year's Freeve

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To celebrate the new year, I set up a promotion to make my fantasy book Diffraction free of charge for Kindle edition.

So if you read some chapters and thought, “That’s nice and all, but five bucks? Really?”

Well now that’s not a problem! But it only lasts two days (New Year’s Eve & Day)… roughly midnight to midnight Pacific time.

Enjoy, and happy New Year!

And if you’re feeling really festive, pay it forward and pass this on!

 

Bordermarches, Writing

Diffraction Chapter Nine: Soulforged

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From Markday until Final Dawn and every day between,

 

Indignation burned within Josephine, hotter than all the fires spreading throughout Northridge. She spun low under a bandit’s sword and smashed her hammer into his calf. Bone crunched. He fell screaming, and Josephine let a rush of satisfaction wash over her.

His blade claimed Alain’s life. He deserves worse. Why should I not be pleased when Justice is served?

There was no time for delight. Another pair of bandits pushed back the town’s defenders near the Folly, where many of the women and children sought refuge. Protect the innocent, Jo. Her father’s command echoed in her mind. He’d hammered at the Kem before dashing out the gate, to draw its attention away from the town.

Not sure how long he can keep up with that beast. Josephine stared into the darkness of the woods, listening for any sign of Camden. I need to go find him and help. But I can’t abandon the weak. She turned back to the fight, facing Kal’s men.

One of Northridge’s wounded defenders crawled away, clutching a bloody leg.

A bandit jammed a spear through his chest and pinned him to the ground. The man cried out and struggled to free himself, and the bandit laughed.

Josephine stepped back to avoid a sweeping blade. She lashed out with her shield and heard a grunt as it crashed into another enemy’s face. She swung her hammer through an overhead arc and battered the helmet on the other side of her shield.

Two of the bandits moved in a paired formation, disabling defenders with swift and fatal strikes. Several men and a woman writhed and groaned in their wake, bleeding out into the dirt on the street.

Josephine felt a tingle from her Gracebrand and invoked the soul of Justice with a thought—Show me what should be.

A vision snapped into focus. These men once wore the crisp uniform of the Militia, standing post on the walls of Aulivar… marching north with a Contingent headed for Glacierift…

She gasped. Glimpses never lied, though they could be misinterpreted. There’s no mistaking the meaning of this one. These men are military-trained. They know better.

Josephine called out to them, “What of your vows, soldiers?” She picked her way around bodies and approached. “A true Lightsworn of Aulivar would rather die than desert his brethren or betray his oaths.” Though they hardly deserve that title anymore.

The one on the left had a nose like a pig snout. He sneered at Josephine and beckoned her with his sword.

The bandit on the right turned toward her. Flames on nearby homes revealed a long scar down the man’s cheek, obscured by his disheveled black hair. “I seen enough do just that, little Soulforged,” he said. His eyes showed no pleasure.

Josephine raised her shield and closed into melee range. A mental image of a narrow mountain path formed in Josephine’s mind, the trigger she’d learned to invoke the mindset of Justice. With that, her Gracebrand could show her the inclination of both men toward right or wrong. No need to Peer in this case. It’s pretty obvious.

She noted the one she called Scar stood calm facing an oncoming Soulforged. No, I won’t give him credit, even for that.

“The lads I marched with,” Scar said, “their eyes all alight with hope of glory? They died in frozen wastes, for nothing but a vow.” He shrugged. “Thought it best not to join them.”

“Oh, you won’t,” Josephine said. “Deserters and traitors never reach His Rest. That’s reserved for those with honor intact.”

Pigsnout laughed and spat, sword and dagger readied.

Scar remained still, thin longsword hanging down like he lost the will to fight.

His muscles tensed. “I hope you enjoy it there.”

Scar lunged, his blade a blur of thrusts testing Josephine’s defense. Most bounced off her shield, but twice she felt a sword prick through her thin leather leggings.

Down the street near the Woodwall, Camden flew past the gate and slid backwards through the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust. The hulking crimson form of the Kem stomped past the destroyed gate. It grabbed the wall, tore off a log to use as a club, and swung with both hands at the battered Soulforged. Camden rolled to the side and dodged its crushing strike.

Dad needs me. Josephine snapped her focus back to the bandits before her, blocking a sword-thrust aimed for her head. I have to finish this quick.

Pigsnout moved around to flank her, stabbing with the dagger to distract before thrusting or slashing with the sword.

Josephine backed away and kept her shield moving, absorbing most of the hits. Her chainmail clinked whenever the swords struck, but the armor held.

Scar’s blade snagged in one of the metal rings, and he thrust forward attempting to break through to skin.

Josephine spun away, the momentum tugging the chain free. I can’t take these two down by my own might.

She invoked strength, and focused on the furnace of rage burning against injustice within her. The Gracebrand on her hand shone bright as she Strained. Divine power coursed through her muscles with a steady stream of energy that filled her like an overflowing cup. The cuts and slashes on her arms and legs closed together as if sewn shut.

Pigsnout stabbed at Josephine’s left side with both blades.

With the power of the Divine multiplying her strength, she thrust her shield up to deflect the attack. Bones snapped in Pigsnout’s forearms, and the blades flew. Josephine slammed her shield-arm out like a backhand punch and followed up with a skull-crushing hammer blow.

Before Scar could react, Josephine flung her hammer and struck him in the throat. He fell to his knees, gasping for air. His sword rang on the packed dirt.

“Mercy,” he pleaded in a hoarse whisper.

Josephine paused, and turned her gaze to the wounded and dying. “No.”

She closed her eyes and swung her hammer in a sideways arc, ignoring the sickening squish when it struck.

A swift death. Better than the agony my people suffer. Better than you deserve.

With a deep breath and a quick shake of her hammer, Josephine charged the Kem.

* * *

 

The Abbey is burning. Father is in there.

Lyllithe dashed toward the whitewashed building, Binding air and Loosing water on burning homes along the way. The process of Refocusing, once foreign, now felt like part of her nature. She chided herself at the thought. It is your nature. You’ve got Aeramental’s blood.

For all the good it’s doing.

Fires still burned, spreading from house to house. After the first few volleys, a line of women and children passed buckets from the well. But once the bandits broke through the defenders, Elder Gammin led the defenseless to take refuge in the Friar’s Folly. Since then, the flames claimed several buildings.

They will not have our Abbey.

Lyllithe stopped a few paces from the lawns around the place of worship. Wherever the arrows struck, flames licked at the walls, leaving streaks of black.

A thought broke through the mix of panic and determination, and Lyllithe smiled.

Why not Refocus the fire away?

She looked up at the fires and saw waves of elemental energy radiating out from each one. When she Bound some of the energy, the flames withered to half their strength. The power filled her, a discomfort that built up into agony. She struggled against resistance and exerted her will, forcing the elements to Refocus.

Water burst into the air around the flames. They sputtered, but still burned weakly.

So that’s why the Arcanists speak of complementary elements. Flagros does not easily Refocus into aqua, but it can be done.

Screams nearby drew Lyllithe’s attention.

A woman cradling an infant darted out the door of one of the unharmed houses, two bandits on her heels. Dalara, Haber’s wife.

The sight of Haber’s body near one of the burned out buildings flashed in Lyllithe’s mind.

Are you going to tell her why this happened, when it’s all over?

Dalara dashed across the street and ran crying for help to one of the armed men defending the town.

He turned and levelled a spear at the bandits.

Elder Gammin? I didn’t expect him to be in the fighting.

“Get to the Folly with the others, woman,” he yelled as he intercepted her pursuers. “And you scarrin’ murderers, you Light-veiled sons of Kurnn his-self, you come after me first.”

They laughed and squared off with the Elder.

Do something. You have to help him.

What do I do? What about the fires? The Abbey is still burning, along with half the town.

A sudden realization struck Lyllithe. Refocusing isn’t just turning one element into another. It’s also for diverting the flow of one element to somewhere else.

I can use the fires…

Lyllithe had only enough time to bind more flagros before Gammin fell bleeding.

The bandits stepped over his corpse, looking toward the tavern with hungry grins.

The energy bottled up within mixed with Lyllithe’s anger and guilt, churning like a volcano until a shout exploded from her throat.

“No!”

She stood quivering before the Abbey, arms spread with fingers extended like claws. No more. Her Gracemark shone in the dim light, though she had not attuned to any Passion. Not while I can do something to stop it.

The bandits turned, and their eyes went wide at the sight of her. “You! The Ghostskin that killed Maz.” One of them pointed and laughed. “Look, Battin, she’s a scarrin’ Devoted. She can’t even defend herself.” They stepped toward her.

She loosed the elemental energy. Arms stretched forward, mouth wide in a roar, Lyllithe poured out wrath. Streams of fire cut through the air, illuminating the street. Two charred bodies hit the ground, seared flesh crackling and flaking into ash.

Lyllithe stood heaving at each breath, gritted teeth and clenched fists.

And still the doubting voice whispered in her mind.

Too little, too late.

Gammin lay dead, along with a score of Northridge townsfolk. The remaining bandits prowled in and out of homes and shops, looking for victims.

They’re headed toward the Folly. They’ll kill everyone. Where’s Jo?

Lyllithe turned back toward the Abbey. Flames still burned. Part of the roof over the sanctuary collapsed. Several Devoted evacuated the building, aiding limping townsfolk or dragging out those too wounded to walk.

Finally, Marten appeared, directing his flock to safety. His eyes met Lyllithe’s, and his face twisted in confusion. Marten surveyed the scene, lingering on the charred bodies of the bandits. Then he looked back to Lyllithe, and his shoulders sagged as he sighed.

He knows. Lyllithe’s heart tore in two. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She turned and dashed toward the tavern.

 

 

Josephine watched the Kem stalk her father. She scrambled up the stairs to the guard platform on the Woodwall. Dad needs more strength than his Gracemark alone can give.

She remembered her father’s words—be strong for others—and invoked the Divine. Her Gracebrand flashed gold with each heartbeat, Pulsing endurance to sustain Camden in the fight.

Camden’s hammer spun in his hand, and he danced around the howling Kem’s massive crimson body, dodging punches and kicks in between attacks. Radiance flared from the warhammer with each strike, as if a lightning storm hung directly over the town gate.

Josephine caught herself staring. In all our sparring on the training grounds, I’ve never seen him move like this. She reached the ledge at the top of the wall and ran toward the gate.

The Kem stood below, teeth bared, arms flailing in rage. It hunched over to fight Camden, but even so it had the height of two men. Black blood leaked from several bruises, yet it showed no sign of fatigue.

Camden ducked and weaved, but the beast’s thick hand knocked him off his feet. He slammed into the wall and fell face down in the dirt.

The ground shook with the Kem’s steps. It stood over Camden and raised a cloven hoof to crush the fallen Soulforged.

Josephine watched as she ran, still Pulsing out strength for her father with her Gracemark. Her fingers tightened around the haft of her hammer. Tsadek, guide my strike.

She sprang from the ledge of the Woodwall, arms thrown back for an overhead swing.

The Kem spun around, its yellow eyes wide.

Josephine’s hammer shuddered in her hand when it connected with the Kem’s left horn. The black bone the size of a forearm splintered and broke off, hitting the ground with a thump.

The beast roared so loud Josephine felt vibrations in her chest. One of its hands clutched the stump of the horn. The other grabbed at her, and she batted it away with her shield.

Josephine swung at the Kem’s arm, but missed. The momentum sent her off-balance, and she stumbled forward.

There was an explosion in her head like an Arcanist’s display, and everything went dark for an instant. She felt air rush past her like a gust of wind, then something hit her from behind.

Her eyes opened to see the Kem by the gate, a dozen paces away. The beast roared with glee. I’m on the ground. It kicked me across the street. Her ribs and muscles ached. She coughed up blood. I think it broke bones.

The beast turned to face Camden.

Get up, and bring this thing down.

She shifted from heart to strength, and the Pulses ceased. The Gracemark flared as she Strained for power, and energy coursed through her body to carry her through the fight. The throbbing pain in her chest became a hazy fog at the back of her mind, and she ignored the sound of fractured bones grinding with each step. I don’t think I can take another beating like that.

Camden called to her while side-stepping the Kem’s attacks. “Winds in the Valley, Jo.”

She hustled back to the gate, keeping the Kem between her and Camden. Winds… winds… which technique is that?

Spinning.

“Now,” Camden said. He ducked under a punch and twisted to slam the hammer into the back of the Kem’s left leg. He whirled about behind the Kem, shifting to its right side.

Josephine’s hammer dug into the back of the creature’s right knee, then spun around to face the Kem.

It took a staggering step, howling in pain.

The two Soulforged completed their arcs, keeping the Kem between them. Josephine bashed the point of her warhammer into the Kem’s left kneecap, and smiled at the sound of bone cracking. At the Kem’s right flank, Camden swung his hammer’s point into its right knee.

The right leg bent in the wrong direction, and the Kem fell backward screaming.

Josephine tried to tune out the howl, but dropped her hammer and clamped her hands over her ears.

She watched in awe as Camden somehow ignored the piercing cries. He seemed to glow from within as he picked up the Kem’s broken horn. Her father placed the point of the horn over the Kem’s chest and raised his hammer.

“Cursebearer, your burden is lifted,” Camden declared. “But your guilt remains.”

The hammer rang as it drove the horn into the Kem’s heart. A web of cracks exuding light spread from the horn, until the entire crimson body glowed. Flames rose from the light, but produced no odor or smoke. In a few seconds, the Kem vanished, leaving only ash.

Camden ignored the spectacle and surveyed the town.

Josephine followed his gaze. The fighting in the street had ceased. A few fires still lit the night, but the refugees in the Folly had reformed a bucket brigade. Thick smoke created a haze that hung over the town. Several dead bandits lay outside the tavern’s doors, their bodies charred. Devoted rushed about, tending the wounded wherever they lay.

Two figures stood unmoving before the Friar’s Folly, obscured by the haze.

Josephine squinted until she made out their faces.

Oh, Light, have mercy.

Lyllithe and Marten faced each other, locked in a silent mutual glare.

———-

I hope you’ve enjoyed these first nine chapters of Diffraction.

If you want to see where Lyllithe and Josephine go from this point forward, you can order a paperback copy from CreateSpace here, or get the Kindle edition (or paperback) from Amazon here.