MOREGONE, a blog story, 12.)


12.) I sent Tomber off immediately with two pack mules loaded with trinkets to prepare the village of Inhut for our arrival. It was fortunate Tomber was gone because the next time I saw Viccare, he was sitting behind Favory on the red stallion, arms wrapped tightly around her middle, the golden bell hanging and tinkling from the saddle horn.
The final reach of the Seventh Principality was a high desert, with low shrubs and grasses that extended for as far as the eye could see. As we left the last copse of timber, I called a halt.
“But we still have half a day’s light,” Marston muttered. For some reason, he rarely rode his own mule these days but preferred to sit next to me on the applecart, so quietly that I sometimes forgot he was there.
“Are you in a hurry?” I asked. “We could all use a rest.”
He gave me a suspicious look. As a man who couldn’t help tell the truth, he seemed to sense when someone wasn’t being completely honest. Than again, I wasn’t being completely dishonest either, so he let it pass.
The next morning, as I climbed up onto the buckboard of the applecart, I heard a scurrying sound in the back. Satisfied that Feed had managed to find a hiding place, I gave the signal to start.
The desert was cold and dry, the winds unhindered. Gusts of sand and twigs blew into our faces. It was a miserable crossing, but eventually a dark green line appeared on the horizon. As we approached, we saw that there was a deep canyon between the desert and a thick forest beyond, crossed by a rickety bridge. I led the way across by example, not taking a breath until I reaching safe ground.
As we entered the Eighth Principality I once again told my arms men to be alert, for this land gathered into its wilds most of the creatures that emerged from the Abyss; mountains nearly as tall as the Shield Mountains, with deep gorges and thick forests.
At the very back of the caravan, Toug’s cook wagon often stopped and foraged for fodder. I’d assigned a squad of arms men to keep watch over him, though Toug always managed to catch up with the rest of us in time to cook meals. 
The first I knew anything was wrong was when I heard a rapidly increasing scream behind me, saw one of my arms men sprint past; his scream receded as he kept running.
“Draaaaaa…..gonnnnnnnn!”
“Did he say dragon?” Marston asked.
Since dragons had been extinct for several hundred years, that seemed improbable. But that is what I had heard too.
“Probably a wyvern,” I said, though wyverns rarely attacked humans. They were shaped like dragons, but much smaller, with spade tails and without the ability to spew fire.
There had still been dragons around when I first arrived in the Thirteen Principalities, though I never had a chance to see one before they were gone. I had eaten one once, though, at Prince Rorbar the Great’s Fiftieth Jubilee. The legend was that the old man had gone out alone to slay the last dragon of his realm.
I was much younger then.
I actually believed the story.
“Mind if I borrow Spittooth?” I asked, motioning to Marston’s mule, which was tied to the back of the cart.
“Be my guest.”
I rode back as fast as the old mule would take me, which was slow enough to make me wonder if I wouldn’t have gotten there faster running. Then again, I still had my breath when I arrived on the scene.
For a moment I believed that dragons still existed—and then I saw that it was more like a crumpled up picture of a dragon. One of its legs was fractured, the other withered away. Its wings were shredded. It pulled itself along the ground with the ragged broken tips. The wide crest at the top of its head was flopping halfway over, revealing two jaggedly broken horns. It long snout was bare of skin and what few dagger teeth remained were splintered and exposed. Scales hung loose from its skin, exposing festering sores. It was shrieking, but whether from pain or rage, I could not tell. One eye was missing, the other glowed with a sickly aura.
I was amazed that only one of the guttersnipes I’d hired as muscle had run away. But the rest of them were standing well away from the creature, backing up as it flopped its way forward.
The dinner wagon was in its path, and standing in front of the wagon was Toug, cleaver in hand. I knew the man would never budge, no matter the danger.
“Attack, damn you!” I yelled at my men. I grabbed a spear out of the hand of the nearest malinger and ran toward the monster. Out of the entire bunch, only one of the other arms men joined me.
The dragon’s mouth opened wide and I could see fire flickering at the back of its throat.
I skidded to a stop, then threw my spear with all my might. It clattered uselessly against the scales of its chest. The dragon spewed—not fire, but a sickly slobber, dark red in color, which splashed over the arms man who’d followed me.
The man stood there sputtering for a moment, wiping the blood from his eyes. Then he started screaming.
I ran toward him, stopped short. His skin fell away from his face, exposing the white of his cheekbones, his eyes seemed to sink back into his head, his teeth clattered in shock, and then he dropped to the ground unmoving.
But the dragon had apparently spewed the last toxic poison it still possessed. It hopped toward me, its wings bending under each step. A sick and dying dragon was still far stronger than anything we could throw at it.
I saw something from the corner of my eye, something that appeared to be rolling toward the belly of the dragon. Toug’s little legs were a blur, his cleaver held high. The dragon’s broken tail whipped around, slapped the round ball of a man, who appeared to roll away.
Then he was on his feet again, running toward the nearest wing. Toug leaped upon the gnarled limb, his feet seemed to glide over the thin skin like someone skating over ice. The dragon tried to turn its head, but I grabbed another spear from one of my men and tossed it. By pure luck, the spear splatted into remaining sickly eye, and the dragon screeched, raising its head.
Toug reached the monster’s shoulder at the same moment, and his cleaver sliced into the exposed neck of the dragon, cutting away the scales, popping blisters of pus and ichor, and deep red blood sprayed outward.
I shouted a warning, but the men behind me were already running. By the time I turned around again, Toug had scrambled onto the dragon’s crest. Slowly, the monster lowered its head, its wings splaying outward, the poisonous remains of its fire extinguished forever.
Toug stood astride the monster, his face expressionless.
Then he marched down the long snout and hopped to the ground. I raised my arms to clasp him, but he turned away, marching toward the dragon’s belly. I followed, reaching his side just in time to see him make a clean slice down the middle of the sickly yellow skin.
A tangle of limbs and horns and teeth splashed upon the ground.
The thing moved, let out a small squeak. Toug reached down and lifted it.
“Watch out for the blood!” I cried, but the fluid seemed to have little effect. I could now make out a snout, two small wings, and a long tail. As Toug carried the creature back to the dinner wagon, a long tongue slithered out of the creature’s mouth and licked the round man’s face.

***

That night, I had dragon’s meat for the second time in my life. If I’d had any doubts that it was a real dragon, the taste laid it to rest. I hesitated digging in though, at first.
“This isn’t the…offspring?” I asked Toug as he proudly laid the plate before me.
He looked horrified. “Of course not! Shatterspawn is safe as long as he is with me.”
“How did you know the monster was pregnant?” Marston asked, as the second plate was given to him.
“How could you not?” It wasn’t an answer, but it was probably the only answer we were going to get.
“Is the meat safe?” Favory asked. “The beast looked sick.”
“It was dying. Nothing wrong with the meat, though,” Toug said. He motioned toward me, “Right, Evard?”
Since I was chewing blissfully, that was answer enough.
No one ever complained about the food Toug served, but many a time I’d passed men and women laughing at his shape and demeanor. After that day, I never heard anyone ridicule him again.
He was left alone during the day with Shatterspawn, since no one else wanted to go near the creature. For a few days, our meals were not quite as good as usual, as Toug’s assistants took up the slack. As we reached the end of the Eighth Principality, a small shadow passed over the applecart, and the mules hawed loudly. I looked up, startled, as the dragonet passed overhead.
That night, as we camped, Shatterspawn came back, landing awkwardly next to the dinner wagon. It approached Toug, who gave it a rough scratch along the crest, and then the creature curled up under the wagon and fell asleep.
The young dragon flew away each morning and returned each night as we continued north. Then, as we neared the far border of the Tenth Principality, the Shatterspawn flew away and didn’t return.
Toug didn’t seem concerned; it appeared that he expected it.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 11.)


11.) Every morning and every night, Toug cooked for thirty-three people. Most of the food was scavenged along the way or hunted by Marston. Toug had a genius for discovering edible plants and animals, seasoned by herbs and spices he plucked from the side of the road.
As Sooma the slug munched happily on the remains of the pilgrim wagon, Toug marched to the rear of the creature with a cleaver and hacked off several feet of glistening meat. The creature barely seemed to notice.
“I’m not eating that glop,” Marston commented. He ridden up to see what the delay was about. He sat next to me in the applecart as we waited for the slug to finish feeding.
When every scrap of wood was slurped up, Sooma sloughed off the side of the road and disappeared into the woods. It took another couple hours to cut away the fallen trees blocking the road.
We traveled only a few more miles that day before turning off at a river crossing.
The slug meat served for dinner was as savory as a steak, a slightly fishy taste accented with dill. Marston looked at me from across the campfire and rolled his eyes, as if to admit that his earlier reluctance had been foolish.
A long moon shadow fell over me. I didn’t look up as Tomber sat next to me, his plate filled with Sooma steak. I’d never seen anyone eat as much as Tomber—none of which seemed to stick to his bones.
“By the Mirror God, Evard, even if you did not pay so generously, I would volunteer for your expeditions as long as Toug was cook.”
“You’re lucky I don’t send you back right now,” I answered.
“Sooma is harmless,” Tomber said. “It was just a joke.”
“Tell that to the pilgrim…and to Favory. I’d be watching your back if I were you.”
He grinned. “She’ll screw me over no matter what. By the end of the trip I’ll have done something to make her mad. I just decided to get it out of the way early.”
“You know what kind of woman she is,” I said. “Why do you keep coming back?”
He stopped chewing for a moment, his long Adam’s apple bobbing. He glanced down at me. “The question is…how did you manage to walk away?”
“It was that…or strangle her.”
“Yeah.”
The conversation around us got steadily louder. I’d allowed one of the barrels of spirits to be opened in hopes that everyone who was spooked by today’s incident would forget it all the sooner.
“Where did you find the slug?” I asked.
“Sooma? Oh, I discovered her many years ago when she was not much bigger than the piece of her I’m eating now. I was ambushed by some bandits while scouting the borders of the Seventh Principality in service to old Prince Stamberg. I dove into a tree well and there was Sooma. I probably would have squashed her under my boot if she hadn’t looked up at me with those cute little eyes.”
“Cute?”
“Well, believe it or not, she was a lot more cuddly in those days. We were stuck together for several days. Somehow she always finds me when I’m traveling in these parts, and each time she’s a little larger. She seems to understand what I’m thinking, somehow. I asked her for a way across the Shield Mountains and damn if she didn’t lead me right to one.”
“What did you find?” I said, setting my plate aside reluctantly. I’d never imagined I’d eat a meal of slug--and that I’d like it.
“I traveled as far as the border of the Tenth Principality. It is possible, even likely, that there are more passes further on, but between here and there I found three possibilities. The passage Sooma showed me has the lowest elevation and appears to be the easiest. It is not far to the east from here, but of course we would still have a far distance to travel north on the other side of the mountains.”
“I’d like to avoid too much exposure to the outside world,” I said. “Go on…”
“The second pass is a sharp cut between high mountains on the other side of the Eighth Principality. It looks promisingly low, but I suspect that there are deep canyons and cliffs between the Prince’s Road and there.
“The third possibility is the highest, but the land around it appears gently sloping, and it is also the widest, which gives us some space to maneuver. It is also near the former southern border of Moregone.”
“How do you know this?”
“At the base of the pass is a small village called Inhat. The people there were far from friendly, but they found the little trinkets I brought irresistible. They remember Moregone, though I had the feeling that memory is rapidly fading. Even more interesting, they have stories of travelers from the other side of the mountains. There is even a legend of one of their own crossing over and returning.”
“I’d love to hear that tale.”
“So would I,” Tomber said sadly. “But I ran out of trinkets…and I had the feeling that it would have taken far more than I’d brought along for that story to be told.”
There was a rustle of sound in the tree behind us.
Tomber lowered his voice. “You realize that we have been followed ever since we left the Fifth Principality, don’t you?”
I nodded so slightly that only he could see it.
“You want to tell me who he is before I put an arrow through him?”
“I doubt very much you will see Seed if he doesn’t want you to,” I answered. “But for now, let’s just say that Moregone has more magic than I ever gave it credit for.”

MOREGONE, a blog story, 10.)


10.) I should, of course, have seen the trouble coming. To expect Favory to be discreet or for Tomber to be tolerant was foolish of me.
Before setting out, I’d sent Tomber to scout ahead. I vaguely remembered overgrown paths branching off from the Prince’s Road leading toward the Shield Mountains. Small villages dotted the foothills, mostly ignored and isolated, places out of time whose inhabitants still believed they lived in Stronghold or whose traditions were even older.
These remnants of the past were the forgotten among the forgotten, living their small lives in an eternal day-to-day struggle but who also lived in a state of blissful ignorance and relative peace. Visitors to one of these small hamlets were treated one of two ways. Either they were feted as long lost royalty, come to claim their heritage, or as interlopers, unwelcomed and shunned.
Or worse.
At the same time, they were repositories of history, if you will forgive the paradox. Because they are so neglected—even by the Mirror God--they also retain some memory of their past. More than once I’d wandered into those hills in order to reconstruct lost history.
It was at least possible they remembered the passes over the Shield Mountains, which would save us a great deal of searching.
We neared the borders into the Seventh Principality, which under Prince Marcusal was a clean and orderly realm, safe for travelers. I started to relax, making the mistake of closing my eyes and leaning back. I might have even napped.
The applecart bucked beneath me and the air shook. A huge hemlock lay across the road directly in my path. The forest to the right of the road quaked, the branches screaming, leaves quivering as if trying to escape. The pilgrim’s cart shattered in front of me as a second tree slammed into it, cleaving it in two. The forest parted as if the giant trees were mere shrubs.
The creature was indistinct at first, a huge blob of glistening skin, undulating onto the road. Out of this gelatinous mass rose two long and curved horns, a mouth rimmed with teeth shaped like daggers. It seemed to move slowly, casually, but that was an illusion, for my mind saw it as a slug or a snail. In truth, its undulant pace bolted out of the forest and onto the road. It rose up, swaying, and from the front of the shattered cart I heard Viccare’s screams and Favory’s defiant shouts.
The creature came down, slapping onto the broken wreckage. What I’d thought was a long tall antenna was a tall man, hanging onto the horns. I bolted from the cart, and ran toward the monster, waving my hands.
The giant slug rose again. The two mules and the red stallion were running down the road away from us. The cart was completely flattened and Viccare and Favory were gone. Then, out of the roadway, rose two figures covered with slime, dazed and staggering.  The creature’s serrated mouth started to come down again. I tackled Favory, reaching out for Viccare with outstretched arms. My hands slipped off of their slick bodies, but they lost their balance and we tumbled off the roadway.
The ground shook as the creature landed, and then there was the loud sound of razor sharp teeth grinding. I dared raise my head, saw that the slug was munching on the shattered wood.
Even above the loud chomping I heard Tomber’s laughter as he slid off the slug’s back.
“Don’t worry,” he said when he finally caught his breath. “Sooma doesn’t eat meat. I promised her some flavored wood—paint is like seasoning for her.”
Favory stood up, dripping in gunge, almost losing her footing.  “You could’ve killed us!”
“Sooma is soft where she wants to be soft,” Tomber said. Under his amusement I could see his anger and jealousy. “She only wanted some of that precious blue wood.”
“You’ve destroyed Viccare’s wagon!”
Tomber shrugged. “The kid should be paying more attention to his quest.”
For once, Favory was speechless. Sounds came out of her mouth, but they didn’t make sense. It was the first time I’d ever seen the woman so disheveled. Amazingly, she still looked good and I could swear that the gunk was already disappearing, her hair already beginning to dry.
Viccare, on the other hand, was covered with the stuff, which he kept swiping away from his eyes. He stared, head down, ot the road, inches from the slug. Suddenly, he bent down, and as he straightened, the golden bell tinkled softly, muffled by the glop. Sooma paused in her eating for a moment, listening, then reached down and plucked a baseboard and began nibbling.
“You will be paying for this out of your own wages, Tomber,” I said. “We don’t want people to think we’re impeding a Blue Pilgrim’s progress.”
Tomber shrugged again. He glanced over at Favory, then went to Sooma, running his hands over the creature head and whispering soothingly.
Favory finally found her voice. “I hope you like her, you bastard, because she’s the only female you’re sleeping with!”
She took Viccare by the hand and marched away.

Writing isn't work for me, it's daydreaming.

I think I've found a world I like living in.

The whole idea of it being a "side project" is completely out the window. I'm focused on this story all day long. It has taken over my thinking.

One good thing has come out of this--I've managed to break the stranglehold my walks had on my writing. It had gotten to the point where I almost couldn't write except on my walks.

The new prime writing space is on top of my bed, with the fan running. It's the quietest, most isolated part of the house. I wish it was my office, but somehow that just hasn't taken hold.

But by making the prime writing space my bedroom, I've given myself many more hours in the day when I can write. That old feeling of being taken over by the book has returned and the same thing is happening---everything else gets neglected.

I have to give myself permission for this. It seems incredibly self-indulgent. My puritan inner voice is telling me to get off my butt, go to work, do something!

And my creative self sits around waiting for glimmers that become visions or words which become a story and feeling guilty that I'm not doing something.

Since I seem to finish books, I can throw that in the face of my guilt. See! I have done something!

I guess what I'm saying is writing doesn't feel like work. It feels like daydreaming.

Really enjoying my Moregone yarn. I'm back to writing scene chapters, that is, each chapter built around a single scene. This after my experiment with narrative in the last book. I don't know, maybe the differences aren't noticeable to most people, but it was noticeable to me.

While I like each chapter I've written so far, I fear that there may not be enough connecting thread. Each scene by itself is interesting, but doesn't necessarily pull the reader into the next chapter. I hope so. I hope that each chapter alone is worth reading.

My emphasis this time is making each scene unique and interesting and hopefully surprising. The plot is somewhat vague but that has been good because it's gone in completely unexpected directions. This is the story telling itself, and that's what I want these days.

As if I'm being told the story and I'm just writing it down.

Lady of the Lake

Lady of the Lake

Tree of bones,
tree of snakes,
tree that floats upon a lake.

Slither here,
Slither there,
Slithering, slithering, through your hair.

A skeleton fair,
rattle and dance,
zombie love, a dead romance.

Rising and floating,
bloated skin
where do I, where do I, begin?

Give me a kiss,
leave your lips,
a tooth as a tip.

Milky eyes,
hungering for me,
climb on up this tree.

Together we'll float,
upon this tree of bones,
my Lady of the Lake and me.






World building by living there.

I've written two novellas of "Tales of the Thirteen Principalities" and two that are1/3rd finished and one that is 2/3rds finished. I've decided to finish off the three incomplete novellas and perhaps even write another one.

My first love was fantasy--it's what drew me to writing in the first place, but after writing the three fantasy novels in early 1980's, I came back 30 years later writing other genres, horror and thrillers.

Why?

Because I decided that writing fantasy wasn't as simple as just sitting down and writing a story. A good fantasy needs a vivid world to exist in, and world building isn't easy. I could write my horror and thriller stories in the real world, which other than having to research real world facts, is much easier. The focus is on the story, not on the world.

But I still want to write fantasy. My plan has been to someday write a true trilogy--a fully realized fantasy world. To try not to be too Tolkienish, but also not try too hard to not be Tolkienish.

Meanwhile, I just sort of stumbled into the world of the Thirteen Principalities. Each time I've written a story I've discovered more about this world, and I'm realizing that when I've written enough of them I can dissect, outline, map, diagram them. I've been working out the religion, the government, the characteristics of the different principalities, the history, the people, and so on.

These stories are meant to be read in any order, but I don't want them to contradict each other, so I'll have to do some correlating when I've written enough material. 

As I've often said, I discover story by writing. Well, it turns out I develop worlds by story. Sort of a backward way to do it, but not if I hold onto what I've written, iron out the details, and spread the wealth through all the different short pieces.

Then...once the world is fully developed, go ahead and write my Epic Fantasy.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying these short jaunts into this world. And I'm really enjoying the connections between the stories.

I have a character called The Toad Kind who has so far turned up in every story, for instance, so I'm going to keep that little motif going.

In other words, the world is being built through the telling of the stories, but once the stories are written, I can use that world to go back and flesh them out. When I feel like everything is solid, only then can I go ahead and plot out a long storyline.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 9.)


9.) “Why are you really doing this?” Marston asked. “Favory has been pestering me for an answer, and I must admit I am equally curious.”
The lady in question was riding in the pilgrim’s cart just ahead of us, her red stallion tied to the back. Laughter filtered back to us, and I could almost gauge the progression of the seduction by the sound.
Marston sat next to me on the apple cart. The contraption groaned under the weight of two men, even though Marston was not a large man. Hobson the carpenter had done his best, but the wood wasn’t sturdy and threatened to collapse every time it went over a bump in the road. I did not know then that it would, imbued with the spirit of Seed, outlast every other conveyance. 
“Remind me to never let Toug ride with me,” I said, as the cart let out an alarming creak.
“What is this thing?” Marston asked, reaching over and peeling a large sprinter from the dash. “It looks ill-prepared for a long journey. Is this crabapple wood?”
“It is symbolic,” I said. “Honoring Moregone’s proudest creation.”
“You are not the symbolic nor the honoring type,” Marston said. “So what are you really intending?” His emerald green eyes bore into me, seeming to strip away all pretenses.
Marston could not help being honest, despite his profession as a thief. Once, as I stood watch outside a depository while he broke into the safe, the Prince’s constabulary braced me. I was in the midst of an elaborate explanation when Marston emerged, carrying a suspiciously clanky bag over his shoulder.
“What do you have there?”
“I believe these are your wages for the month,” Marston said with a flat voice.
The fight that ensued was equally honest and blunt. Fortunately, we were the victors, but I made sure that I had Marston’s promise of muteness every job thereafter.
“Marston…have you ever wondered where I came from? You were but a boy when I first met you. Do I appear to have changed in the slightest?”
“I’ve always known you are witchy,” Marston said, shrugging his shoulders.
“But you have never asked for the particulars. Don’t you find that strange?”
“Not really. If I asked everyone for the particulars of their past it would never end?” 
I snorted in exasperation. “You are just like every other citizen of the Thirteen Principalities.”
He shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do not.”
“I shall prove it to you with a single question. What lies beyond the Shield Mountains?”
“What?”
“It a reasonable question. The mountains are not overly tall, and even from here I can see gaps in them. They shouldn’t be hard to cross. So why has no one in living memory done so?”
“I…I don’t know,” Marston said. It was more of an answer than I usually got. Most often the person would simply change the subject as if the question had never been asked.
I took a long breath. I’d probably told Marston this story before. Eventually I told everyone I knew, and eventually everyone forgot I’d told them.  “I know the mountains are not impassible because long ago I crossed over them.”
Marston looked ready to challenge me, but then his innate honesty took hold. He kept his silence, and even more impressive, he still looked me in the eye
“I was not born in the Thirteen Principalities, Marston. I am a stranger here, even after all the centuries I’ve been here. Three times I have seen the Mirror God erase the past; three times this land has started over. It wasn’t always the Thirteen Principalities. Once it was called Stronghold, ruled by a single king. Before that it was what was called a democracy, with each province, down to the smallest hamlet, ruling themselves.
“But the citizens of this land just went on, unaware that anything had changed.”
Marston absorbed this information, shaking his head as if he didn’t believe it. But again he surprised me.
“But you remember?”
“So I thought—so I congratulated myself each time, and yet… I’ve begun to realize there are gaps in my memory. There are things I should remember that slip away when I reach for them. The Mirror God is slowly erasing everything I was.”
“They who forget, shall also remember,” Marston intoned. For a thief, he was strangely devout; perhaps the root of his honesty. “The Mirror God is forgiving,”
“The Mirror God is a son of a bitch.”
Surprisingly, Marston laughed. I don’t think I’d ever heard him laugh before. It was like gravel grinding.
“I have almost forgotten my homeland, but I have vague memories of things that seem like magic to me now. Carriages without horses, light that doesn’t burn, even conveyances that fly through the air. While the Mirror God keeps this land in childhood the world outside progresses. The Mirror God has hidden us in reflections, in the shadows and corners of mirrors, so that we have been forgotten even as we forget.”
“Why have you not tried to leave before?” Marston asked.
“I believe…I suspect I have. I think perhaps on my way to doing so, I got distracted.”
Again Marston laughed. “Why will this time be different?”
Of course, Marston asked the honest question, the one I’d been avoiding.
“I think the Mirror God forgot about Moregone—or perhaps more importantly, Moregone has forgotten the Mirror God--and that is why is has disappeared. Moregone was always the most practical and least romantic of the principalities. Also the least devout. It is what attracted me to it in the first place. While the rest of the principalities vie for supremacy, Moregone gets on with the practicalities of living. They can’t be bothered with “magic,” which they consider to be unreliable. The last time I was there they had built a machine that picked crabapples and another that cultivated their fields of artichokes.
“In other words, Moregone has progressed and is now in a state of limbo, neither part of the Thirteen Principalities nor of the outside world…. If left alone long enough, I believe the Eleventh Principality will be forgotten completely, and the inhabitants of this land will believe there are Twelve Principalities and always have been.”
“If that is what the Mirror God wants then…” Marston began.
I interrupted him. “Quite the opposite. My sudden inspiration to investigate was not my own. When I told Prince Cambral that I intended to detour around the Shield Mountains, he didn’t blink an eye. Nor have any of the rest of you questioned it. The Mirror God wants us to look, to remind the people of Moregone that it is one of the principalities, and to pull it back.”
Marston was silent for a long time. “This must all be true. Because how else could I be thinking it? What is your intention, Evard?”
“To find Moregone and to help its people to forget the Thirteen Principalities ever existed.”

MOREGONE, a blog story, 8.)


8.) The last member of our expedition joined us after we were well underway on our journey north.
Most other travellers prudently stepped off the road as such a large and well-armed party passed. As we crossed the border into the Sixth Principality, I told my arms men to keep their eyes open, for this realm was the most lawless of all the principalities.
I heard the tinkle of the golden bell before I saw the Blue Pilgrim.
His was a modest pilgrimage, a single wagon, barely large enough to sleep in, painted a light blue color. Small mirrors dangled from the corniced top, representing the Mirror God. His single golden bell hung over the driver’s seat.
The pilgrim was also modestly attired. Over the years I’d seen grand caravans, with hordes of followers escorting that year’s pilgrim to the very borders of the Thirteenth Principality. Other years, it was but a single traveler, on foot, begging for shelter and food along the way.
Few who were asked refused.
So this Blue Pilgrim was somewhere in the middle of these two extremes.
He turned and gave us a wide smile as we approached, not the least concerned. No one had attacked a pilgrim in over two hundred years. I came across the village that had desecrated the pilgrimage not long after it happened. The coalmine beneath the abandoned village was still burning as a warning to all who would dishonor the Mirror God.
In my experience, those who were chosen for the once every two-year pilgrimage were either the most devious of the initiates or so pure and good that they could not be denied. Most often it was the former, rather than the latter. The older monks were not the best judges of character, especially since most of them had once been chosen themselves because of their guile.
I looked for falsehood in the pilgrim’s eyes—the smile could indicate either possibility.
He was a handsome lad—long blonde hair and blue eyes and a strong chin. Healthy and strong, which could indicate he was either pampered or honed by hard work, again it was hard to tell.
Favory (she dropped the dubious title of “lady” when on excursions) rode to my side. She made most everyone else ride a mule, while she herself was mounted on a magnificent red stallion. I was driving the “apple cart,” as the others called it, as I had every day since leaving the Fifth Principality. So far I had seen no sign of the Boy in the Tree, though once or twice I thought I heard one of the boxes in back rattle.
Thick forests arose on both sides of the Prince’s Road, so I suspected that Seed was accompanying our caravan from a distance.
“Ask the pilgrim to join us,” she said. “It wouldn’t hurt to have the protection of the golden bell.”
“I suppose him being so handsome is just a coincidence.”
She looked over at me mildly, not bothering to protest. She never dressed down for these journeys, her only concession wearing trousers instead of long dresses, but still wearing make-up, her hair styled. She never seemed to get dirty or sweaty. Though she never showed any other signs of magical ability, for this reason I suspected it of her.
The Blue Pilgrims were not required to be chaste, though anything that distracted from their mission was discouraged. However, since the women of the principalities took this as a challenge, few pilgrims reached their end of their journey still virgins.
“He could at least accompany us as far as the Tenth Principality,” Favory insisted.
I saw no harm in it, so I pulled the applecart to the side of the road. The mules obeyed for once, with Favory nearby. I made my offer to the pilgrim, who introduced himself as Viccary.
“They who are far, shall also be near,” he answered, quoting one of the thirteen Oaths of the Covenant. “I shall be glad for the company.”
The boy was a puzzle. I couldn’t make out if he was wholesomely sincere or cynically accommodating. I supposed it didn’t matter.
“We shall be traveling north for a while,” I said. “But we will at some point we will turn toward the Shield Mountains. It is our intention to cross the mountains and circle around to the Eleventh Principality.”
“The Eleventh Principality?” he asked, screwing up his face as if trying to remember it.
“Moregone,” I said.
“Moregone,” he repeated as if he still couldn’t quite grasp it. “You are traveling to Moregone?”
“By way of the Shield Mountains.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why do you not take the Prince’s Road?”
“Moregone is no longer accessible by normal routes,” I said.
He sat for a time silent, as if he was regretting that he’d agreed to accompany us. He pointedly did not ask about our detour, and I suspected he’d already forgotten it. Then he said, “They who are foolish, shall also be wise.”
I wondered if I should take offense, but let it pass. At that moment, Favory rode up in her red stallion. Viccary’s eyes widened at the sight of her, and for a moment I saw her as the boy must have seen her, a halo of sunlight in her hair, her skin shining health, her blue eyes smiling.
I almost fell in love with her myself. They who are innocent, shall also see the truth. I shook off the disorienting feeling, remembered Tomber hanging upside down in a dank prison with hooks in his heels, all because he had dared flirt with another woman in Favory’s presence.
“May I join you?” Favory asked the young man.
It occurred to me that I should try to save the poor pilgrim.
“They who are weak, shall also be strong.”
It will be a test and lesson, I decided.
“Yes…please,” he answered.
Favory gave me a knowing smile, and tied the red stallion to the back of the blue cart.

The blog story takes off...dammit.

Moregone was supposed to be a short spurt every morning, taking about as much time and thought as I do on my blog.

Rightly or wrongly, I don't do a lot of editing or rewriting this blog. I don't think about it too much. I just sort of write whatever comes to me. Nevertheless, I noticed over time that I tend create beginnings, middles, and ends to each blog, sometimes ending up in places I didn't expect.

So I just wanted to take that same energy to the "blog story."

Yesterday, I decided that after only six entries I was already in danger of falling into predictable patterns. In other words, stories tend to have predictable arcs, whether conscious or unconscious, and I wanted to try to avoid that. Not only do I want to surprise the reader, but I want to surprise myself.

I went into my office and started pulling books off the shelves at random, looking at pages at random, and came across a picture of the cover to Tea for the Tillerman, an album by Cat Stevens, which shows an older gent sitting at a table and a couple of children in a tree.

And thus, the Boy in the Crabapple Tree was created.

But then the story wouldn't leave me alone the entire day, and I was still writing in the dark in my car at 9:30, after my walk in the desert. It even started coming at me while I was trying to go to sleep. I pushed it away, as I always do, because if I let that happen, I'm doomed.

Anyway, the story has obviously taken over, and that's both good and bad, but apparently I'm not capable of approaching a story without it dominating my thoughts. 

The main thing is I'm having a lot of fun writing this and I want to keep that going. My original intention was to do nothing but 30K novellas for "Tales of the Thirteen Principalities" but I've decided that any length will do. Whatever the story requires. Not being forced to write novel length is freeing, but that doesn't me I don't have to write non-novel length either.

I might even come up with short stories, who knows.

The idea is that each "Tale" is a standalone story in a common world. That is, the Tales can be read in any order. 

MOREGONE, a blog story, 7.)


7.) The core members of my expedition in place, I started hiring the various muleteers, teamsters, boatmen, trappers, hunters, fishermen, cooks, carpenters, blacksmiths, and others needed for a safe and comfortable journey. I had no intention of suffering deprivations or hardships if I could help it. Moreover, a larger expedition is in less danger from brigands and highwaymen.
Of course, I begin every journey with such intent, and have yet to enjoy the envisioned outcome, for inevitably into every such gathering are fools, cowards, and the deranged. It usually doesn’t take long for mishaps, accidents, and misbehavior to begin. Desertion is common as these mendicants—for who else is available for a hazardous trip into the unknown?—discover the hardships of such an enterprise.
My goal is always to bring home the heart of my company, while shedding others along the way. I offer generous wages, knowing that most of these secondary recruits will never return to collect.
I was walking home after hiring a company of muleteers, most of whom I thought were probably unemployed thieves, when a crabapple dropped on my head.
Dazed, not by the impact but by the surprise, I looked up, expecting to see branches over my head. There was nothing but blue sky.
Another apple thumped against my forehead. It stung. The crabapple was green and hard. The nearest tree was at least a hundred feet away. Out of the foliage, another apple came flying. This time I ducked.
As I approached the tree, I realized it might very well be my own creation. On each trip to my Moregone cottage, I returned with a barrel of crabapples, eating them on my walks, spitting out the seeds. I like their firmness and tartness. Miraculously, worms almost never infest the Moregone variety.
The branches rustled, an undulating wave upward through the foliage. I stared up into the bewildering maze of branches and leaves. Two eyes stared out at me out of the camouflage.
“Why do you assail me?” I asked.
“To get your attention, master. ” The voice was high, but I sensed it was a boy, not a girl.
“I am no one’s master. I don’t particularly like the masters I know. I am not difficult to approach.”
“You would have shooed me away.”
 No matter how I stared, all I could see was the whites of his eyes. They seemed unnaturally large, like a lemur I’d once seen in a menagerie. It was as if the rest of my attacker was part of the tree.
“Come out where I can see you,” I said.
The leaves rustled. A long, knobby branch slid down the side of the trunk, slowly revealed as a brown-skinned boy. He was small but his head was overlarge, with wide eyes. The pupils were slanted, like a cat. His fingers were splayed like a frog. I sensed that he was as comfortable upside down as he was upright.
“Your aim is excellent,” I said. “I’m impressed.”
“It is my only defense, master. Most creatures don’t like being pelted with crabapples.”
“I can see why. Well, young sir, you’ve got my attention now. What do you want of me?”
“I wish to accompany you on your journey to Ished.”
I had never heard the name, but I did no doubt he spoke of Moregone. “Why?”
“There are places I cannot go,” he said. “There are deserts and rivers and mountains.”
I suddenly understood. “Because there are no trees?”
“Yes, master. I knew you would understand. I need to be hidden, for if I am found, Ished is lost.”
“Moregone appears to already be lost,” I said.
“No, it is not lost, it is only hidden.”
“You have still not answered my question. Why?”
The boy in the tree froze and closed his eyes, and even though I was looking right at him, he seemed to disappear. The eyes opened, and I stepped back, not from fear but from the pain I saw those wide orbs.
“Cut down this tree,” he said. “Make a cart of it, and within the cart, a small box. That is all I ask.”
The tree shivered just a little and he was gone.

***

Hobson the carpenter knocked against the tree experimentally.
“This tree?” he said, looking confused. “It’s old and rotted in the middle.”
“Nevertheless, this is the tree I want.”
He pulled out a large knife and I stepped back. I’d pulled him out of a tavern and he was in a foul mood.
He rammed the blade into the bark and drilled down. The tree rustled and there was a scurrying sound from above.
“What was that?” Hobson said.
“A squirrel,” I said. “He’ll find another home. I want it ready by Friday.”
“Not without help,” he said.
I handed him more money than he needed, and he quieted, knowing the extra was his. I said, “I need a functional cart for a rough journey. Use whatever is left to construct storage boxes.”
He nodded.
A crabapple thudded onto his bald head. He looked up. Another apple struck him between the eyes.
“This cursed tree will be down before dark,” he muttered. “Though I still think it’s too rotten.”
Apples rained down on him and he stood swaying for a moment, then toppled over. 
“Best leave him be, if you want it done,” I told the branches.
The tree shook, as if in laughter.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 6.)


6.) Lady Favory pretended to be glad to see me.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, too,” I said, with equally false camaraderie. I checked my pockets after we hugged. She smiled. She wore a bronze colored dress that shimmered and highlighted her blonde hair and flawless skin. It was impossible not to look at her figure, which appeared perfect and which I knew from experience was just as perfect without the bronze wrapping.
“Did Tomber find his way here?” I asked.
“On his hands and knees and stinking of the dungeon,” she said. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”
“You have me to thank for his deliverance,” I said. Her vanity knew no bounds. He was only in jail because she’d betrayed him.
“The potion you gave him is quite miraculous,” she said, leading the way to the conservatory. “You really must give me the ingredients.”
I tried not to laugh. Lady Favory was the last person I’d give the potion to. Not that I had any idea of the components. It was perhaps the most magical thing I ever possessed. The story of how I came across the tincture is a saga at least as momentous as the one I now tell.
I carried the small vial for many years for that unlucky day when I suffered an injury that would not heal. But because I’d introduced poor innocent Tomber to Lady Favory, I felt responsible for his condition.
Besides, I needed him. There isn’t a better tracker in all the Thirteen Principalities.
Tomber bathed in the sunlight of the windows, lying on a couch as long as the room. His legs still drooped over the end of the couch, propped on a pillowed chair.
“Can you walk?” I said. I’d learned that small talk was something Tomber had no use for.
He raised his head, his long neck rising like a snake. “It is painful, but yes. When do we leave? Where are we going? Who’s with us?”
I glanced at Lady Favory. The journey was not a secret and yet I still felt a reluctance to talk about it in front of her. She could find mischief in the most innocent of endeavors.
“Rest up, my friend. We leave on Friday. I’ll explain everything then.”
Tomber let his head fall back into the pillow and closed his eyes. “My head is as light as a feather. The blood flows where it should, as milady can attest.”
Lady Favory snorted.
“I will never complain about anything again,” he continued.
“But what then will we talk about?” I said. The drone of Tomber’s grumbles had become part of every journey, as familiar as the flatulence of packhorses and the clouds of mosquitoes.
“We meet at Rusted Gate at dawn, three days hence, Tomber.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to—I knew he’d be there.
Lady Favory followed me to the door. Out of habit, I bowed to her slightly. She might look like a lady, dress like a lady, but she was no lady.
“Why do you care about Moregone?” she asked.
But of course she knew of the expedition. Her network of spies had probably informed her the very first morning.
“Why should I not?”
“That is not an answer, Evard. Is there really red obsidian there?”
“Perhaps…Or perhaps it has yet to be found. Who knows?”
She stared at me suspiciously. “You never do anything without profit. I’ve never known you to show an interest in artichokes and crabapples. What is it about Moregone that no one knows?
“I like place. I don’t think it should be lost.”
“I’m coming along,” she announced firmly. “I’ll supply the livestock for a twenty percent share.”
Ah, I had her. Nothing I could have said would have convinced her, only what I didn’t say. I now I had my muleskinner—she had an uncanny connection to the ornery creatures, which was probably why she liked Tomber too.
I put up a protest—anything less would have warned her off, but in the end I gave in. So far, I’d given away one hundred and forty percent of the profits—much less leaving anything for myself—but that would all get sorted out in the end.
As I walked away, I smiled. I did indeed have an ulterior motive, but hopefully we would be well on our journey, past the point of no return, before my companions found out.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 5.)


5.) It was fortunate I already had a reservation to the Ambrose, booked months in advance. A line of people stood outside in the rain hoping for a rare cancellation. A dinner at the Ambrose was something that most people would never experience, or experience only once, and it didn’t matter how rich or famous or important they were.
I was only able to get a slot because I knew the chef.
I sat at a single table, alone. The other diners stared at me with dull resentment, as they crowded together with more than one party per table. They must have thought I was royalty--or perhaps a restaurant critic. But I knew that Toug didn’t cater to anyone. Reservations were given by lottery and no one—except perhaps me—was exempt.
The next table over was occupied by three ladies of the night, unless I was missing my guess, and a tall, elegant man who wore a tall elegant hat. It was rude, of course, but it was clear the man was past caring. There were three empty bottles of expensive wine at the center of the table.
He looked over his shoulder at me and muttered something to the three women, who laughed uproariously, as if their night’s remunerations depended on it. Hee stood, grabbing his plate and a fourth bottle of wine and stumbled over to me. He stood there weaving back and forth for a moment, his eyes unfocused, then plunked down his plate.
On the large plate was a steak that threatened to fall off the edges. The meat was at least three inches thick.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Evard Just,” I said. I determined that I would not let this boor get a rise out of me.
“And how are you so privileged that you get a table to yourself?”
I shrugged. “I know the chef.”
He stared at me open mouthed, then lurched away. He grabbed a chair from the other table. “Pardon me, ladies, but we are done for the night. I’ve found someone more interesting.”
“But Montrose! The night is young!” said the oldest of the ladies.
He waved them off as if they were flies.
I could tell they were insulted. The woman who had spoken opened her mouth to object, but then their own dinners arrived, and they quite wisely fell silent and dug in.
He plopped down in his chair, filled his glass, and offered me the bottle. “This bottle of wine is worth more than four meals. I do not understand why Toug charges so little.”
Again, I shrugged, hoping that my silence would be reciprocated.
He cut a slice from the steak and raised it to his mouth, his thin lips closing over it like mousetrap. He closed his eyes and moaned in pleasure. I did not see him chew—it was as if the meat melted in his mouth.
His eyes opened and he stared down at the steak. “I cannot possibly eat this all. I will insist that they let me take it home. I will savor it for a month.”
“You won’t be allowed,” I said. The large portions were on purpose. Toug took the leftovers to the back of the restaurant where there was a line of poor and homeless as long as the line of rich and famous at the front. Ironically, these unfortunates were much more likely to get a taste of the great chef’s cooking.
“We’ll see about that,” Montrose said. He took another bite and this time yelped theatrically. It was then that I realized who he was. An actor who currently starred in the most in-demand play in the city. No doubt he thought he was the equal of Toug.
“I must meet this Toug. We can exchange favors—a ticket to my play for another meal. A year’s worth of tickets!”
I shook my head, knowing it was hopeless.
He suddenly stood up. “I must compliment the chef!” He looked around wildly, grabbed a passing waiter. “Bring out the chef!”
The other diners fell silent fell silent for a moment, then one by one, they joined in the chant. “Bring out the chef! Bring out the chef!”
The swinging doors suddenly swung open. Toug stepped out—or rolled out, as it appeared. He was short, as round as he was tall, his legs barely reached the floor, and the tall dirty chef’s hat was taller than his head. His face was round, with a roll of fat where his neck should be. He was wearing a long apron that nearly reached the floor, splatted with blood and viscera. Underneath he wore a bright red doublet and red leggings.
I restrained a smile. He looked like a giant tomato carrying a large cleaver.
Montrose, however, had no such restraint.
“I believe, sir, that you have partaken perhaps a little too much of your own cuisine.” His laugh was loud and merry, and it was infectious. One by one, the other diners joined in.
Oh, dear, I thought. The one thing you could not tease Toug about was the thing that was most noticeable about him.
Toug’s small arms blurred and the cleaver flew through the air. It was if that moment remained frozen as the laughter abruptly stopped. Montrose barely had time to let out a squeak before the cleaver thudded neatly into the middle of his steak.
Toug continued rolling toward us. Montrose still had the courage of a drunk, however. He stood with his fists out. “I warn you, sir, I have been trained in fisticuffs.”
Toug kept coming. Montrose swung, but somehow his fists went over Toug’s head, though the fat man hadn’t appeared to duck. He lunged forward, his hat falling away, his baldhead slamming into the actor’s chin.
Montrose stiffened, then fell backward like a plank of wood and landed on his back with a slapping thud.
“Evard,” he said, nodding.
“Toug.”
“You have a job for me?”
“I do indeed.”
He took off his apron and let it swoop down over Montrose’s unconscious body.
“Let’s go.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 4.)


MOREGONE

4.) “Go away.”
Marston sat alone at the long bar, though a crowd filled every other table in the establishment. There wasn’t anything outwardly threatening about him, but most people instinctively sensed the danger, looking sideways at him, continuing their conversations as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
Yet, there he sat, alone in the middle of a brightly polished mahogany bar. The bartenders stood back, not quite looking at him, no doubt wishing he’d go away so they could get their usual tips from the throng.
He was a small man, hunched over, quiet and reserved. He had a nice smile, but the emerald eyes never changed, always cold, always observing. He was dressed in all in white, his long blonde hair seeming part of his get-up.
I plopped down next to him, waved off the bartender who reluctantly approached.
“I’m not talking to you until you’ve had at least three drinks,” Marston said.
I signaled the bartender back, order a glass and a bottle, and with my back to the mirror, consumed my quota in silence. It was quite companionable—until I glanced over at Marston and then the conviviality vanished, replaced by a vacuum.
I looked away again and concentrated on getting drunk.
I felt the skin around my eyes loosen, my neck become slightly wobbly. “I am sufficiently inebriated,” I said.
“Good… now go away.”
“That wasn’t the deal. Hear me out, my old friend.”
“We are not, and have never been, friends.”
“By the Mirror God, you can hold a grudge!”
He finally looked at me, and I felt a chill at the back of my neck, running halfway down my spine. It was a good sign that it didn’t run all the way down my spine and into my legs and feet, that I wasn’t already halfway to the door.
I decided a fourth drink was in order, and immediately after, a fifth.
With the courage thus supplied, I looked at him again, stared into his eyes, and grinned. “I am your only friend, Marston. Isn’t that worth something?”
“I have no friends. I want no friends.”
“Fine, whatever. I have a proposition for you that has nothing to do with friendship. I intend to lead an expedition beyond the Shield Wall.”
I could tell there was just the tiniest flicker of curiosity. “Why?”
“Moregone has vanished. I don’t think it’s right for one of the principalities to disappear without someone looking into it.”
Marston straightened up, drained his drink. He was the first person I’d told who acted like he’d actually heard of Moregone. “I like that place. It’s the end of nowhere.”
“Then we are agreed. The world needs the end of nowhere, otherwise we are in the middle of everywhere.”
He smiled and I thought I saw the faintest glimmer of life in his eyes. “There is nothing you could have said to me that would convince me to help you. Except that.”
“We leave from the Gate of Rust at dawn on Friday next,” I said.
He merely nodded and took a sip.
I left him alone in his hellish solitude.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 3.)


MOREGONE

3.) Tomber hung naked and upside down, hooks in his heels. I knelt so that I would not be addressing his nether regions.
He spoke first. “Have you come to gloat?”
“That would be unjust of me, would it not?”
“Oh, I think that would be exactly what Evard Just would do. Save your puns for someone who appreciates them.”
The rogue does not know how much dignity I have already afforded him by not spewing my breakfast over the dungeon stones; by not turning heel and walking away; by addressing him in a calm voice despite his wretched state.
I yell over my shoulder. “Guard, my eyes are turning upside down trying to speak to this man. Would you please put him on a level where I can address him properly?”
The guard, who was little more than an elevated prisoner and unlikely to take pity or to disobey orders, didn’t even look at me.
I sighed. “Has all the blood to your brain brought you to your senses, Tomber?”
“I must have admit, my qualms have been stronger than usual,” he said. “For instance, that I thought you would not care if I took that goblet. I merely wanted to drink some wine.”
“Did the gold and emeralds make the wine taste sweeter?”
“It seemed so at the time,” Tomber said. There was genuine regret in his voice.
“Your regret is perhaps misguided,” I said. “I did not report you to the authorities. It must have been someone else.”
If possible, his red face got even redder. “She wouldn’t have…”
“If we are both speaking of the same lady, it is more than likely. I tried to warn you, my friend.”
The iron doors clanked open behind us. The guard slammed the butt of his spear to the stones and stood at attention. Cambral stood at the entrance in all his glory, an orange doublet, with blue leggings and a ruby colored cloak, clasped by a golden chain.
“By the Mirror God, what is that stench! Is he already dead?”
“Already?” Tomber said. “Has any man lasted as long as I have?”
“Release this…man,” the Prince said, pausing on the last word as if uncertain if it was correct.
The guard turned to chain that wrapped around a hook near his station. He let it go.
Tomber tumbled headfirst into the muck. He lay there on his back, breathing deeply. How he could stand the smell of the excrement he lay in I couldn’t understand. I extracted the potion from my cloak and held it over him. He reached up with shaking hands and I made sure he had a firm grip before I let go. “Apply this to your wounds. I’ll be back in few days. Be ready for a long journey.”
He laughed. “Gladly. As long as we move at the pace of my crawling.”
“Trust me, the tonic you now hold will heal anything. It is worth more than everything you have ever stolen, Tomber.”
“Must be an important journey then. But where do I go while I await your return? I don’t even have clothing.”
I hesitated, then removed my own cloak and dropped it over him. “Try the lady of which we spoke earlier. In my experience, she is easy to anger, but also easy to forgive.”
I walked away as Tomber tried to rise.
His scream followed me down the tunnel.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 2).


MOREGONE

2.) “Moregone is missing.”
“Who?” Jonder Maze looked up from his papers, quill pen dripping. He was dressed in three layers of robes, all of them frayed because he was too cheap to pay for heating.
“The Eleventh Principality,” I said.
“How does an entire principality disappear and how come I have not heard of it?” He slid the quill into the ink and shook off the excess absently.
“Have you done business with Moregone?” I asked.
He stared at the tip of his pen as if the answer was there. “No, I don’t believe I have.”
“Well, there is your answer. Moregone is a…modest…realm, which does not call attention to itself. Its people are quiet and hardworking.”
“Sounds stupendously boring,” Jonder Maze said, shaking his head.
“But safe,” I answered. “They have not been in a war in their history.”
“Must not have anything anyone wants,” the merchant answered, shrugging. “Why do you bring up this benighted realm?”
I had been standing in front of his desk, and even so I could barely see over the piles of manuscripts. I leaned forward, lifted a stack, and laid it to one side. Then I pulled the chair up to the gap and sat down. I could barely see Jonder Maze’s eyes.
“I don’t believe a missing principality is something we should ignore. What if the Tenth Principality was to disappear? What about the Fifth?” Jonder Maze was the richest man in the Fifth Principality, though he would have been a minor merchant in the First.
“I believe I would know if I was missing,” he said.
“You may not know this, Jonder, but I have a summer home in Moregone. I quite like the place. They grow the most magnificent artichokes and have a hundred ways of serving it.”
“Artichokes?”
For the first time, I had Jonder Maze’s full attention.
“They are the only source of artichokes in all the Principalities, sir.”
“This is quite alarming!” the merchant cried. “We must mount an expedition immediately.”
“Such is my intention. Prince Cambral has pledged half of the necessary funds, and I am looking for a second benefactor.”
I’d decided, after much thought, that being in debt to another Prince was not something I should enter into lightly. Prince Cambral was already in my debt, so his patronage was not troublesome. No, I’d much rather owe a rich man than royalty. They tended to see the practical side of things.
With noticeable effort, Jonder calmed down. Realizing he’d been too eager, he sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. I looked up. There was nothing there but soot and spiderwebs.
“I, of course, will need to get seventy percent of all profits,” he said.
“Fifty.”
“Sixty.”
“Agreed,” I answered immediately. When all was settled, I knew that I could talk both the Prince and Jonder Maze into accepting fifty percent—since it was likely it would be fifty percent of not much. Then again, I had enriched both men more than once and they could afford to take a small loss.
I had found the one person in all the Principalities who cared if artichokes disappeared. I didn’t even have to lie about red obsidian. Prince Mackey of the Third Principalities was quite fond of apples, but I wasn’t sure if crabapples were high up his list.

MOREGONE, a blog story. 1.)


MOREGONE

1.) Moregone was the smallest and least important of all the Thirteen Principalities. When it disappeared, it was some time before the rest of the world noticed. It is thought to have happened in the Fall, sometime between the artichoke and crabapple seasons.
The Eleventh Principality is tucked between the Shield Mountains. It is possible, nay prudent, to travel the Pilgrim Road directly from the Tenth and Twelfth Principalities. Few travelers have reason to turn onto the winding muddy roads to Moregone, and since the demand for artichokes and crabapples is limited at the best of times, those reasons usually entail visits from family members who escaped the clutches of Moregone long ago, but feel duty bound to return occasionally and check on their forlorn relatives.
The founders of the Principalities originally envisioned twelve realms, completely forgetting the existence of Moregone. It was only because Rupart the Perceptible, the greatest of all of Moregone’s rulers—well, at least the only one anyone could ever remember—reminded them.
Personally, I like Moregone. No one bothers me there. I have a small house on a cliff, accessible only by foot, and I’m never visited by the neighbors who believe me to be a monk of the Mirror God, since who else would be crazy enough to choose to live there?
Fortunately, or unfortunately, I was away on business when Moregone vanished. Indeed, I may have been the first to notice it was gone.
I was thinking about other things when I turned aside, so when the road to Moregone circled back to where I started, I thought at first it was my inattention. I paid much more notice to the second attempt, and still ended back on the Pilgrim Road.
I stopped a passerby. The fat merchant had three bodyguards who eyed me warily as I approached, but I am an unimposing figure when I wish to be (though, of course, an imposing figure when necessary).
“Excuse me, sir. Do you know what has happened to the road to Moregone? Have they moved it?”
His face screwed up in puzzlement. “Moregone?”
Moregone is not so much a Forgotten Land with all the romance of that moniker, but more a land that people just didn’t remember.
“The Eleventh Principality,” I prompted.
“Ah, I have always intended to visit, but I always seem to forget. No, sir. I have no knowledge of such a thing.”
I resolved then and there to resolve the mystery.
As it happens, I am an unofficial advisor to the Fourth Prince. I requested an audience with Cambral and after a short wait, I was ushered into the grand hall. He sat disheveled, unshaven and unbathed at a little desk in the corner, covered by papers weighted down to keep them from being blown away by the winds of the cavernous room.
He heard me out, and then shrugged. “You probably just forgot where it is.”
I must admit, this had been my fear at first. Years went by without remembering my vacation home. It usually took some traumatic event to remind me of its peace and oblivion.
“I assure you, Your Highness, I have searched most assiduously.”
“Well, I’m sure it will show up one of these days…”
I decided to appeal to the only thing Cambral cared about—commerce. “But in the meantime, there will be a shortage of artichokes and crabapples.”
“Oh, dear,” he said in the most mild of tones. “What do you want of me, Just?”
Evard Just is my common name, the one I prefer. I adopted it when first arriving in these lands, before the Principalities even existed. It was so long ago that it took some effort to remember some of my earlier names.
“I would like to mount an expedition,” I said. “Perhaps come at it from the other side of the mountains?”
“You wish to circle the Shield Wall?”
“If necessary.”
“Why? If this realm is so unimportant that no one misses it.”
“It is not well known, for the inhabitants of Moregone are a humble folk who wish only to be left alone to farm, but there is—at the very farthest corner—a red obsidian mine which has not yet been completely excavated.”
This wasn’t true, as far as I knew, but I doubted artichokes and crabapples were enough to interest a Prince.
“Red obsidian?” The precious stone was the only material that could harness the dragons. That there didn’t appear to be any dragons left in the world only made the stone more desirable. A Prince with a red obsidian broach or hilt or shield was considered a first among equals.
“And more, who know what riches and wonders we might find beyond the Shield Wall?”
My own knowledge was hazy, lost in the past, though I seemed to remember great cities and nations, most of which made the Thirteen Principalities appear provincial.
“I will pay for half such an expedition if you can find another Prince to subsidize the other half. But in return, for being first, I want seventy percent of everything you bring back.”
“Fifty percent,” I countered.
“Sixty.”
I bowed my head in agreement. Prince Cambral could change his mind with tick of a clock.
A second investor might find those terms to be onerous, but then again, I didn’t need to mention it. It would be all sorted out upon my return. I could, if necessary, supply the other half of the expedition’s needs, but I have a rule against using my own money.
There was someone else who I thought might want to save Moregone.

A little side project: Moregone, a blog story.

The little blog story of "Moregone" has sort of taken off on me.

My intention was to write a little 250 to 750 word spurt every morning, just before or just after I write in my blog, bringing the same sort of energy, and not worrying about a thing. Just little it flow. Not writing it until I get that little nugget of an idea, and then writing it without any filter whatsoever.

I have no idea where this is going. Or if it will peter out.

But my sense is that it is going to turn into a novella and because of that, I've decided to go ahead and publish it section by section on this blog.

I'm hoping some of you will enjoy it.

When the creative is compulsive.

So I finish "Shadows Over Summer House." I tell myself to take a week off, or longer, recharge my batteries, make sure whatever project on embark on is the one I want to see through.

Hell, I'm still doing a final read-thru, not even done.

Wake up this morning with a "Tale of the Thirteen Principalities."

The story of Moregone, a land not so much forgotten, as simply not remembered. 1000 words later, I'm tickled. It's fun and a little funny and intriguing.

So much for giving myself a break. This seems to be my pattern. I can't let more than a day or two go by without writing something. I'm not forcing it, it just happens. It doesn't even matter if it goes anywhere, as long as it is creative.

What's really weird is that I managed to spend 25 years running Pegasus Books telling myself that the world didn't need any more books, that no one would miss my books, that all is vanity, all is forgotten in the long run.

All true.

But...once I came back, I've been compulsive, the need to spin words just overtakes me.

I've written a blog for about 12 years now, and for the first six years or so it was a creative outlet for me. Not fiction, but still words. It probably even spurred me to writing fiction, as the compulsion took hold.

So whether my books sell or not, of whether anyone read me or not, it doesn't really matter.

The compulsion to be creative is overwhelming.

The "Ready Player One" backlash.

I read "Ready Player One" and enjoyed it and wasn't quite prepared for the critical backlash. Yes, the constant cultural references were annoying at first, but I just skipped over those. Yes, it was all fanboy wish fulfillment, but what's wrong with that?

The problems with the book are bigger than that.

SLIGHT SPOILERS, overall story arc, no details.


 

It has a young white boy, who is completely marginalized by his nerdity, who revels in his nerdity, who because of his esoteric fanboy knowledge, wins the game, and fame and fortune, and most importantly the magic pixie dream girl.

So I can see-- if you really want to over-intellectualize it--that might not be politically correct.

I would suggest if you want to filter this book through political and cultural criticism that you ignore the book, don't read it, it's quite obviously about as unrealistic a novel as could be written.

At the same time, strangely, I have had a similar problem with science-fiction novels for a long time now.

This first started happening about twenty years ago as I started to realize that many of the Heinlein-esque novels I was reading had the tendency to glorify elite skills--not only that, but to actively disdain anyone who didn't have those skills.

These were the same ideas the pervaded the Golden Age of SF, lots of it coming from the John W. Campbell version of the universe, where the good guys are always white men overcoming all obstacles, all aliens, all other cultures.

What had been fun and triumphant when I was younger starter to feel off as I got older. I'm not technological proficient, but I still feel like I bring something to the game. And this overwhelming sense of superiority started to seem more like defensiveness, of getting back at the larger culture who didn't understand them.

At the same time, a sense of insularity, of "WE" have our own little world that is better than everyone else but no one understand us.

This has metastasized over the last few years, with Gamergate and Rabid Puppies and other movements that are toxic.

As a reader, I do find some SF to be relentlessly preachy, but I don't have to read it if I don't want to, and I feel like these writers have every reason to exist and are in fact an antidote to the culture that has dominated SF for so long.

Meanwhile, what I actually read probably falls mostly in the middle of these two extremes, or if I read books that are out of my comfort zone, I give them a pass.

It will all settle out in the end, I'm sure.

Final Read Thru

Going to spend the next five days reading "Shadows Over Summer House."

I'm trying not to see this as a chore, but as a pleasure. Just read, not really change anything unless it leaps out at me, try not to rush it, just try to get absorbed.

This is very hard for me. I've always had difficulty reading my own books.

When I used to pick up Star Axe or Snowcastles or Icetowers and read a page at random, all I could see were the things I did wrong.

I will say this--if I read a random page of "Snaked" or "Tuskers" or "Led to the Slaughter" or almost any of my modern books, I don't have that reaction. In fact, I often think, "Wow...I wrote that. That's pretty good. I don't remember writing that!"

But I don't believe I've ever sat down and read one of my books beginning to end after I was finished with the writing process.

Linda is reading the Tuskers series right now. Just started reading it, which is amazingly affirming.

This latest book came out the way it came out. I'm not going to argue with it. I'm going more and more with what comes natural and not second guessing it. Sometimes being intellectual about a story works, but just as often it doesn't.

I trust that it works.