FATEPLAY, a new story.

Spent four days not writing, not sure what I wanted to write next.

On the fifth day I woke up with the first 3 paragraphs of a story. I sat down and eight hours later I got up having written 10,000 words. Yes, 10,000 words. Got up the next day and wrote 8000 words.

Crazy. I absolutely love it, and not only isn't the speed of writing not hurting the story, it seems to be helping it. 

Linda says, "This one seems to have a little extra umphh. I can follow and see it all. It has a life."

The tentative title is "FATEPLAY," and it involves a future world of Larping and Cosplay where just about everyone goes about their daily life dressed as a character and Larping conventions are a very big deal.

It is a total daydream. I'm sort of learning to do what I want, if that makes sense.

Thing is, while I'm a nerd, I never could quite get into role-playing. For one thing, it always seemed to me to be the same energy I use for writing and the first time I saw D & D, I was already a writer.

The Cosplay is a little too out-there for me. I'm a very buttoned down person, not terribly flamboyant. My usual desire is to fit in.

But because of owning a comic/pop-culture store for 35 years I'm somewhat conversant with all the little bits of nerdism that are at play.

Specificity of Larping is going to be a bit of a problem, but I'm setting it twenty years in the future so I'm giving myself the ability to flat out make it up.

For details, I'll be going on Youtube and researching it online.

But, right or wrong, I'm writing the story first--I'll add in the specific Larping sessions later.

It really comes down to character and tone, and this story has those in spades.

MOREGONE, complete.

All the chapters of Moregone have been posted on my blog. A little over 30,000 word novella.

This is how a first draft looks, more or less in real time. It's all mostly there, with typos and inconsistencies and all the rest. It was a joy to write, my fourth complete "Tale of the Thirteenth Principality."

As I've mentioned, I intend to write a bunch of these before I officially publish them, because I'm fleshing out the world and want to spread all that over all the stories.

This is my entree into fantasy since I couldn't face building a whole world in advance. This way I world-build and tell stories at the same time.

MOREGONE, a blog story, Epilogue (the end.)

Epilogue.) The time came for us to leave. I made my way to the great tree where the torn down shed once stood. It appeared to be nothing more than an ancient but healthy crabapple tree. The villagers had erected a small shrine at the base, but I ignored it. Seed to me was a friend, not a God.

I touched the bark with the palm of my hand.

“Farewell, Seed. For what is a person but the sum of their memories? You have returned myself to me. Thank you.”

There was no answer nor did I expect one. The giant tree had not moved sense the day of the battle.

Yet…I felt something move up my hand and down my arm and into my heart.

A lightening of my burdens, just a little.

*  *  *

We found the two bags of gems, and since we had extra room on the pack mules, we loaded up what artichokes we could harvest from the neglected fields. To our great surprise, the crop proved to be almost as lucrative to the expedition as the precious stones. While we were gone, the shortage of artichokes had finally been noticed, and they were considered a precious commodity.

Also remembered was the Eleventh Principality. No one looked confused when we mentioned Moregone, and no one seemed aware that they had ever forgotten.

The path to the Tenth Principality was clear and straight, and followed the contours that I remembered.

In the end, I was able to convince all the backers of the caravan to accept smaller percentages than originally agreed. That it was still a very profitable enterprise helped. The merchant, Jonder Maze, who had so loved artichokes that he’d financed half of the expedition, offered me great riches if I would bring back artichokes cuttings to be grown in the Fifth Principality. I respectfully declined, for I had learned my lesson.

As the members of the caravan told their stories, they were disappointed to find that no one believed them. To most of the inhabitants of the principalities, Moregone had never been missing, therefore it never needed to be found. No one believes the story about Shatterspawn the dragon; everyone knows dragons are extinct. At the same time, all talk of an “outside” is—as has always been so--instantly dismissed and forgotten.

Not forgotten were the memories the Beginning Tree granted me.

I had always been known as The Eternal Wanderer. It was at this time that I gained another title: Keeper of Memories.

Now everywhere I wander people ask me questions, and I answer when and where I think it is helpful and decline to speak where it isn’t. Most people accept this mystery, just as they accept the other mysteries of the Thirteen Principalities.

Though I rebuilt my vacation home in Carsan. The Beginning Tree never seems to grow very large, and only occasionally bears fruit. But the orchards surrounding are thriving and the crabapples, which had once been an afterthought in the Thirteen Principalities, were now considered a delicacy.

I wander the lands, the Keeper of Memories, and wonder when the Mirror God will once again emerge to wipe clean the memories of the people of this land.

I intend to be here afterwards to remind them of what they’ve lost.

The poppy fields are gone and forgotten, replaced by artichokes, as it should be.

Every once in a while, a bright red flower pops up among the fields, plucked by the people of Moregone as weeds. They are a reminder to me, if no one else, that outside the Thirteen Principalities is a world outside that would overwhelm us if it could.

It is up to the Keeper of Memories to keep that from happening.

The End

MOREGONE, a blog story, 24.)

24.) As I reached the open area between the orchard and the shed, I stopped running. My people were outside, lined up against the rough planks. The Outsiders were formed in a firing line of bowmen, and Martin was to one side, his hand raised. The villagers surrounded both groups, watching helplessly.

They looked defeated, demoralized.

When I appeared, I saw both alarm and relief in the eyes of my people. I walked confidently up to Martin and Carter.

“I’m ready to tell you what you want to know,” I said.

Martin shook his head. “Too easy, boss. Put a few arrows into his people and see what he says then.”

“If you do that, I won’t tell you anything,” I said. For a few seconds I tricked myself into thinking I’d turned the blackmail upside down.

Carter eyed me. Then he walked up to me and punched me in the stomach. I bent in half and retched. Exposed, he slammed his boot into my face. When the pain faded, I was on my back and the big man was looming over me.

“Too bad you didn’t tell me what I wanted to know last night,” Carter said. “Now I’ve got to make an example of you.” He motioned for a couple of his men to lift me to my feet. “Put him against the wall. Move aside people.”

I saw the will to fight in Marston and Tomber’s eyes. But since their hands were still tied, I shook my head firmly. I was slammed against the loose planks, managed to stay on my feet.

Martin chose three of the bowmen to face me.

Memories flooded my mind as they had when I was falling from the mountain, but instead of being confusing, each image was distinct and yet part of the whole, each following the other, fitting neatly into the story of my life. It should have taken hours, days, or weeks for so many memories to unfold and yet in that time, I saw Martin just beginning to raise his arm.

I’m not sure why I wasn’t afraid except I saw how little my own life mattered.

Not only my own memories were gifted. I was given a true history of this world from its beginning, for the Beginning Tree—or the Being that inhabited it—had been alive from the beginning of life. So I learned everything that had ever happened.

My human mind couldn’t contain it all. But these memories existed outside of me and I could dip into them and see them any time I wanted.  

Distantly, I heard a murmuring sound. It was coming from the villagers, who were turning away and looking outward.

Martin hesitated, then put his palm out and slowly lowered his hand. “Form a line!” he shouted. He grabbed several of the bowmen and turned them around to face the new threat.

The villagers parted.

 Seed had grown into a tree, tall and broad, branches thick and strong, dark blue green leaves with sharp edges. Roots sprouted from beneath the trunk, and the roots moved as if they were legs. If I had not known Seed perhaps I wouldn’t have seen the eyes far up the trunk, or the knot where his nose had been, or the slash in the wood that would be his mouth.  

He walked slowly but gulped up the ground in great strides. Arrows flew toward the brown behemoth, most bouncing off, some managing to penetrate the bark. Seed didn’t seem hurt.

He reached the first of the Outsiders, swept down with a leafy branch and the humans tumbled away, lacerated by the leaves, shouting until they landed and then lying quiet.

Seed stopped and stared down at the Outsiders, many of who were dropping their bows and their swords and backing away.

The villagers had watched with open mouths as Seed approached, nowturned on their imprisoners, who were quickly overwhelmed. Most of my people had freed themselves and were joining the fray.

Carter had neglected to tie my hands, secure that he had me firmly in control. As one of the guards backed away from the carnage, I stripped him of his sword and ran at the big man, who turned in time to ward off my first blow.

Martin was a few feet away, fighting a swirling red dervish. Lady Favory was the best sword fighter I’d ever seen. Marston was in the middle of the melee, using the legs of a chair as a club. Tomber strode amongst the villagers, urging them on.

Carter removed a dark object from his belt and pointed it at me.

A gun, came the memory. There was no chance of reaching him in time.

He pulled the trigger. There was a loud click, heard even above the fighting, and then he threw the useless weapon at my head. My sword pierced him in the middle of his chest. He grunted, grabbed the blade with his bare hands, which slid along the length, leaving a red streak on the metal.

I withdrew the blade and he swayed for a few moments, fell to his knees, and then over onto his side.

Martin was still somehow warding off Favory, but as I watched, her blade swished across his throat, and a crescent of blood sprayed outward.

The rest of the Outsiders were clumped together in the middle of the fight, backs to each other, surrounded by villagers and caravaners.

“Surrender!” I shouted, striding toward them. “Throw down your weapons and you’ll live!”

The Outsiders didn’t hesitate. Overzealous villagers clubbed one or two, but the battle was over. They were rounded up and placed inside the shed. I decided they didn’t need to be tied up. They were completely beaten.

When I stepped out again, the villagers were in a circle around Seed, on their knees, their heads down. Seed’s roots seemed to be firmly planted into the ground. I looked for his eyes, but they were gone. I had the sense that the Seed I’d known was gone, replaced by something older.

Hiemhol rose from the circle and approached the tree, putting his hand on the bark. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

Something struck me on the top of my head. Next to me, Tomber cursed, looking up. Apples rained down on us. It stung a little, but it probably served us right.

As one, the villagers gathered the apples and approached the shed.

“What are you doing?” I asked, afraid they were going to hurt the Outsiders, who I’d given a promise of safety.

“As we are commanded,” Heimhol said. “The strangers must forget this place and return from where they came.”

I nodded to Marston and Tomber to let them by, and then followed curiously. The Outsiders were naturally suspicious, but they didn’t have any choice. One by one, they bit into the apples.

Nothing happened at first. But late in the morning, one of them came out of the shed. Marston challenged him, but it was as if he didn’t hear. He went into one of the houses and started packing. One by one, the others emerged, none of them seeming aware of their surroundings, certainly not of the villagers and caravaners who watched.

They put on their backpacks and walked away from Carsan, disappearing into the Shield Mountains.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 23.)

23.) Hands tied, we were led to a large shed on the other side of the poppy fields, which hadn’t been visible from Carsan. It was crudely built and the slats were loosely fitted. The most work had been done on the roof, which looked sturdy. There were long benches down the middle of the open interior, where the extracted sap of the poppies was being refined.

The sun was falling below the horizon, but it was still possible to see.

As soon as I was pushed to the dirt floor, my back to the wall, Carter and Martin stood over me, discussing our fate. Those who’d sat at my table were separated from the rest of my crew, who where at the other end of the shed. Marston, Favory, and Tomber were tossed down beside me. 

It was clear that our captors didn’t care if we overheard. It was probably meant to intimidate. As far as they were concerned I was a coward, who’d given up at the first sign of a fight.

Maybe I was a coward, but there was no way we would have won that battle, and even if by some miracle we’d came out on top, many of us wouldn’t have survived.

“What do we do with them?” Martin asked.

“Put them to work, of course,” Carter said.

“I don’t think these people are like the natives. Look at Evard—he looks like he wants to roast us over that spit.”

“We’ll give them some of the product,” Carter said, shrugging. “That’ll tame them.”

“We do that and they’ll be useless. Have you tried this stuff? It’s got half our own people addicted. I’m ready to send them back over the mountains.”

“They work or they starve. What else are we going to do… kill them?”

Martin didn’t answer. As the truth began to sink in, a third man burst into the shed. He nearly ran to where Martin and Carter were standing.

“Look at this!” he shouted. His hands were trembling as he opened them. With the light slanting through the slates, I saw flashes of red and green. “There are two bags full of this stuff!”

Carter knelt down beside me, grabbed me by the neck and wrenched. “Where did you get these?”

“You can have them,” I said. “Just let us go.”

“Oh, we’ll keep them all right. But there have to be more where these came from.”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t going to let them find Inhut, nor did I want them anywhere near the Thirteen Principalities. Moregone was a mystery to them, but these men hadn’t quite figured out yet just how far they were from their normal world.

“We are going to find out,” Martin said, his voice calm and measured. “There are twenty-three of you. I don’t think it will take long before one of you gives it up. So why don’t you just save us the time.”

It was Marston who answered. “Even if we tell you, you’ll never enter.”

As soon as he said it, I knew he was right. The Goddess of the Gate was between them and the Thirteen Principalities and she would never let them pass. But that wouldn’t keep them from trying. “Let me think about it. Let me talk it over with my people.”

“You’ll tell us now,” Martin said.

“Let him think on it,” Carter said. “Too late to do anything today anyway. Giving you a chance, Evard. Don’t blow it.”

They left us alone with the guards. No one said anything. Darkness descended and even the flickering light of the campfires faded. Despite the discomfort of the ropes around my wrists and ankles, I fell asleep.

A sharp tug on my leg woke me. Something was crawling toward me. I almost cried out, but the shadow somehow looked familiar.

“Seed?” I whispered.

He opened his mouth in a smile, and his jagged teeth seemed to absorb all the available moonlight. He bent down over my hands and started chewing at the bindings. I realized my legs were already free.

Seed made short work of the ropes. 

“Come with me,” he whispered.

I sat up, looked around for the guards. If they were in the shed, they were sleeping. Everything was quiet. Seed tugged on my hands insistently.

From beside me, Marston whispered, “What about me? What about the rest of us?”

Seed shook his head—I wasn’t sure how I knew this, for it was too dark to make out individual movements. I’d have to trust him, especially since my knife had been taken and if my own trusses were any indication, it would be difficult to untie anyone else quickly.

“I’ll be back,” I said. “Lay low.”

I crawled after Seed, who scrambled on all fours, yet didn’t make a sound. I bumped into a sleeping body, and froze, waiting for whoever it was to wake up. The figure didn’t move. I nudged him again and realized it was one of the guards and he would never move again.

Seed pried one of the planks from the side of the shed and slipped out. I squeezed through after him with a bit more difficulty as he waited impatiently.

We were on the opposite side of the shed. The overgrown crabapple orchards were only a few dozen feet away. As we scurried across the gap, I saw a dark figure lying prone on the ground. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or unconscious, but either way, I knew that we’d pay the price in the morning.

I wondered why I was putting so much faith in Seed. This entire mission had seemed preordained, its members selected by someone other than me, the events guided by some higher power. I’d never put much stock in the Mirror God, who seemed to be mostly absent in the day-to-day lives of the citizens of the Thirteen Principalities. Absent, that is, until the God decided to erase everyone’s memories to start again.

The orchard was dark, and I stumbled several times on fallen branches. Seed finally took my hand, guiding me. By the time we emerged into a clearing, dawn was stirring, bathing everything in a ghostly light.

At the center of the clearing was a small crabapple tree, not much more than a seedling. Its top branches were bent, weighed down by a pair of large crabapples.

Seed stood before the tree reverently. He reached out and plucked one of the two apples. He handed it to me. It felt twice as big as a normal crabapple and was bright green.

“Eat it,” Seed said. “Stem and seed.”

I didn’t hesitate but bit into the fruit.

I expected it to be tart, even sour. But instead the sweet flavor burst upon my tongue, coated my mouth, and as I swallowed, it soothed my throat and filled my belly. I closed my eyes and groaned in pleasure.

The memories came. Not like they had in the Cave of Waterfalls, fuzzy and overwhelming, but fresh and clear. These memories were true, clear-eyed, without any of the intervening rationalizations or mythologizing. Everything I had ever known, in both lifetimes, filled my mind.

But one long-ago memory stood out.

I’d recently come to Moregone for the first time. I liked its backwardness, the stalwart ignorance of its people. They didn’t know who I was and didn’t care. I stayed for a time, learning to love all the ways that artichokes and crabapples could be served. Even then I was a merchant, looking for ways to make money.

So one day as I wandered through the well organized orchards I saw a clearing where a single apple tree stood apart from the others. It didn’t appear to be anything special; little more than a sapling.

I was leaving the next morning. I came back with a shovel and dug up the sapling with as much of the roots as I could, and loaded it into a burlap bag. When I drove away that afternoon, the tree was in the back of my wagon, unnoticed by any of the inhabitants.

I never thought much of it, frankly. It was a convenient size and appeared healthy. I thought it would make a good beginning to my own orchard.

Seed looked up at me as the truth washed over me, his eyes sad.

 “I’m sorry, Seed,” I gasped. “I didn’t know.”

I had taken the Beginning Tree, from which all the other trees came. Without the Beginning Tree, the orchards had slowly dwindled, become sickly. Each year the harvest had been less, and I had been oblivious to it all. Without it, without the connection to the Mirror God, to the land of its origins, the people of Moregone began to forget.

It had taken years before a new Father Tree sprouted, and by the time it did, none of the Moregoneians noticed or cared.

“Go to your people,” Seed said. “They’ll be waking soon.”

“Who are you?” I asked the boy. “What are you?”

He didn’t answer but reached out and plucked the second of the apples. He brought it to his mouth, then hesitated. He didn’t look like a boy anymore, but a wizened old man, shrunken. How had I not seen that?

He opened his mouth again, which suddenly seemed wider than his face, and swallowed the apple whole. He munched it once, twice, and then it was gone.

“Go, Evard the Just,” he commanded, pointing with a long finger. “Your people need you.”

From beyond the trees I heard shouts, both of anger and fear.

I turned and ran. As I reached the edge of the clearing, I looked back. Seed stood taller than the sapling, and even in that brief glance, he appeared to grow another few inches.

Screams rose from the village and, shaking my head, I plunged into the orchard.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 22.)

22.) It is a tradition with the force of law in the Thirteen Principalities that one does not bring a weapon when invited to a meal. Nevertheless, I took aside Favory, Tomber, Marston, and Toug and told them to secrete a knife on their persons.

Toug grinned and removed his meat cleaver from his pack mule. “I don’t go anywhere without my tool.”

Tomber took his sword and sheath and shoved it down the leg of his pants. His legs were so long, he only had to limp a little. Farvory wore a long dress and gave me a wink. And Marston, well, he always wore his long knife no matter where he went.

I wore a coat, with my knife tucked into my belt at the back.

Viccare stood behind Favory, so quiet that you wouldn’t know he was there. From somewhere, he’d produced a blue cloak again. He apparently thought he was a Blue Pilgrim once more. I gave him a questioning look.

“I have no need of the weapon. What I possess, I give freely.”

I stared into Viccare’s weather beaten face, so different from the callow young man I’d first met. There was fervor in his eyes that made me uncomfortable.

“They who are weak, shall also be strong,” he added.

Favory rolled her eyes, but put her arm around him protectively. He didn’t shrug her off. Apparently, he’d forgiven her—or she’d forgiven him—I wasn’t sure which was the more likely.

All my people owned weapons of course; knives, staffs, bows, and a few old battered swords handed down through the families. Since whatever bands of brigands we were likely to confront on a expedition were not any better armed, our caravan was left alone. I’d learned the hard way that any party of less than a dozen was vulnerable, under twenty-five might be attack by surprise, but over about thirty armed caravaners and most ill-doers thought better of attacking.

But I saw no way to warn the rest of my people without the secret getting out, so they went to meal dressed in their finest, excited to be in civilization again, even if merely a rude village, and they went as guests, unarmed.

I immediately had second thoughts upon reaching the village center. There were at least twenty of the foreigners, all of them men, and all of them rough looking. They were openingly carrying swords and bows. I caught Marston eyeing the bows, for they were like nothing he’d have ever seen—nothing he’d have ever dreamed of, made of materials he wouldn’t recognize, more powerful than any bow made of natural materials.

But I’d still bet on Marston in an archery contest; especially if my life depended on that bet.

I was angry with myself. We weren’t in the Thirteen Principalities, or rather, Moregone seemed to have forgotten—these strangers neither knew nor cared about our traditions.

A large boar was roasting on a spit at the center of the square and crude tables were set up around it, some just planks of wood set at varying levels of support. Toug immediately broke off from the rest of us and approached the cooks pouring seasonings over the meat. He pulled out his cleaver and the two men backed away; Toug was a menacing sight at the best of times.

Whatever Toug said to them seem to placate them.

Carter was at the biggest table and motioned me and my immediate circle over.

As we took our seats, I noticed that none of the Moregonians would look us newcomers in the eye. In fact, only a few were sitting down—most were moving about slowly, occupied in the tasks of preparing and serving the meals.

A loud clatter, followed by an angry shout, came from one of the homes surrounding the square. A woman came flying out of the doorway, landing in the dirt and rolling. One of the Outsiders came out and stood over her yelling, his fist clenched.

It was as if the entire village of Moregoneians tensed at that moment, most of them staring at the ground, picking up the pace of their chores.

They’re slaves. None of the Outsiders are doing anything but standing around or sitting and talking.

Tomber gave me a long look from across the table that told me he was thinking the same thing.

It all added up. The neglect to the village, the downcast demeanor of the Moregoneians, the need for the poppy fields to be harvested.

Four more of Carter’s companions came over and sat at our table. As our meal was served, our talk was stilted at first, and it was clear that both sides were holding back, both feeling out the other. The pork slices began showing up, cut cleanly by Toug’s cleaver, his special ministrations obvious from the taste.

Carter whistled and gave me a look. “Is this the fat guy’s cooking?”

I nodded. “Toug is renowned throughout the principalities.”

Carter gave one of his men across from him a strange look and nodded slightly. Something was decided, and though I wasn’t sure what, it made me nervous. As the meal progressed and wine was consumed, the tension relaxed; though both the Outsiders and the caravaners spoke mostly to their own kind.

I tried to bridge the gap. “How did you find Moregone?”

“Prospecting,” Carter said, “in the most inhospitable place on earth. Could only get to it with lamas, which then died on me. None of my stuff would work, so I stumbled around the deep gorges of the mountains,” he waved vaguely toward the Shield Mountains. “I was on my last legs when I found a narrow crevice and found my way here. The people nursed me back to health. As soon as I recovered, I went back for help. Damned if I could find this place again. It took me years. Finally stumbled on it, but the path seemed completely different. This time I made sure I marked the path.”

I nodded. As the Thirteen Principalities forgot Moregone, a breach was made to the outside world. Moregone was in-between. While decades appeared to have passed since I’d been here, it had been the opposite for the Outsiders—from their perspective, little time had passed. It made me wonder just how much had changed in the world I’d come from since I’d left.

Perhaps, if I returned, it would be as if I was never gone.

“Took me years to bring my people,” Carter continued, “but when I returned, it was as if nothing had happened here. Took me some time to figure out how to make use of the land and labor available, but then I realized that if I couldn’t find this place then neither could the authorities. This land grows the best opium poppies I’ve ever seen. The potency is off the scales.”

It bothered me that he thought so little of my opinion that he told me of these things. I could almost see the challenge in his eyes.

The last of the servings was apple pie, which melted upon the tongue.

“Apple pie again?” one of the Outsiders complained.

“It’s the last of our sugar,” Carter said. “So you’d best enjoy it.”

“It’s too bad we can’t get any machines to work,” an Outsider said to the man next to him. He wasn’t bothering to lower his voice. “Martin got a generator working for about five seconds this morning, so maybe that’s changing.”

“Yeah, I’d feel a lot better with a few guns,” the other mans said. There aren’t enough of us to watch them all the time. If they should ever decide to band together—well, I wouldn’t bet on our chances. Knives against knives, bows against bows—numbers tell. But a nice rifle would even the odds.”

I couldn’t help it—I turned and gave them a look.

Someone slapped me on the back, and I looked over my shoulder in shock. It was the man they called Martin, who I’d judge to be second-in-command.

“Did you see that, Carter? This fella seems to understand what we’re saying.”

“Does he now?” Carter turned in his seat to look me up and down. “What do you know about machines, Evard? Or guns?”

I shrugged as if I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “Castle Bernan in the Fifth Principality has a clockwork knight who rides a clockwork horse,” I ventured. “I’ve heard it described as a “machine.”

“Bullshit,” Carter said.

For the third time in my life, I heard Marston laugh. The gravel sound was threatening somehow, and all five of the Outsiders at our table glanced at him. I wasn’t even sure if Marston had ever heard the expression, but he sensed it was disrespectful. He pulled out his long knife. “I’ve had enough of your bullying ways. Why are the villagers not sitting with us?”

As one, the rest of us caravaners rose from our table, drawing our weapons.

Belatedly, I realized how inadequate my plans had been. While my nearest companions had weapons, none of my other people did. If we fought, the others would suffer.

From out of nearby houses, more Outsiders emerged, swords and bows in hand.  I’d underestimated how many of them there were. There were at least as many as were of my party, twenty-five or more, though this was nowhere near the number of villagers.

The inhabitants of Moregone had never been in a war, not so much as a skirmish as far as I knew. They held to the old democratic ways, voting on changes. Violence was almost unheard of, what little there was sparked by the hard cider they made from their main crop.

I’m not sure what would have happened then—or that I could have stopped the fighting even if I wanted, but at that moment, I heard a loud, quavering voice from behind me. I turned in surprise to see Viccare standing on top of the table, declaiming as if he was in school.

“They who are first, shall also be last.

 They who are stern, shall also be kind.

 They who are cursed, shall also be blessed.”

By the third stanza his voice grew strong. Everyone stood frozen. It was clear the Outsiders didn’t know what to make of it.

“They who are mistrusted, shall also be believed.

 They who are foolish, shall also be wise.”

It was clear that the Blue Pilgrim—for that was what he was—planned on reciting all thirteen of the Oaths of the Covenant. I glanced at Carter, who had a frown on his face, but didn’t look like he was planning to do anything yet.

“They who hate, shall also love.

 They who are innocent, shall also see the truth.”

 They who are weak, shall also be strong.”

The villagers stirred at the words, gathering together, staring at the pilgrim as if remembering the Covenant for the first time in a long time. This was why the Mirror God had sent Viccare, I realized. The villagers were being called back, their memories restored.

“They who are low, shall also be high.

 They who are scorned, shall also be honored.

The villagers began to look around them. Some were reaching for the blunt knives on the table, others were fashioning clubs. Viccare’s voice was rising to a triumphant shout.

“They who are far, shall also be near!

 They who forget, shall also remember!”

I looked around at the tableau as if I could see the coming fight—the villagers looking suddenly resolute, my own people starting to realize they were in a fight—and no matter how the possibilities played out, I couldn’t see us winning, even with the help of the villagers.

“They who are last, shall also be…”

Viccare voice stopped suddenly. For a few seconds it was eerily quiet. I turned to see a red flower blooming from Viccare’s blue robe, him staring down, his voice trying to find air. A large knife protruded from the center of the red bloom.

Martin’s chair was kicked back, his arm still extended. “Shut your mouth.”

Viccare gasped his last words, which were only audible because of the absolute silence.

“The Covenant is fulfilled.”

His legs went out from under him. He folded, almost neatly, landing lengthwise along the table as if it was his coffin, and stopped moving.

Favory jumped up, threw her body over his. Her movement disguised her drawing of a long sharp knife from under her dress. Tomber also stood, fumbling with his trousers, trying to extract his sword.

But surrounding us were Outsiders, their arrows nocked and bowstrings already drawn.

I put both of my hands up, palms out, to signal to my people. “Lay down your weapons,” I shouted into the shocked vacuum. It was probably the only time I would have have a chance to stop the carnage. Whatever happened from here on, I knew that we could not win this battle.

Even my own people resisted for a moment, then one by one, they threw down their makeshift weapons. Then, shoulders slumping, tears flowing down their faces, the villagers joined them.

I turned to Carter, who only now did I realize had a knife just inches from my throat.

“We surrender.”

MOREGONE, a blog story, 21.)

21.) I took the lead this time, alongside Marston. When Favory saw what I was doing, she jostled her way to the front. I had a sense of urgency—not danger so much as time was passing and with it our chances of finding the truth.

As I crossed the natural bridge, Tomber emerged from the waterfall, drenched, his long hair dripping. He looked surprised to see us.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“You’ve been gone for over a day,” I said.

“But I…” he looked back into the cave, as if the answer lay there.

“What did you find?” I asked, as he trailed off.

“There is an exit on the other side. As soon as I saw a crabapple tree, I returned.” Again he looked back into veil of the waterfall as if confused. “I was only inside for a few minutes.”

More memory tricks.

But whether from whatever afflicted Moregone, or from the Mirror God, or the Goddess of the Gate was impossible to tell. No doubt they were all linked. I saw no choice be to go forward if Moregone was near.

The cave behind the waterfall was wide and low, mostly natural though it was clear that tools had shaped parts of it. We had no lanterns, so within a short time, we were in the dark.

“I don’t like this,” Marston muttered. “We’re likely to walk right into a crevasse.”

I drew my sword and poked it ahead of me, hoping it would give me at least a small warning. But the path was smooth and straight, as if it had been designed for traveling blind, which was reassuring.

I’m not sure how long we’d been walking, all of us silent. The huffing of the mules, the squeaking of leather harnesses, footsteps upon stone, that all we could hear. At least we’d be able to hear someone coming, or so I thought.

A flash of light seemed to burst behind my eyeslids. It was as if a flashlight had been directed into my eyes.

Flashlight…I knew what that was. I knew it was artificial, what would seem magic in the Thirteen Principalities but was coming from where I came. Another flash of light struck me, and I remembered my childhood home—a huge house, almost like a palace, with gables and balconies and wide windows. I’m young, looking outside, as a carriage approaches—and the carriage isn’t drawn by animals but propels itself.

A loud boom sounded in my ears, the sound of a gunshot, of a backfire, of machine parts. I stopped dead in my tracks. It was clear no one else had heard it.

“What’s wrong?” Marston asked.

“Don’t you feel that?”

“I feel a small breeze coming toward us, which is reassuring,” Marston said, sounding puzzled. I realized that my voice had been tight, alarmed.

Favory said, “I feel homesick. Let’s turn around, Evard. Let Moregone remain lost…who cares?”

“We cannot go back,” Viccare’s voice floated through the air like a ghost. “The Mirror God wills it.”

Memories of two worlds assailed me, equally familiar, equally fresh. It was as if I stepped outside myself—no, as if there were two of me standing side by side. I was paralyzed by the contradictions, not sure which body to animate, but finally I took a step and my legs merged, another step and we were joined at the waist, another step and I was one again.

The memories of both worlds were still there, but not all at once, not in full force. I could access them as I willed.

As we continued on, I thought of both of my pasts—and one thing became clear to me. Despite the miracles and inventions of my first life, I far preferred my life in the Thirteen Principalities. Despite the quarrels between realms, nothing rose to the harshness of that first world, the wholesale slaughter of life; vegetable, animal, and most of all, human. Destruction on a grand scale, such that would horrify even the martial inhabitants of the First Principality, who felt it was their destiny to rule over us all. I understood suddenly why there was a Goddess of the Gates, that such a world should not enter. I understood why the Mirror God wiped our memories clean, so that we could start new, and never become so corrupted that life would have so little meaning.

I was a fool to want to return. I had to save Moregone from such a fate.

I sheathed my sword and strode forward with confident steps. Favory and Marston hurried to catch up.

In the distance was a dim light that grew wider if not brighter as we approached. The exit to the tunnel was blocked by a thick tangle of brush and trees. Marston used his sword to cut away at the branches, opening enough space for me to join him with my own blade.

The gap between the cliff and the undergrowth was just wide enough to use as a path. It wasn’t until we traveled some distance down this gap that I realized that the forest was made up of crabapples trees. The apples looked dried and shriveled. I plucked one and cut it open. A huge worm squirmed into the decayed fruit.

I threw it to the ground in disgust.

The last time I’d seen this orchard it was spacious and ordered and healthy. Now it appeared that no one had pruned the branches or collected the fruit in years.

How long had I been gone? One problem with a long life is that time passes ever faster, so that what seems like months can become years and what seems like years can become decades. It may well have been a number of years since I’d returned, but whatever had happened here must have started not long after the last time I left.

I couldn’t imagine the Moregoneians letting this happen to their prized trees. I began to fear for their well being as well.

I stood aside as the caravan passed, waiting for Toug to emerge. The last mule out of the tunnel carried the crabapple crate. I went over to it, knocked on its side.

The wood fell away and Seed scrambled out. “Are we there?” he asked, eagerly.

“I think so…” I began.

The boy cried out at the sight of the trees and almost leapt away. He stopped himself and solemnly untied the sleeves of the coat I’d given him and handed it back to me. With that, he jumped from the back of the mule to the nearest branch. Then he froze. He looked back at me in alarm, as if he only then noticed how sickly the branches drooped. His head swiveled from me to the trees and back again.

“Go!” I said, giving him permission. He jumped away and disappeared.

We came out of the gap between the cliff and the forest onto a trampled meadow that led down to a creek. I stared at the water for a few moments, trying to make sense of it. There was only one waterway in the south of Moregone: the Soral River. It was hard to believe that this little trickle of water running down the middle of a wide gulley with crumbling banks could be that wide and raucous watercourse. Trees hung dry and broken over the bare sands.

The caravan filled the meadow with no room to spare, certainly not enough room to spread out our camp. I decided to keep going, anxious to see my old friends. When I looked back toward the cliff I recognized the tall pillar of rock standing away from the mountain: Dragontooth.

Which meant the village of Carsan was less than a mile away.

We continued on down the eroded banks of the Soral River. Within a few hundred yards a ditch was dug across our path, drawing what little water remained in the river channel. A crude bridge was built across the breach, little more than planks laid upon the two banks. It was strong enough to hold one mule and one person at a time, so it took us much of the afternoon before we all got across.

Lights began to flicker on the horizon.

“Should I check it out?” Tomber asked.

As he spoke, a figure broke away from the trees to our right, running away from us. It looked like a child, barefoot despite the chill. For a moment I thought it was Seed, but he wasn’t brown enough and other than his feet, he was fully clothed.

“We should keep going,” Marston said. “Don’t let them get the chance to organize.”

“These are peaceful people,” I said. “They have no weapons, except to hunt.”

Marston gave me a skeptical look. “Maybe they aren’t the same. Maybe they’ve forgotten.”

“Either way, there is no benefit to waiting,” I said. “Keep moving but stay on guard.

*  *  *

It was the same village…and it was different. There were the same two main streets, with houses on one side, businesses on the other, the same farmhouses dotting the outer perimeter. But everything looked old and rundown, unlike the vibrant sturdy village I remembered.

The few people who were on the streets hurried inside at our approach.

Closest to us, at a bend in the now dry river, was a large building with a caved in roof and broken walls.

My vacation home—looking as if it had been abandoned a hundred years ago.

I walked up the broken path to the door, which was ajar on its hinges. The inside looked filled with leaves and dirt. There was a pile of rocks to one side, where once had stood a tall birch tree. A carved sign lay on the ground next to it and I realized that the jumble had once been a cairn of some kind.

“Home of the Eternal Wanderer,” the sign read.

“They know who you are?” Favory said, beside me. “Or maybe I should say—they knew who you were, because whatever esteem they once had for you seems to have fallen on hard times.”

I turned to her in surprise. “How did you know…?”

She smiled. “That you are the Eternal Wanderer? It wasn’t hard to figure out. You appear eternal and you certainly wander enough.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just about everyone, I’d say. Of course, anyone who would be impressed by such a thing has only to meet you to realize you’re just like anyone else.”

Marston had moved up on my other side. “You’d think someone as old as you are, Evard the Just, would be a little smarter and savvier than the rest of us, but…”

 “…you’re just as foolish and short-sighted as any,” Tomber finished the thought.

I was stunned. Here I’d thought I was being clever, moving around so much that no one would ever discover my identity.

“Don’t listen to them.” The thin high voice of Toug made me jump. “We follow you, Evard the Just, because you are a constant surprise and yet forever reliable. We count on you to be fair, but also to lead us places none of us would think to go.”

Viccare looked dumbstruck. “Are you a creature of the Abyss?”

I laughed. “I’m as human as you are.” Unlike most of the mythical creatures of the Thirteen Principalities, for instance the Toad King, I had not emerged from the bottomless pit at the edge of the Thirteenth Principalites.

The young pilgrim didn’t look convinced.

I looked around, spreading my arms. “I’m not at all sure where…or rather when…I’ve led you to this time. This is Moregone, but older somehow…drained of life.”

“Forgotten by time,” Favory mused.

I thought she was probably right. I’d always wondered if time ran the same in the Thirteen Principalities as it did in the outside world. Moregone was apparently outside this time stream, and it had fallen on hard times.

“What’s that?” Tomber said.

We turned in the direction he was staring. Far in the distance, probably visible more to Tomber than the rest of us, was a field of wavering red. It took a few seconds for my eyes to distinguish the individual flowers.

The irrigation ditch led toward the field of flowers, which unlike the pastures, the trees, or the village itself, looked healthy and vibrant.

“Those look like poppies,” Toug said. “Not common in the Thirteen Principalities. The seeds are a delicacy.”

A few hours before and the name of the flower wouldn’t have meant anything, but now the knowledge I possessed of my former life came to the fore. It sent a chill down my spine, because I knew that poppies weren’t just grown for their seeds.

The Flower of Forgetfulness, I’d heard it called.

“Someone approaches,” Tomber said.

From the nearest house an old man hobbled our way. He appeared to be reluctant, as if others had sent him. He stopped well short of our party.

“What do you want?” His voice was high and quavering. “Who are you?”

I started to answer, looked into his eyes and fell silent. I recognized him…though that seemed impossible. I took in the angle of his chin, the widow’s peak, the hunched shoulders. It was the almost purple color of his eyes that gave him away.

The last time I’d seen Hiemhol, he’d been but a boy, the son of the mayor.

He must have recognized me at the same moment, because he staggered, as if he’d been pushed, almost losing his footing.

“Evard?” he said in a faint voice.

“What’s happened here Hiemhol?”

He straightened up. His eyes had been clouded, fearful, but now they cleared. “Eternal Wanderer. You must leave. Before…”

As we were talking, a man had emerged from the same house that Hiemhol had come from. This man was tall and strong—almost as tall as Tomber, but thicker. His clothing probably seemed strange to my companions, but I recognized jeans and a button down machine-made shirt. He wore a cowboy hat.

“Do you know these people, Hiemhol?”

“No, sir,” the old man stammered. “I was just telling them they weren’t welcome.”

“Now is that any way to be?” The man turned toward me and stuck out his hand. “I’m Carter. We’re a little low on the victuals, but we have enough for one meal. Then in the morning you can be on your way.” He motioned to the open area outside the village’s border. The ground was churned up and I realized that this was where the artichoke fields had been. “You can camp out here.”

“Thank you,” I said. “We were just on our way to the Twelfth Principality.”

It was a test--and Carter failed it. He couldn’t hide his confusion. Wherever he was from, it wasn’t from the Thirteen Principalities. Then he smiled his false smile, as if he suddenly remembered something someone had told him.

“Come on down to the village square at dark…we’ll have some tables set up,” Carter said.

Hiemhol gave me a last beseeching look, then John put his arm around the old man and led him away.

I turned to my companions.

It was clear from the look in their eyes that I didn’t need to warn them of our danger.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 20.)

20.) As soon as the entire caravan was safely past the scree slope of the cliff, I called a halt and gathered my leadership crew around me.

“Where are we?” Marston asked. “Is this Moregone?”

We were on a mountain meadow, surrounded by large trees, with very little underbrush. Below us were low foothills and beyond a narrow valley with a river meandering through it. I didn’t recognize anything.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what is this place?” Tomber asked. “I don’t remember any of this being on the maps.”

I grunted. “Maps near the Shield Mountains are useless. The terrain appears to shift every time I visit.”

“How is that possible?” Favory said. “How can mountains and rivers change?”

“When you lived as long as I have, everything changes, even the land itself. But I don’t know if that is what’s happening. Maybe its location hasn’t changed but our memory of where it is has.”

“That would seem even more worrisome somehow,” Tomber muttered.

“I would have said the same thing before we set out on this journey, but we are discovering is what is real and what is imagined; what is firm in our memories and what are illusions. It has probably always been this way, but we simply notice it this time because our objective.”

To my surprise, Toug spoke up. I was always surprised how high pitched his voice was; but that didn’t affect the gravity of his words. “My memory doesn’t change just because the Mirror God wills it. I know what I know.”

I turned to him, ready to explain how unreliable our recollections were, especially here at the edge of the forgotten land, but the look in his face was stubborn.

He continued, “I have been here before. This is part of the Tenth Principality. That is the River Mortall. By the authority of Prince Selonos, no one is allowed to live here. It is to be kept pristine in perpetuity. In the summer his royal court comes here to camp.”

I didn’t think Toug had that many words in him. I didn’t ask him how he knew—Toug’s services were in demand throughout the principalities. There wasn’t a prince who wouldn’t hire him; he could live where and how he wished, and often explored in pursuit of new dishes, new plants and animals. Such curiosity was why I was able to secure his services in the first place.

“Which direction is Moregone?” Marston asked.

“I never inquired,” Toug said.

Marston waved the answer off irritably. “Then where is the Tenth Principality?”

Toug pointed downriver.

As one, we turned in the opposite direction. The top of a high plateau was barely visible on the horizon, with a thick mist covering the lower reaches. There were still several hours of daylight and I was anxious to be underway, but my crew was already sprawled about the meadow, prostrate from nervous exhaustion. Besides, we weren’t going anywhere until we found and buried our companions.

Instead I gave the orders to set camp. I pulled Tomber aside. “Scout ahead. Follow the river.”

He nodded. “I’ll be back by morning.”

I camped at the base of a large tree. It was of a kind I’d never seen before, with needles a foot long and tiny cones. The bark had an almost bluish tinge. The branches started far up the trunk, and were thick and wide, giving a roundish appearance to the evergreen. Lying near the campfire to drive away the last of the mountain chill, I closed my eyes.

It was dark when my eyes popped open, a small snap still echoing from out of my sleep. Two eyes stared down at me from the trunk of the tree. When Seed saw that I was awake, he scurried the rest of the way down and came to my side.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Moregone is hidden from me,” he said, shivering. I took my extra coat out of my pack and draped it over his shoulders. He stood and tied the sleeves around his neck, like a cloak. The hem reached the ground. He sat down next to me again.

I put out my arm and pulled him close in a hug. Again a paternal feeling overcame me. There was something…just at the edge of memory, like I’d seen the boy before. But as I tried to capture the thought, it slid away and I was suddenly just as certain that Seed and I had never met. He seemed too young for me to have forgotten him in any case.

“As it is to all of us,” I answered. “Sometimes when I first awaken I can’t remember why I’m on the road at all.”

“But I never forgot my home. Not until the Goddess…” He spoke her name with a hiss.

“The Goddess?”

“She visited me. She took me in her arms and--it was as if everything I ever understood faded away.”

I reached into my pockets where I’d secreted some of Seed’s crabapples—just in case. I proffered him one.

He took it and started munching absently, as if it had no effect. “Her magic is strong.”

I tried to hide my alarm at that. I patted him on the head. “I will remember for both of us, Seed. Our journey is nearly at an end. We wouldn’t have gotten here without you.”

He finished eating the apple and lay down at my side. Even though I wanted to sleep on the comfort of my blankets, I didn’t dare to disturb the boy. I fell asleep, his head on my chest.

When I awoke, Seed was gone. I looked up into the tree hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Our conversation of the night before seemed like a dream.

I fully expected Tomber to be waiting by my fireside. The early hours passed and I gave orders to break camp.

As I rolled up my sleeping blankets, Favory walked over. I looked at up her, amazed as always how refreshed and clean she looked. She left her red stallion behind at Inhut, but still managed to snagged the comeliest mule in the caravan, whose name was Handsome.

“Going in the direction your scout disappeared seems a bad idea,” she said.

“What choice do we have?”

“Send Marston,” she said. “Or wait longer.”

She was right, of course, but whatever lay ahead we were going to have to face sometime, no matter what Tomber or any other scout reported.

She shook her head even though I hadn’t said anything aloud. “The Tenth Principality is downriver. Let’s return home. What does it matter if we find Moregone? The Goddess’s gems have made this a profitable expedition.”

Again, I couldn’t argue. I was curious about Moregone, but even if we found it, we couldn’t very well load it up and bring it back. The land would be forgotten just as quickly with or without us finding it, or so the Goddess had implied. There might be a shortage of crabapples and artichokes in the Thirteen—or Twelve—Principalities for a time, but that didn’t seem like much of a tragedy.

I hesitated at the thought—which seemed to speak to my comfort not my ambitions. I could almost feel the Goddess’s touch.

“And what about Tomber?” I asked.

Favory started, and I realized that she hadn’t even considered it.

“We came to find Moregone and Moregone we will find,” I said.

Favory looked as though she wanted to argue, saw the look on my face, and walked away. I’d left the two mules with the Goddess’s gems in the custody of one of the carpenters, Samle, who’d proven to be trustworthy in the past. I looked around for him, caught him loading the mules, straining under the weight.

I’d keep an eye on Favory, but I thought that as avaricious as she was, her curiosity was even greater.

The trail along the river was easy enough to follow. As we approached the base of the plateau, the mists didn’t dissipate no matter how hot the morning sun. Instead, we were soaked in a humidity that was as damp as a thick fog. The roar of the waterfall could be heard for miles before we reached the base.

The cliffs under the falling water wrapped in a horseshoe around us. There was no way forward and the only way back was by the way we’d come.

There was a lake at the base of the falls, and by habit, the muleteers led their charges to the banks to drink.

“Here!” someone shouted. “Tracks!”

The footsteps were deep and impossibly long. They could only belong to Tomber. They led around the muddy banks to the base of the cliff, and then…under the waterfall. Upon closer examination there was rocky shelf that appeared to have been shaped flat by hand.

There was no doubt where Tomber had gone…but why hadn’t he returned?

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MOREGONE, a blog story, 19.)

19.) The winds swirled around us. In the distance I saw a hawk approach, flying rapidly toward me as if it was about to smash into the cliff. At the last second, the raptor glided. It shot straight upward, levitating in the updraft. The same upward flow made the footing even less steady for those of us without wings.

Ironically, the laden mules handled the task better than the humans. They plodded step by step, as if the cliffs did not exist. As I reached the curve in the mountain that would take me past a view of the tunnel above, I saw Toug emerge and I wondered if the big man would even fit on the path. But Toug stepped out without hesitation, looking sure-footed, guiding his five mules. I spied the square outline of Seed’s crate against the hornizon, then stepped around the last curve and out of sight.

The sky cleared, but instead of reassuring, it made things worse. Now, instead of clouds swirling not far below, we could see all the way into the bottom of the valley. It seemed to grow colder, as well, despite the bright sun. The white snows reflected the light back into our faces, and dazzled our eyes, until everything took on a bright halo. I turned my face away from the sun, stared at the path, and my vision slowly cleared.

I heard a yell from above, a shout of defiance, and heard rather than saw someone tumble down the cliffs, striking an outcropping with a loud thud, silencing that last utterance of disbelief. This time the caravan didn’t stop to reflect, but kept moving, as if to deny the danger.

I estimated we were halfway down before I heard another scream. I glanced back, saw two figures this time descending into the clear cold air, their arms waving as if trying to fly. They became dots, still descending, disappearing.

I couldn’t help myself—I calculated how much money I wouldn’t have to pay, and then despised myself for thinking it. I’d yet to complete a caravan without losing someone, and I’d hardened my heart to the thought, and yet when it happened, it always shook me. I retreated into math, into the logistics, as if people I knew hadn’t just died.

I didn’t know who had fallen, their descent was too swift and chaotic to make out features, but I would know them, for I knew everyone I’d hired, and was friendly with most.

The snow and ice on the path was starting to melt, but this only made the footing even more treacherous. Stay vigilant, I thought. Then I said it aloud: “Stay vigilant.” The woman behind me was named Jona, one of the first muleteers I’d hired. She muttered, “Stay vigilant,” her eyes on the path.

Moments later, I saw her foot slip, her hands scrabble against the rocks. I reached out for her, but she was already past. She let go the reins of her mule, which froze in place and let out a strange sound. Jona didn’t scream, she dropped away and was gone.

Had I distracted her? I wondered.

As if in answer, Delane, the next muleteer in line said aloud, “Stay vigilant,” and then the next person repeated it, and the words kept being repeated down the line until I couldn’t hear them anymore.

I took the reins of Jona’s mule and kept going.

I believe that would have been the worst of it if we’d been left alone.

“What’s that?” Delane said, behind me.

I looked out, saw six large birds flying rapidly toward us.

Then I realized they weren’t birds.

There were six griffins in the drift, probably a family. Each adult the weight and bulk of two men. In the Fourth Principality, they actually rode the creatures, though the captive version, raised in safety and well fed, were larger. The griffin’s wings and head, when viewed from the front looked like an eagle, but as they drew closer, the body and tail of a lion became more apparent.

Griffins didn’t usually attack men, who could fight back, but we must have seemed like easy prey stretched out across the mountain, unable to move freely.  I reached across my shoulder for the sword strapped to my back, but had difficulty drawing the blade. I almost tipped over. Instead, I reached for the knife on my belt.

By the time I looked up again, the drift was almost upon me, the talons on their front legs extended. They were coming straight at me, ignoring the rest of the caravan. I didn’t have time to think about the implications of this, but spread my feet and leaned against the cliff to make myself as sturdy as possible.

I tried to ignore the fierce look in the lead griffin’s eyes, the strange whooping sound it emitted, and focused on the talons.

The creature suddenly went upward, caught by the draft, and for a moment I was confused. Then I saw the arrow sticking out of its neck. I glance down to the front of the line, saw Marston precariously leaning over the path, held in place by Tomber’s long arms. He was reaching to the quiver on his back, but I knew he wouldn’t be able to loose another arrow before the other griffins were upon me.

The griffin aimed for my eyes, its long, sharp talons extended. I slashed blindly with my knife, felt the blade connect. Something dropped away as I heard the screech of the griffin, which flew one side, blood dripping from its amputated leg. But the next griffin was upon me in a flash, before I could even raise my knife.

The talons dug into my chest and I felt myself lifted, my feet dragging against the stone path. Then there was nothing under my feet. The three remaining griffins surrounded me, reaching out with their sharp beaks.

I cut at the talons gripping my chest, and suddenly I was free.

I flew into the sky for a moment, as if defying gravity, and then I dropped.

One truth I have learned in my long life: No one believes they will die. They know they will die, but they don’t believe they will die. And I believed less than most mortal men, for I’d lived a dangerous and seemingly eternal life and I saw no reason that wouldn’t continue forever.

It seemed like I dropped for long hours, though it couldn’t have been for more than a few seconds. I supposed I’d always thought I’d be calm in my last moments, reflective. Or alternatively, I’d be terrified, gibbering.

Instead my mind was a confusion, as if I couldn’t settle on a thought, as if all the unresolved things of my life besieged me, nagging me for leaving them unfinished. Floating through the air, incomplete.

The ground rose up to greet me and I had the strange sensation that I was rising to greet the ground. I saw wings out of the corner of my eyes. My confusion was replaced by anger that the griffin wouldn’t leave me in peace in my last moments.

I still had my knife in hand. Better yet, I was free to draw my sword. I reached back…

Talons grabbed me by shoulders, digging in but not quite penetrating my skin. I hung from my clothing. At first we rose, and I wondered if I was to be carried to their nest, to be consumed by their young.

I managed to free my sword and began to swing the blade, but at the last second the creature above me screeched, and it was so different a cry from what I heard before that I took a closer look.

Instead of the tawny fur of a lion, the body of my captor consisted of scales. A huff of smoke reached my nostrils, as the dragon breathed short bursts of fire with each flap of its batlike wings, as though carrying a full-grown man was barely within its capabilities.

It was a dragon, not full grown, but twice as large as the griffins and far larger than any wyvern I’d ever seen. As far as I knew, there was only one dragon in all the Thirteen Principalities.

Shatterspawn had apparently quadrupled in size in the few days he’d been gone. His  wings seemed to have tripled in length. The dragon caught the updraft and we swooped upward, until we floated over the path. Below was the unmistakable rotund body of Toug, who was holding out his hands.

He grabbed my arm as Shatterspawn dropped me. I landed on the path, was dragged the rest of the way from the edge. I clutched the earth, drained of all my strength and a wave of gratitude and joy so strong that I felt as though I was still floating washed through my body.

Shatterspawn flew away, his flight now elegant without his human cargo. The griffins were in flight, five specks against the morning sun. Shatterspawn pursued them.

I turned on my back and looked up into Toug’s concerned eyes.

“Couldn’t you at least have had your pet land me on the ground?”

He laughed. “My pet? To be honest with you, Evard, I wasn’t sure Shatterspawn didn’t consider you an easy meal!”

I got to my knees. For some reason the path now looked as broad as the Prince’s Road. I knew that I wouldn’t stumble, I wouldn’t slip, that soon I’d be on the ground and my charmed life would continue.

At least until the next time I was thrown into confusion.

Book sales momentum.

One of the first things I did when getting published was to research the sales momentum on books. What really jumped out was that most books have a peak selling period of between three and six months. Most often about four months, beginning to drop off on the fifth month.

Ideally, then, you'd want a new book to come out every fifth or sixth month to keep the momentum going.

One thing I'd learned by owning a comic shop was--if you have a good title and you are consistent about it coming out, the comic will do well. If you delay, the book will suffer, sometimes fatally.

For "Led to the Slaughter," I was very aggressive in promoting--at least, aggressive for me. I pointblank asked people to buy it. That seemed to work. It was my first book, I was pretty proud of it, and people were supportive. It got excellent reviews.
 
There's a graph I can access through Amazon that shows the sales history on my books.

If I go back to the beginning, when my first two Virginia Reed books were published, along with The Vampire Evolution Trilogy, the squiggly line is high and tight. Good sales, strong momentum.

Right up to the moment when the third Virginia Reed book was due to be published. Unfortunately, my publisher procrastinated for months, almost a year.

The graph line noticeably starts to fray. Becomes not quite so high, not quite so thick.

Looking back on it , I should have self-published something at that moment, but the publisher kept reassuring me that the next book was coming out soon and I didn't want to step on it. Eventually, he did publish an ebook version, but never did get the paperback out.

A year or so later, "Tuskers I" comes out from a different publisher, and again the graph is high and tight for about a year as "Tuskers II" comes out right on time. Again, I was somewhat aggressive, and people were supportive. Audio buys Tuskers and puts out a version.

Then this second publisher announces they are going for national distribution and Tuskers III will be delayed for at least a year.

This time, I do self-publish some of my finished work, but without a publisher, it's harder for me to promote. The graph frays again, starting to become loopy.

So I turn to a third publisher for "Snaked." Again, I am ready to be more promotional than usual, because this publisher really seemed to have things on the ball. Then he too announces he's going for national distribution. The book takes quite a while to come out.

The book is published... and nothing. Two months later the publisher decides he doesn't want to publish "creature" books anymore.

And the graph frizzes out.

Meanwhile, I keep writing. Meanwhile, I do believe my later books are as good or better, but I'm not willing to be aggressive on my self-published stuff.

For instance, as an experiment, I merely announce that I've published "Faerie Punk." Sales are non-existent.

Meanwhile I sold a ghostwritten book under the name of a best-selling author, which hasn't come out yet, and I'm not sure if it is ever coming out, but if it does, I'll be extremely interested in seeing how it sells. My hope was that this would turn into a regular gig, that I'd have a big publisher doing the promotional work. But it's like my first career with the bigger publishers, they take forever to answer if they bother to answer at all--what I used to call "sending my books into the void."

I'm still in the thick of writing, still feel like I'm getting better, but I'm just over here doing my thing and not paying much attention to anything else.

So I decided to just write.

I'm still in that mode, pretty much.

I have three new publishers, all of whom seem solid. The graph is starting to look better again since my books are coming out again on a regular basis, but pretty clearly I lost the momentum three times in a row.

But you know what?

I did my part.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 18.)

18.) “You will have to leave your wagons behind,” Marsianne said.

“We can’t do that,” I said, immediately thinking of Seed.

“Then you will never reach Moregone.”

From her tone of voice, I knew that she was right. I looked up at the steep mountains that surrounded us. It had always been a faint hope that we wouldn’t have to leave the wagons behind.

We loaded what we could to the pack mules. As we lined up to leave, Marsianne led Tomber’s two pack mules over to us. “The Goddess wishes to pay for the wagons and supplies you leave behind.”

I opened the top of a pack and saw glittering red, green, blue, and white stones. There had never been any real hope that this expedition would pay for itself--until now. I looked around at the Inhutians who were gathering to see us off. Many of them wore the cheap trinkets and beads Tomber had brought.

I shook my head, not understanding. Any village that could mine such gems should be wealthy beyond measure.

“We serve the Goddess,” Marsianne said, as if reading my mind. “We have no need of riches.

Two mules had drawn the applecart and I needed but one to carry my personal supplies. I took the largest crate from the back of the cart and tied it to the extra mule, then led it over to the back of the train, where Toug was loading the four mules that had pulled the dinner wagon.

“You may load this mule as well,” I said, “but leave room for the crate.”

Toug never questioned orders. He didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow but simply nodded as much as his enormous neck would allow him to nod. I went to the middle of the newly configured caravan, which was my usual position. Tomber was in the lead, with Marston astride Splittooth beside him.

To my surprise, our guide was Marsianne. The other Inhutians were ignoring us now, as if we weren’t even there.

The mayor strode to the side of Tomber, and looked back at me, as if to ask if I was ready. I motioned my arm forward. As we started out, jostling, trying to find a rhythm where we didn’t stumble over each other, I looked back. The last mule in line was the one I’d given Toug, the crate riding high. I saw a flash of brown, the crate shivered, and then it was still. Everyone else was looking ahead and no one saw it, even Toug.

To my surprise, we turned away from the mountains upon leaving the village. Marsianne led us downhill for a time, then turned north along a high ridge. The ridge ended at the side of a tall cliff. It looked like a dead end from where I was, but then Marsianne and Tomber disappeared from view, as walking into the rock face.

Rows of gigantic boulders were at the base of the cliff and the path led around them. The trail wound its way between the boulders and the cliff side, until turning abruptly into a large crevice, which led steeply downhill. The light rapidly diminished as my eyes struggled to keep up. I bumped into the rear of the mule ahead of me, which hawed indignantly.

The train started moving forward slowly, and as it turned a corner, I saw flickering light ahead, which grew brighter as I approached. It was only in the last few yards that I saw that there was a small cave entrance, about as tall as a man astride a mule, and just barely wide enough to accommodate its girth. 

Marston was at the side of the entrance. Along the trail leaned a row of torches, which he was bending over and lighting one by one, handing them to every other member of the party and then ushering them into the darkness beyond.

When I reached his side, he handed me the torch without comment. I knew that the man hated confined spaces and suspected he’d volunteered to hand out the torches as a way to avoid the inevitable until the last moment.

I started forward. Behind me, Marston finally spoke in a low voice, “I hope this isn’t a trap.”

Not bothering to turn around or answer, I ducked my head instinctively as I led my mule into the cave. There was a large cavern beyond, which the light of the torches couldn’t quite reveal fully. It was obviously a staging ground, with tents and tables, half completed torches, bail of straw, bags of broken stone with gems embedded, picks and shovels, and other sundry mining equipment. At the far end of the chamber were two tunnels—one leading steeply downward, and one spiraling gently upward.

To my surprise, Marsianne was climbing to the top of the spiral, and ducking into another hole as I watched.

A chill went down my spine, though I could see no reason for a trap. If the Goddess had wanted to do us harm she didn’t need to trick us.

Marsianne I wasn’t so sure about. She’d avowed her dedication to the Goddess, but it had seemed to me that she was leading our party begrudgingly. Still, I doubted she would flout the Goddess’s wishes.

I reached the top of the incline, looked back down into the cavern. Toug was entering from the far side, and I could see the shadow of Seed’s crate against the torchlight.

Seed must be terrified.

I wasn’t sure how I knew this.

I ducked into the tunnel at the top. The path was worn as if it had been traveled upon for generations. The walls were carved, arching overhead, with plenty of room for even those of our party who were mounted atop mules. The passages were carved smooth, our footsteps echoed. No one spoke.

The tunnel ran straight for what seemed miles. There were little side passages every few hundred yards, much narrower and darker. I felt winds from a few of them, and even when I didn’t feel the wind myself, the torches flickered.

The long level stretch suddenly ended in a split, again either going upward or down. Again, Marsianne chose the upward path, a tunnel that narrowed, it ceiling now so low that I had to duck.

Poor Tomber. He must be bent over in half.

The rocky sides were now dark and seemed to reflect the torchlight, but even then I didn’t realize what I was looking at for a long time.

My torch brushed against the top of the tunnel and sparks rained down, and only then did I see the red tint to the walls.

I stopped abruptly. The snout of a mule pushed against my back, and I heard the curse from the person following me. I thought I recognized Hutson’s voice.

Lifting the torch closer to the wall, I put my hands out and ran my fingers across the smooth, glasslike surface of red obsidian. Not just a few fragments, which would make a person rich in the Thirteen Principality, but what appeared to be an entire mountain of it.

“What’s wrong?” Hutson asked.

“Don’t you see it?”

“See what?” There was no mistaking the confusion in his voice.

From behind him, I heard shouts. “What’s the hold up? What’s going on?”

Melete was The Goddess of Memory. Which also meant she was the Goddess of the Forgetting. She was protecting her realm by making sure that no one knew of a mountain of the rarest mineral in the Thirteen Principalities.

“Nothing,” I muttered, then raised my voice so that the others could hear. “Carry on!”

We continued upward, the tunnel getting narrower and lower with every mile, until there was barely enough space for a fully laden mule to pass. I was deep in thought, wondering why I was immune to Melete’s spell—or was she granting me a glimpse?

In the darkness, I reached into my pack, drawing out the small hammer I used to secure the spikes of my tent. Still walking, I slammed the head of the hammer into the wall beside me, my other hand trailing beneath. There was a sharp pain in my palm. I slid the hammer into my belt and reached out gingerly to feel the sharp glass fragment in my hand. It was wet with blood.

I slid the sharp object into my pocket, hoping it wouldn’t cut through as it chafed against the bottom.

A few hundred feet further along, I did it again, even daring to stop for a few moments to get more than one fragment. Hutson cursed behind me, but I ignored him, and then hurried to catch up with to the others.

A cold wind blew against my face. The sound of those ahead of me, which had been loud and echoing moments before, became muffled. The train slowed and stopped.

“What’s happening?” I shouted ahead. No one answered; it was if the head of the snake had been cut off.

A circle of light shimmered ahead of me. I pushed my way past the woman immediately preceding me, and then the next mule and next traveller, and the next, until I reached someone too bulky to pass. For a moment I was stumped, then I crawled over the top of the mule, slipped over its head, feeling it snap at me as I passed. I made it the rest of the way to the light and stepped out into a wind so strong I almost lost my footing.

We were high up the mountain. Above there were only a few hundred feet of rocky pinnacle. From where the tunnel ended there was a small shelf of rock, not quite level, big enough to comfortably accommodate only the first third of the caravan. Below appeared to be a straight drop down into the clouds.

“Why aren’t we moving?” I asked.

“Where?” Tomber said, gesturing to the sheer cliffs.

Marsianne stood with her back to the mountain, eyes closed, her face white. I started to make my way to her. I hadn’t taken more than two steps before my feet went out from under me and I started slipping across the shelf. My fingers scrambled for traction, but slid off the icy surface. My feet struck something hard just inches from the edge, not quite enough to stop me. My legs bumped over the barrier and I knew that I couldn’t stop.

I was jerked back, my legs dangling over the edge. Tomber had ahold of my cloak, drawing tight against my neck. His long arms were stretched, his legs wrapped around the only rock protruding from the flat surface. With a grunt, he pulled me up. On my hands and knees I managed to crawl back to the tunnel entrance.

Marsianne hadn’t moved. From where I was, I shouted at her. “Is this a trap? Why have you led us here?”

Without opening her eyes, she motioned downward. “This is the way…”

“It can’t be done,” I said flatly.

“It can be done because it has been done,” she answered. She edged her way inch by inch toward me. I grabbed her when she came within reach and shook her. I felt like pushing her off the mountain.

She opened her eyes long enough to point.

To one side of the shelf I saw a straight line of snow. I followed Marsianne’s example and inched my way toward it with my back to the mountain and pushed my foot against the nearest accumulation. A small avalanche dropped away over the cliff, revealing a path not more than three feet wide.

The line of snow circled downward around the mountain until bending out of sight.

“Impossible!” I heard Marston exclaim.

 I closed my eyes, in my mind the objection seemed to echo; impossible, impossible, impossible.

I felt someone brush past me. Tomber walked onto the path, sliding a little at first, but managing to stay upright. He went to the next accumulation of snow and kicked it away, revealing another ten feet of path.

He nodded. “Not much choice is there?”

“There is no way we can all get down that way,” Marston insisted.

Tomber laughed grimly. “Oh, we’ll get down all right, some swifter than others.”

 “You know what I mean…” Marston muttered.

The cold seemed to be increasing with every moment we stood there hesitating. “If we are going to do it, we’d better start now,” I said, willing myself to join Tomber on the path. He carefully crossed the cleared stretch, kicked away again at the snow, then moved on. It was starting to look almost routine.

I looked back at Marston and Splittooth.

Cursing, Marston started toward me. Splittooth let out a loud haw, but followed. The mule seemed more surefooted that us humans. Before I turned away, I noticed Marsianne pushing her way into the tunnel and out of sight.

The path sloped downward gradually; any steeper and we would have slid off. Even so, it was slow going, the humans inching along with our backs to the rock, the mules seeming impatient, their hooves clattering on the stone. If just one of us froze, it would doom everyone behind them.

I looked back. A long line of figures stretched upward, moving so slowly that they didn’t appear to be moving at all. As I watched, I saw one of the figures jerk, then start to fall. Whoever it was reached out for the nearest mule, which toppled over sideways.

I couldn’t tell if the horrible scream came from the human or the mule or both. They tumbled out of sight.

No one said anything, but it took a long time before the line began moving again.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 17.)

17.) Something round and hard was shoved into my mouth. I awoke, almost choking on it. Seed hovered over me, his eyes wide in the moonlight.

“Eat!” he hissed.

I bit into the apple without thinking. The crabapple was green and tart, and my mouth puckered from the sour flavor.

Along with the bitterness came memory. It was as if it exploded into my brain, everything I’d ever forgotten, the absolute truth of every moment. It was almost too much.

“Eat it all, stem and seed,” my tormentor insisted.

As I chewed, the vivid memories receded but didn’t disappear. I knew they’d be there if I called upon them.

Instead, I remembered the last few days.

I stood up, ready to do battle, but Seed pulled on my hand. He motioned for me to be quiet, and then proffered a sack to me. I opened it and saw round shapes and I knew what he wanted me to do.

Seed had a second sack of crabapples in hand. At the doorway, he turned left and I turned right.

In most of the houses, the residents looked up when I entered and shrank against the wall. In one or two they actually tried to stop me. With the delusions gone, I was easily strong enough to hold them back.

Several of men and women I fed crabapples to spit them out, but I patiently handed them another apple and told them to chew them down, “stem and seed.”

By the time dawn broke, we were armed and ready, ordered in lines down the center of the town.

Most of the denizens didn’t come out, though a few scurried along the sides of the houses before ducking into different doorways.

Finally, as I expected, Mayor Marsianne emerged and slowly approached. She seemed older and more crooked than the day before.

“What will you do to us?” she asked.

“The gems you offered Tomber…are they real?” I asked.

“They are. Take them and go.”

“I wish I could, Marsianne. But that is not why we are here. Do you remember what Tomber asked when he first arrived?

“What Tomber wanted is impossible. No one is allowed to gate through the gate.”

“The gate?”

“The Gate of Memories,” the mayor said. “It is impossible, for upon leaving you forget why you wanted to leave and return. It is a gate to nowhere.”

“What about Moregone?”

She fell silent for a moment, looking around her as if there was an answer in the air. “Why do you insist on remembering? Moregone wants to be forgotten.”

“Then how is it you remember?”

“We do not follow the Mirror God. We answer only to the Goddess.”

She suddenly straightened, the crook in her neck disappearing, and fell to her knees. She lowered her head to the ground.

I looked behind me. At first all I could see was a glimmer of white light, from which shadows slowly emerged, the outline of a woman. For a brief moment I thought it was Lady Favory, but instead of red hair, this woman had pure white hair down to her waist. Her face was unlined, her figure an hourglass. She was clad something that shimmered blue, then white, then blue in the morning sun.

The Goddess.

I almost fell to my knees, but caught myself and merely bowed my head.

“Greetings, Edward. It has been a long time.”

Edward. That had been my name, which over the centuries had morphed into Evard.

The tartness of crabapple rose on my tongue and with it a long lost memory.

“Good morning, Melete.”

I was too annoyed to use her title: Goddess of the Gate.”

“I wondered if you would ever return, my love.”

Her voice was husky, as I remembered it. I also remembered how she sang, the deep and melancholy sound of it. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, from when I was young, the first time I saw and heard this land, the intensity of innocence.

“I told you I would come back someday, Melete.”

“I am surprised that you remember so much.”

I nodded, but in truth, when I reached for the memories, they were gone. I had the vivid impression that memories were there but vanished each time I came near.

But the Goddess I remembered, her name, her touch, her smell.

 “You cannot go back, Edward, anymore than you can return from death.”

“So you are saying this is an afterlife of some kind—or that the land beyond is?”

“They both exist in the now, as you exist in the now—but the gate is closed forever. To open it would be to doom both realms.”

I knew then that it was hopeless. In truth, I suspected so from the beginning. She was a Goddess, and I was but a man, if a long lived one.

“What of Moregone?” I asked. “Which world does it belong to?”

“Moregone is Moregone,” Melete said. “Someday, perhaps, it will be a third realm, and it will expand as its people’s imagination expands, until one day it splits apart, for such is the way of things. We remember until we forget.”

“I don’t remember you being so cryptic, Mel,” I said, smiling. “I remember you were rather blunt and even crude. It’s what I liked about you.”

“Even Goddesses change, my love. I tried to keep you from making a mistake, convinced my people to give you the riches you desire. I do not understand how you overcame my spell.”

Seed was nowhere in sight and I decided that, for now, I’d keep his identity to myself. I wasn’t sure who or what he was, only that he was a friend.

“Will you try to make us forget again?” I asked.

“I have given you my warning. Do as you will. Goodbye, Edward.”

She disappeared. Not in a flash of smoke, not with a shining light, but she was simply gone as if she’d never been there, and for a moment I wondered if she had been.

“Who were you talking to?” The voice sounded as though it came from far away.

Marston stood over me. I was prone on my back on the ground, my clothes muddy as if I’d been rolling in the dirt. I grabbed his extended hand and he pulled me to my feet.

Everyone was staring at me as if I was crazy—everyone but Marsianne.

I marched up to her, waving the others to stay behind. “You will tell me how to find Moregone,” I said in a low voice, “or I will burn down your pathetic little village.”

I didn’t mean it, of course. At least I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t going to end my quest for Moregone just because a Goddess got in the way.

Marsianne looked me in the eye. “You are the Eternal Wanderer. I did not know until the Goddess addressed you. I will show you the way.”

I heard a gasp behind me. Unnoticed, Viccare had followed me over. Now he was staring at me like he’d never seen me before. “You…?” he began, but nothing else came out. Then he knelt before me. “The Mirror God has commanded me to follow you wherever you lead, milord.”

“Get up,” I said. “You are no longer a Blue Pilgrim. You can do whatever you want.”

He shook his head, but didn’t try to argue.

From that moment on, every time I looked toward the boy, he seemed to be staring at me.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 16.)

16.) It appeared to me that every citizen of Inhut was there, just a few more people than belonged to our caravan, perhaps numbering fifty. They were gathered in the enclosure at the center of the town. The houses were square and unadorned, built in a circle and side by side with a wall between each one. None of the buildings were taller or wider than the others.

The people were small of stature, both men and women, and there were few children in sight. Perhaps they were hidden away. They wore clothing that were various shades of brown and gray, blending in with their surroundings, both natural and manmade. I saw neither grazing livestock, nor plots of gardens in the rocky soil, and I wondered how these benighted people survived the cold and windy highlands. Both the town and the surrounding landscape were bleak, devoid of vegetation or color.

Tomber looked like a giant among them, half again as tall as most of the adults. His grin was infectious though, and I felt my heart lighten at the sight of him. He would know if there was danger, and to see him so relaxed was encouraging.

He stepped out and shook my hand, then turned and motioned toward a small, delicate woman, who was wrinkled and bent.

“Marsianne, this is Evard Just, the man I told you about.”

She wrinkled her forehead looking up at me, as if I was an alien creature.

“Evard, this is Marsianne, the mayor of Inhut.”

I bowed to her and she appeared amused at the gesture. “Welcome to our home,” she said, her voice crackling like dry paper. “We have prepared a banquet as a celebration of friendship.”

She turned and lifted her hand. Moments later, the inhabitants of Inhut were scurrying about, setting up tables and chairs in the courtyard. The food they brought out from the houses appeared to consist of mostly stews and soups.

“Allow us to contribute to the festivity,” I said. I looked over at Toug, he nodded and quickly took command.

In the end, we provided more than half the food for the “banquet,” which we were more than glad to do. The expedition was nearing its goal, and it wouldn’t hurt to lighten our load before we attempted the mountain passes.

It was fortunate that Toug was able to scrape together a meal so quickly, because what the Inhutians offered was pretty thin gruel, though I had little doubt it was the best they could provide.

Despite an obvious effort to restrain themselves these poor people couldn’t hide their craving for the provender we provided. This was obviously a poor and backward village, with citizens who were ignorant of the outside world. When I mentioned the Thirteen Principalities, only Marsianne seemed to know what I was referring to.

The children came out of hiding for the meal. They looked malnourished, which explained the stunted stature of the adults. They stared at us with wide eyes, as if we were mythical creatures. They were especially interested in Lady Favory, who was a head taller than any woman of the village, and who seemed to glow in health and vitality. She also stood out because she had changed into a bright scarlet dress for the banquet.

The young ones approached her shyly, and touched her raiment, and then ran away. One young boy said “Goddess” before he scurried off.

Favory seemed to take all of this attention as her due. I saw her glancing over at Viccary a few times, as if to say, “See what you’re missing?”

Above us, clouds swirled through the high peaks, and I could hear the winds beyond the walls, but within the circle, it was still and quiet, except for the murmur of talk. By design or accident, the two groups were blended, with alternating seating. My people appeared to be relaxed.

No one is on guard.

How had that happened? I looked around for Marston to ask, but he was surrounded by several of the village women—apparently, his relatively small size made him attractive.

Let him have this moment.

As soon as I thought it, the urgency to post guards dissipated.

For most of the meal, Tomber sat at the other end of the table, bend halfway over to talk to Marsianne. As the Inhutians scooped up the last of the food, I motioned my Tomber over.

“Are they ready?” I asked my scout. “Will they help us?”

“Everything is prepared. We need merely load up the pack mules and head home. This will be your most profitable venture yet, Evard.”

I stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of his words.

“Head home?” I repeated.

“The last couple loads of trinkets seemed to open up the floodgates, Evard. It appears that these people are miners, who trade precious gems with the lowlanders for everything else. You should see the mines—they go on forever, so deep you can feel the fires of underworld!”

“I’m most pleased to hear that, Tomber. We’ll certainly try to load up on our way back. But meanwhile, what of Moregone? What of the pass over the Shield Mountains?”

It was Tomber’s turn to sound mystified. “Moregone? What is that?”

I reached out and took hold of his arm, my fingers digging into him. He winced and looked down. “What’s wrong, Evard?”

“You were supposed to find us a guide over the Shield Mountains,” I hissed.

“Over the Shield Mountains?”

It was clearly a strange concept to him. I watched him try to puzzle it out and then he pulled his arm away. “I always wondered what it was you liked about this part of the world,” he said. “But I enjoy these people—they are honest and hardworking.”

I opened my mouth to argue and then wondered why. What was I so upset about?

I looked down the table at my people. It was hard to distinguish them from the villagers now. Everyone appeared very attractive to me. How had I ever believed these people to be stunted? They were merely small and delicate.

Half of them appeared to have wandered away. As I watched, Hutson the carpenter rose hand-in-hand with a young woman and stumbled off toward a nearby house.

How nice, I thought. It’s wonderful that our expedition has been such a success. Maybe we didn’t get everything we wanted…

My mind went blank for a moment. What was it we had wanted?

Marsianne appeared next to Tomber; with him seated, she was face to face with him. She leaned into him and gave him a kiss on the lips.

Strange. I’d thought the mayor old and wizened when first I saw her, but now I saw that the wrinkles were merely laugh lines and her face was lovely.

Tomber rose from his seat and swooped Marsianne into his arms. “See you in the morning, boss.”

I opened my mouth to object as he staggered away, then wondered why. What was it that was so bothering me? Everyone else seemed happy.

Toug stood by the dinner wagon, cleaning up. I wandered over to him.  

He looked up at me and I could see the same confusion I was feeling in his face.

“I took by one bite of their stew,” he said. “There was something in it.”

“What do you mean?” My question was polite—but really I couldn’t seem to care.

“There is something wrong, Evard.”

I laughed. Of course, the great chef had been offended by the Inhutian food. No surprise there.

He stood staring at me for a few more moments, frowning. Then his face cleared and he smiled. “Well, I think I’ll get a start on breakfast.”

I walked away, wondering what kinds of precious stones Tomber had managed to get for us. I would ask him in the morning. There was no hurry.

A young woman approached and I recognized her as one of the village women who’d brought the food to the tables. She smiled shyly at me. “We have a bed for you, master. Come this way.”

She led me to the back of her house, where there were blankets laid upon the floor. Moonlight streamed through a narrow window. I lay down on the hard ground, and it seemed to me completely comfortable. I almost asked the woman to stay and I was pretty sure she would have, but in the end I was just too sleepy.

I closed my eyes, smiling.

The ending comes.

Went on my walk yesterday with the vague intention of thinking about the ending to Moregone, but didn't really expect much.

Sure enough, about halfway through the walk, it started coming to me.

How does that happen? It's hard to reconstruct the thought process, because it is so vague and uncertain.

I know that it usually starts by posing the question: sometimes specific, sometimes general.

I knew in this case that the whole theme of the story was memory. I knew that the protagonist was moving from the known world into the forgotten realm by the way of a mist-filled cave. So I knew that something affecting his memory needed to happen.

But what?

I thought about coming back home to look up quotes about memory, Wiki entries, philosophy and science, to see if anything was sparked.

As often happens when I'm stumped, the answer was the exact opposite of what I was pondering; It isn't that the protagonist forgets something but that he remembers. 

There was then a quick leap to the ending, things I'd been setting up all along. Getting them to all mesh into a single story line that resolves all the different threads.

This is why I write, I think. The satisfying solution to a plot.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 15.)

15.) “It is the Mirror God’s will, Lady Favory.”

She sat at a small fire away from the rest of us. Ironically, on the far side of the main fire, Viccare had also started his own campfire. 

I used her title to soften her resistance to my words. “Unlike the Crucified God, the Mirror God seems to be paying attention.”

“Viccare means nothing to me,” she said coldly. “He is already suffering. That is enough.”

 I didn’t believe her, but decided not to argue.

That morning we’d sent Benene off with her laden pack mules. The blue cloak hung loosely about the little woman and she appeared dazed and vulnerable, but with the golden bell hanging around her neck I did not fear for her safety. I’d never heard of a female Blue Pilgrim, but apparently that was Man’s stricture not the Mirror God’s.

We spent the day steadily climbing the foothills, which were tall enough to obscure the Shield Mountains beyond. The path became nearly invisible but Marston, riding his mule, Spittooth ahead of me, seemed to know where it led so I followed him.

It was slow going with most of the wagons, but surprisingly—possibly because it was so light compared to the others—the applecart handled the slopes readily.

I ordered the heavier laden wagons to discard any supplies not completely necessary. Halfway up one particularly steep hill, I heard someone climb into back of the cart. I looked behind me to see Viccare slumped against the wooden crates. He glared at me as if challenging me to object. I shrugged.

As we reached the top of the hill, Viccare cried out. “What have you got in the crate?”

I turned around as the boy reached for the largest of the crates, his fingers inadvertently slipping through the slates. He yelped, pulling back his hand. “It bit me!”

“Leave it alone,” I said.

Even from were I sat I could see the row of bite marks, welling blood.

“What manner of creature are you carrying?”

At that moment, the side of the crate fell open and Seed crawled out. He seemed to grow in size as he emerged, his long knobby legs and arms untangled, his black hair wild and tousled.

I was surprised to see him. There were tall forests on both sides of the trail, but I suppose even Seed needed to rest once in a while.

He reached out with long fingers and grabbed Viccare’s hand. The pilgrim was too surprised to react. Seed leaned down and licked the wound.

“Hey, stop that!” Viccare shouted. Then he fell silent and stared down at his now unblemished hand. He leaned back and stared at Seed as if seeing him for the first time. “They who are cursed, shall also be blessed,” he said.

Seed smiled broadly and said, “They who are foolish, shall also be wise.”

The defrocked pilgrim looked as if he was trying to decide whether to be insulted or flattered.

“Viccare, meet Seed. I’m not sure what he is or why he’s along, but there it is…”

“The Mirror God has chosen,” Viccare said, finally. “It is not for me to judge.” He reached out tentatively to touch Seed, who dodged him and scrambled into the seat beside me, leaning against my leg, looking around excitedly. I felt an unfamiliar feeling come over me. It was as if the boy was my son.

From that moment on, Seed stayed at my side, sometimes upright, sometimes scrambling on all fours. Once, when someone dropped a heavy sack with a loud thud, he seemed to vanish, moving so fast he was a blur, until looking down at me from a high branch of the nearest tree. When he saw that it was safe, he scrambled head first down the trunk, and resumed his presence by my side as if nothing had happened. Despite the shocked looks, no one said anything.

Until that night as I sat at Favory’s campfire, Seed crouched at my feet.

“Who’s your new friend?” she asked, throwing a log into the fire.

“This is Seed. He sort of asked to come along, though I doubt I could have stopped him.”

“He knows of Moregone?”

“I believe that is where Seed comes from,” I said. “I…I’m not sure but I may be the reason he left.”

Favory gave me a sharp look. “I always liked you, Evard, because you seemed to know what was going on. Now I’m beginning to wonder.”

“Me too, my dear. Me too.”

“If I were devout, I might believe that the Mirror God chose all of us for this journey….the bastard.” She glanced over toward Viccare’s fire.

The defrocked pilgrim sat away from us, his back tense as if he knew we were talking about him.

“If he was chosen by the Mirror God, it would be best you leave him alone.”

She shrugged, as if it was unimportant—and I suddenly had an image of Viccare hanging upside down with hooks in his heels.

*  *  *

We hadn’t gone far the next morning before Marston stopped, got off of Splittooth and knelt down, cocking his head as if trying to get an angle of light that would reveal the road forward. From my perspective, it looked as if we were completely surrounded by trees.

Suddenly, Seed got up from my side, jumped on top of the baseboard and leaped, landing on Splittooth’s back end. The mule turned its head, but didn’t spook. Marston looked up at Seed with the same exact expression as the mule.

Seed stood upright on the saddle and pointed in a different direction than Marston had been contemplating. Marston turned, looked surprised, and nodded. Seed leaped back to my wagon, clearing a dozen feet with a single bound.

We hadn’t gone far before Tomber’s sign appeared on a tree trunk. The road suddenly became wide and clearly marked by wagon tracks. Apparently, we’d wandered off the road sometime before.

Marston rode back to my side. He gave Seed a dubious look, then said in a low voice. “We are being watched.”

Seed stood up and moved to the side of the cart, then leapt into the branches of the nearest tree. We kept going forward as if unaware that we had watchers. Behind me was the usual joking and yelling back and forth between wagons. Marston rode forward again, and perhaps only I could have perceived that his back was a little straighter, his hand was a little closer to his bow, than usual.

A few minutes later, Seed dropped from an overhanging tree, landing adroitly in the back of the cart.

“They come from the villager of Inhut,” he said. “I overheard them talking. I would not trust them, master.”

From what Tomber had told me, there were not enough inhabitants of Inhut to take us on—except through stealth or treachery. I debated whether to raise the alarm.

Before I could decide, we surmounted a final ridge and emerged onto a small plateau. There in the middle of the flat was a small village, houses clustered close, smoke coming from the chimneys. I turned to Seed, intending to suggest that he take cover, but he was already gone.

A delegation of citizens waited near the entrance to the narrow street that led down the middle of the village. One figure stood head and shoulders above the others. Tomber raised his hand in greeting, and with that casual gesture, I relaxed. Whatever the denizens of Inhut were planning, it wasn’t today.

Oops, an ending.

The downside of writing to explore is that I don't really have an ending when I start. I'm trusting that the story will lead me to an ending.

Sometimes it does--but sometimes it doesn't.

This is the second Tale of the Thirteenth Principality that I've gotten more then 2/3rds of the way into the story and then got stumped.

With "The Wyvern Riders," I was distracted by the necessity to do something else, and I figured I'd just come back to it. My plan is to read the story from the beginning and see if an ending reveals itself.

With "Moregone," I'm going to take a couple of days to mull it over and hope a killer ending comes to me.

I could write an ending, there is no doubt. But I sort of want it to be inspired, so I'm willing to take the chance to wait for that to happen.

MOREGONE, a blog story, 14.)

14.) In the morning, my encounter with the Toad King seemed a dream. It was not until I asked Marston and he confirmed meeting Horense that I believed it.

Myths and legends coming to life!

Of course I knew there were legends about me as well—the Eternal Wanderer, I was called. But of course, other than my long life, there is nothing remarkable about me. I knew the myths to be but myths.

But if reality is so hard to determine, how can memories be reliable? If every memory is part of a story then how are we to know the truth? Or does the story become the truth because that is all that is remembered?

If Moregone is forgotten, will it have ever existed? Does it matter?

These and other such imponderable thoughts filled my mind as the hours passed.

It rained most of the next day, but we stayed dry beneath the broad branches of the pine tree, repairing our gear, gathering fodder, mending clothing, and resting.

At dinner that night, Marston plopped down next to me and gave me a measuring look. “Have you deciphered all the riddles, discovered the ancient truths, and solved the eternal dilemmas?”

“What’s that?” I realized that I’d been staring into the fire…for who knew how long? My own voice sounded sluggish, half asleep.

“Finally, you respond to a question!”

“Does it not bother you that the Mirror God can erase the past?”

Marston shrugged. “They who forget, shall also remember.”

“How convenient that the Mirror God asks that of us. It is the Oath that has always made the least sense to me. Why does he not want us to remember?”

“As much as I respect you, Evard Just, I’m not sure that I believe that. But even if it is true, there is not much I can do about it.”

“Oh, it’s true…” my voice trailed off.

“You’ve been in a mood all day. The journey over the mountains will need all our wits.”

“If it can be done at all. What if the legends are true—what if they can only be crossed on the back of a dragon?”

“Then how did you get here, Evard?”

That was just it. I didn’t remember a thing about the trip, only that I believed it had occurred. “What if I made it all up in my mind? What if it didn’t happen?”

He snorted. “I for one have no doubt that you are a stranger to these lands...and getting stranger all the time.”

I stared into the fire.

What if, despite my long life, I have forgotten most of it?  Isn’t that just another way of dying?

“There you go, drifting off again,” Marston brought me back, his voice was sharp, intrusive. “It would be good if you were back among the living when we leave tomorrow.”

“I’ll be ready,” I said. But for a brief, bewildering moment I forgot why we were there and where we were going. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

*  *  *

“NOooooooo!” A scream split the darkness.

I was on my feet in an instant. I’d chosen to sleep by the fire, fully clothed, secure in the shelter of the tree. For a moment I couldn’t figure out where the scream was coming from; it seemed to echo around the tree until it doubled back on itself, seeming to stretch on forever.

Then one of the tents shook and a naked man emerged, his hands toward the skies in supplication. After a long deep shuddering breath, the scream rose into the sky a second time. He looked like he’d been struck by lightning, blond hair darting skyward, blue eyes splintering like broken ice.

I couldn’t figure out who the figure was at first, then realized that it was the Blue Pilgrim. His member was fully erect despite his terror. Moments after he emerged, Favory also emerged from the tent, equally naked.

Viccare fell to his knees sobbing, as the other men and women of the expedition surrounded him.

This was to have been Vicarre’s last night with the caravan before continuing on by himself, following the Prince’s Road to the Thirteen Principality and fulfilling his quest. I’d ordered two pack mules to be loaded with supplies since I felt responsible for the loss of his wagon.

Tonight was also, apparently, the culmination of Favory’s long seduction of the boy. As far as I knew, they had not slept together until now. No doubt the approaching parting had been the final push.

Favory disappeared into the tent for a moment, emerging with a blue cloak. But instead of draping herself in the garment, she threw it over Vicarre’s shoulder, then stood with her hand on his shoulder, looking concerned. She seemed unaware that she was naked and that every man and woman of the expedition was staring at her.

The pilgrim stood up, looking around as if aware of where he was for the first time. The cloak fell off his shoulders, catching on his still tumescent member. He looked down in surprise, then his face turned red. He pulled the cloak off and wrapped it around his shoulder again.

Favory stepped to his side and whispered in his ear, but because of the silence, we all heard her.

“What is it, my dear? What has happened?”

He turned, suddenly enraged, and pushed her away roughly. “Get away from me, whore. It is because of you the Mirror God has abandoned me!”

“What do you mean?” Favory said. She looked as though she’d been slapped, and for the first time appeared to be aware of her condition. One arm went over her breast, with the other she held a hand over the Y of her legs.

“I am to abandon my holy quest and accompany you to Moregone,” he said to me. He turned and glared at those who surrounded him. “Which of you is Benene?”

A young woman, one of the cooks that Toug had brought with him, tentatively raised her hand.

Viccare marched over to her, reaching into the pocket of his garment, drawing out the golden bell. It rang piercingly, a far louder sound than such a small bell should have made.

“You are to complete the pilgrimage,” he said, holding the bell out to her.

Now that I had a chance to examine her, I realized that the woman was not young as I first thought, simply small and demure. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I am a follower of the Crucified God.”

Viccare stepped back in horror, shivering, and closed his eyes. Then he became very still, and it was clear to everyone that he was communing with an unseen presence. Viccare opened his blue eyes, which were now as calm as a mountain lake. “They who are cursed, shall also be blessed. It is as the Mirror God wills. Will you do it?”

“I…” she started.

“The Thirteenth Prince needs these supplies,” he said. “The Mirror God asks it as a favor.”

“I will do so, if it is needed,” she said.

He took off his cloak, no longer appearing self-conscious, and gave it to the small woman. He marched to his tent and ducked into the entrance. Moments later, Favory’s clothing came flying out, landing in the dirt.

I’d never seen Favory look embarrassed. But even as I—and everyone else—watched, her humiliation turned to rage. She grabbed the clothing off the ground and marched stiff legged to her own tent and disappeared within.

Viccare will be lucky to survive the journey, I thought. He is no longer protected by the Mirror God’s Covenant.

Dawn was beginning to break, and without a word, we started breaking camp for the long crossing ahead.

Huge fantasy tomes / huge series of huge fantasy tomes.

I don't know if MOREGONE is good, bad, or indifferent, but I'm enjoying the hell out of writing it.

In 1966 when I was fourteen years old, I wanted to live in Middle Earth. This was long before the genre of fantasy was established, at a time when few people I knew had read LOTR's.

Finally, fifty years later, I've found a way to live, not in Middle Earth, but in a fantasy world of my own making.

It is extraordinarily fun and fulfilling.
I think I've finally found a way to indulge my love of fantasy. Unexpectedly, it's by writing novellas, instead of full novels, and most especially by not trying to write huge fantasy tomes that are part of a huge series of huge fantasy tomes.

I'm fleshing this world out little by little, stand alone stories that can be read in any order, each different in tone and approach. I so far have several 3rd person stories, (SAID THE JOKER, TO THE THIEF; THE WYVERN RIDERS; THE GRIFFEN CORP, MOTHER SALI) one 1st person story, (MOREGONE) and--the only time I've tried this--one 1st person, present tense (for THE TOAD KING.)

By the end of this month I'll have written 150,000 words in this world. A couple of more and I'll have the equivalent of one of those huge tomes.

Personally, I'm pretty much done with reading huge fantasy tomes, huge series of fantasy tomes. I've been burned too many times by the authors not delivering in a timely manner and from most of them being Tolkien retreads.

It doesn't matter in my approach to TALES OF THE THIRTEEN PRINCIPALITIES. I have so many stories inside me and I want to tell them in so many ways that writing 30,000 words stories makes much more sense for me.

When I've written enough of them, I'm going to try to construct an outline of the Thirteen Principalities, including maps, graphs, and so on. Which, I'm hoping, will allow me to write even more stories.

All these stories probably need some rewriting, but it will be with a light touch, because the whole point of them is for them to be fresh and immediate. 

MOREGONE, a blog story, 13.)

13.) Tomber’s sign was carved on the side of a giant pine tree that loomed over the Prince’s Road. I was puzzled, for there didn’t seem to be a turn-off. Behind the huge trunk were two parallel lines, the barest hint of a wagon road.

Also behind the tree was a campsite, with a single occupant hunched over a fire, cooking a meager meal. He stood, unafraid. “My name is Horense. You are welcome to stay for the night. It will soon be raining hard. The trees boughs will give you shelter.”

The caravan soon circled the tree. Miraculously there was room for all of us. When it started to pour down a deluge, few drops reached us. Toug cooked the last of the dragon meat and I invited the stranger to eat with us.

After the meal, most of the party went directly to their tents or their wagons to sleep. The rain was a respite. During the meal I announced we would stay for a day to do repairs and to rest.

Soon enough, Horense and I sat alone by the fire.

He was a strange looking man, with most of his bulk in the top half of his body, two scrawny legs that seemed bow legged holding him up. The moment I saw him, I knew who he was.

It is said that the Toad King meets you at the crossroads at those moments of your life when you are the most vulnerable. Despite his ugliness, he charms you, disarms you, and when the meeting is over, you find that you have been stripped of everything of value, except the tale—of how you met the Toad King. For meeting the Toad King, strangely enough, was considered good luck. It meant the road you were traveling on was the one you were supposed to be on.

He was rotund and appeared to be missing a neck. His eyes were so wide it was as if they were on either side of his head. When he talked to you, he faced you squarely, and the two eyes angled inward as capturing you. I half expected a tongue to lash out and suck me in. I was sure who he was from the first moment I saw him, and I was also certain it was not a coincidence.

“I would ask you not to take anything,” I said.

He looked at me shocked, then he dropped the façade and shrugged by lifting the top half of his body. “So you do recognize me. You needn’t worry. I would not steal from someone who has fed me such a magnificent supper. Nor would I insult Evard the Just.”

“Merely Evard Just—it is a name, not a title.”

He tried to look at me sideways, then turned his entire body to accommodate. “You don’t remember, do you? We’ve met before.”

“I suppose creatures of the Abyss don’t forget like the rest of us.”

“Indeed…we ‘creatures of the Abyss,’ as you call us, forget very little. Then again, most of us have very little to remember.”

“But not you,” I ventured.

“I am cursed to remember everything.”

I suddenly realized my opportunity. Never make deals with the Toad King, the saying goes. But I didn’t see any harm in asking.”

“You remember when I first arrived in these lands?”

He bobbed his head, or rather, his entire body.

“Perhaps you could fill in some blanks in my past,” I said. “I appear to have forgotten a few things.”

“Would you believe what I told you?”

I hesitated. This was the Trickster God, who led men astray for the enjoyment of it.

“I trust that I would know you were lying.”

He weaved back and forth and I realized it was the same as a shake of the head. “Your life story is the story you tell yourself, Evard the Just. Nothing I can say will change that for the better.”

“Evard,” I corrected.

“…the Just, for that is who you are. But apparently, you’ve chosen differently. As I said—that is the story you want. Keep it, for it serves you well.”

“Then why are you here? Is there something you want to tell me?”

He laughed, a wet sound, like he was rolling water in his throat. “Don’t believe all the stories. Sometimes a chance meeting is just a chance meeting.”

“Pardon me if I don’t believe that.”

He stared into the fire for a time, then said softly. “If this meeting was destined, it was not my doing. I had thought I was on an innocent journey to the Twelfth Principality where I keep my home.

“No, our meeting was arranged by someone else. I believe the Mirror God is stirring—which is never a good thing. So the question isn’t so much what I’m intending, but what are you intending, Evard the Just? Why are you turning from the Prince’s Road?

I was sitting with the Toad King. It seemed senseless not to tell him the truth.

“Moregone has vanished.”

“It has?” His big eyes blinked slowly, then he bobbed. “It has been a long time since I visited. I suppose that is possible. So you intend to find it and somehow bring it back?”

I didn’t answer at first. To be completely honest, despite what I’d told Marston, I wasn’t sure what my intention was. Part of me wanted to return to the land of my origins—but part of me knew that wasn’t where I belonged.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t think is should be forgotten like that, as if it had no meaning.”

He stared into the fire quietly, and I finally realized he had no intention of answering.

I felt a surge of anger and almost reached out to shake him. At that moment, a huge pinecone came down from the branches above, landing in the middle of the fire and sending sparks into our faces.

The Toad King stood and stared upward, unblinking. I followed his gaze but could see nothing, except…there was a brief flash of something brown moving, as if a branch of the tree had detached itself and moved upward.

The Toad King looked over at me. “Well, this has been a most interesting day. First I’m fed a meal of dragon meat and now this! What other surprises does your little caravan hold?”

“What do you know of Seed?”

“I’m sure when the time comes, Evard the Just, you will remember and do the right thing. And now, I really must get some sleep. I will be off before the rest of you wake up, I suspect. I do hope I meet you again and hear the end of this story.”

He put out a hand that was as wide as it was long, and I shook it.

After he entered his tent, I checked my pockets and then shook my head ruefully. If the Toad King chose to steal from us, there was little I could do to stop him.

Late that night, as the fire was reduced to coals, I looked toward the Toad King’s tent and it was gone.