Back of the Envelope

I moved into my new apartment on Thursday, although I must say that I'm using the phrase "move in" loosely. I basically brought only the stuff I could fit in my little Saturn ION, mainly clothes, an inflatable mattress, and a few other essentials (read: electronics). The rest of my worldly possessions will take at least a week to catch up with me.

I had arranged things so that the afternoon I moved into my apartment the ComCast would come by with my cable modem and the self-install kit. So I didn't have a bed, a couch, a television, dishes, or much of anything else... By God, I would have fast Internet. Or so I thought. Turns out that the cable internet isn't working. The Cable connection light on the modem isn't blinking rather than steady, so the problem is either with the cable or the modem. So I bought a TV to test the cable. Okay, I also wanted a small television for my bedroom, so I spent $90 and got a TV/VCR combo. It turns out the cable is fine, so either the Internet signal is attenuated (they're at different frequencies and have different power requirements as well) or the modem is defunct. I called up COMCAST and after they had asked me to try all the inane solutions which are in the startup manual and which I had already tried ten times, they promised to send someone by to fix it. I had to schedule it for Saturday, since I didn't want to have to take off work to get my cable fixed my first week. We'll save that for getting my furniture delivered at least.

Not to panic, however. This is Boston, and I live in a community filled with college students and young professionals. There are at least five wireless networks visible from where I am, three of which are unsecured. I don't like piggybacking, but it's not my fault that my cable modem is broken.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying my first few days back in Boston. I went to my old church on Friday night, which had a free concert as part of Boston's First Night festivities. This concert featured fiddler extraordinaire, Hanneke Cassel, who is a member of Park Street Church. I bought a CD and got her autograph on it. I had met her once before, but I'd have been surprised if she remembered me. I did, however, happen to meet a couple of folks who did remember me, mostly friends from MIT's Graduate Christian Fellowship. It was good to meet them again. Some of them were considerably surprised that I was back in town. I haven't tried to keep it a secret, but I suppose I haven't really announced it.

One thing I didn't miss about Boston were the roads. I know I've commented on it before, but it really is awful. You come to an intersection where no fewer than seven roads come together. There's not one stoplight you have to go through, but three. You know you have to bear left, but is that at the second stoplight or the third. And God help you if you turn left, because then you're on the wrong road entirely, and when you manage to turn around to make another try (usually involving circling the block or else a clumsy three point turn on a side road--if you're really lucky, you find a parking lot with a stop light), you find that making a left turn onto the road you want is forbidden from where you are. Did this really happen to me? I'm hashing a couple of the times together, but I'm not exaggerating. Of course, what's almost as bad is that the street names change every few miles. This is, of course, due to the fact that the Boston area consists of a lot of little towns which grew up during the days of horse and buggy, if not plain walking. So it made sense that the road is called Lexington Street in Waltham and Waltham Street in Lexington (see, in Waltham it's the street that leads to Lexington, in Lexington it's the street that leads to Waltham). I'm not sure if it changes to Lexington Street again further out, but it wouldn't surprise me. I've found at least one other Lexington Street, but I wasn't quite sure where I was at the time.

I'll post a few pictures tomorrow, so you can see my living conditions. The place is nice, but my furnishings are not.

I've decided that I'm going to be trying to put the January Month in Review Post up on time for a change. For that to happen, I need to get the December Month in Review out of the way first. Now, I'm writing this at the end of January, but I'll be moving it back to January 1st in the archive shortly. Nevertheless, here is December's Month in Review:

Storyblogging Carnivals (takes you to the category page) — There were two carnivals in December, one hosted by Tales by Sheya, and the other hosted by Dodgeblogium.

American victim culture and Muslims — When does American victim culture become a menace to society? When it gets in the way of fighting the war on terrorism.

Life imitates webcomic — Webcomics are weird--there's no denying that. But nothing's so absurd that real life can't go just as far. Trying to appease your enemies my dropping lovenotes on them is one such example.

Can't write. Must...reach...in...spiration — I complain about the lack of inspiration, and find it again here.

Kyoto is dead — Why didn't anyone tell me earlier?

Experts and Journalists — One of my pet peeves are when people, especially "experts," state opinion as fact. The fact is, it's a complicated world, most data is open to multiple interpretations, and we really ought to acknowledge that and be careful to separate the data from the analysis.

That's it? Well, I spent a lot of December travelling and moving, so there weren't really that many important posts. Still, I did some photoblogging, and posted some fiction, and had a bunch of linking posts, so why don't you go through the archives (weeks 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5).

This is a photo Ed took of one of the knights in the jousting exhibition.

Update: Oops, I did it again. The image source was wrong, so you couldn't see the picture. It's fixed now. Also, I've corrected the misspelling of Photoblogging in all three posts. Darn Internet Explorer's autofill anyway! Darn it to heck!

This picture, also taken by Ed, is from the Falconry Exhibition, which was the most educational thing we saw at the festival. It was a lot of fun. Most of the birds were pretty small, but there were one or two that were downright huge.

Once again, welcome to photoblogging week here at Back of the Envelope. Now that I've put up about as many Christmas photos as I think you can handle, here's one from the Renaissance Festival I mentioned earlier:

That's Hope riding a camel. She had a lot of fun at the Renaissance festival. This picture was also taken by our friend Ed.

The next Storyblogging Carnival will be hosted by Michele Catalano of A Small Victory. Here's the central excerpt from her post:

* Name of your blog
* URL of your blog
* Title of the story
* URL for the blog entry where the story is posted
* A word count
* A suggested rating for adult content (G, PG, PG-13, R)
* A short blurb describing the story
* Author's name or pen name

Send e-mails to karlrovesbrain-at-gmail.com (replace -at- with @.)

And you thought I'd be totally offline this week? So did I.

Remember, I'm moving this week, so I'm giving photos rather than my usual posting. This is the last Christmas photo I'll be putting up:

That's both my nieces, Hope on the left and Kara on the right, the daughters of Sarah and Bekah, respectively. This picture was taken by Ed, a family friend.

As a reminder, since I'm moving and not blogging, I'm posting a few pictures while I'm gone.

This is another one of Kara, asleep on my arm. She wasn't sure what she thought of me at first, but we've reached the point where she wants me to pick her up even when I'm trying to work at the computer. Maybe especially so. She likes banging on the keyboard. My mother took this picture as well.

I'm moving this week. I was just going to head out and not put up anything, but I'm paranoid that if I do that I'll lose all my readership, so I'm going to be putting up something every day. Since I'm nowhere near a computer, these posts are going to be scheduled beforehand. And since I don't have anything good to write about--at least not enough to fill up a week--I'll just put up some cute pictures. Such as this:

That's my niece, Kara, Bekah's daughter, in her Santa hat. She has the best smile. My mother took this picture.

Old Post: The first chapter of Fire is here. One of these days, I may even post the prologue.

Merry Christmas! As a Christmas treat, I'll be posting another chapter from Fire. I try not to play favorites among my chapters, but this one is definitely up there. It single-handedly changed the course of the story, as I explain afterwards. Enjoy!

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Chapter 2
Alliances
According to human legend, Orcs were ugly, stupid, vicious creatures. In art, they were portrayed with mottled green skin, protruding jaws, overhanging brows, and large, donkey-like ears. In story, they walked only semi-erect, wore rags when not simply naked, lived in caves like animals, and spoke in a tongue which consisted mainly of grunting, if it was a language at all. Many legends contain a surprising amount of truth. This was not one of those.

The Orcs seated around the large table were no uglier than humans. On the average, they probably looked better, as Orcs lack the many small imperfections in features that humans take for granted. Their faces had well-defined features, more refined than the average human's, but also more refined than the average Orc's. The men tended to be more muscular than human males, and both men and women were tougher than their human counterparts. Only their pale green skin and pointed ears marked them as a different people entirely. They wore brightly-colored clothing, from the loose shirts and close-fitting breeches of the men to the intricately patterned dresses of the women. The more subdued colors of their woolen cloaks and overcoats, removed in the warmth of the room, decorated their chairs.

There was nothing crude about their surroundings. The table around which they sat was well-made, shaped from a single tree into a rectangle facilitating pride of place. The room, built of granite blocks near the center of a fortress designed for defense, could barely contain it. The small council room did not entirely lack for comforts. Since they had been in this meeting for hours, the Orcs were deeply grateful for their cushioned chairs. Tapestries, decorated with abstract images that suggested battles and landscapes rather than simply showing them, covered the walls for insulation as much as decoration. They did this perhaps too well, as the heat from the large hearth had grown well past stifling. Goblin slaves hurried to serve cool wine and fruits to their Orcish masters. These creatures did possess the protruding jaw and overhanging brow humans ascribed to Orcs, as well as motley yellow skin. All of them stood well under five feet, and all were male. The Orcish state kept tight control over Goblin females in a neverending attempt to control the breeding problem.

Talnek, King of the Orcish Tribes, would have turned the head of most human women. Still a young man, in his twelfth year since his Trials, he had well-defined musculature without the bulkiness usually seen in muscular humans. He had combed his jet black hair straight back, so it fell to his shoulders. As was typical for younger Orcs, he had no beard. Behind his place at the head of the table, on his left and right respectively, sat his wife, Anyua, and his son, Masnek. Anyua was a tall woman with raven-black hair braided to her waist, the acknowledged beauty of the court. Wearing a simple grey wool dress, the mark of her order, she stood out starkly against the showy colors of the others. She had borne Talnek only one litter, of which Masnek was the only son, before the witches inducted her into the Coven. Now she would never have another. That made neither her nor her husband happy, but they both understood her duty. Masnek was almost full grown, a young man of fifty-four months. In another six, he would reach maturity, and after facing his Trials he would start counting his age in years. He looked much like his father.

Talnek glared at the seventeen tribal chiefs gathered around the table. Out of the forty-three he had summoned, only these had come. None of the tribes who had come were of greater than middling power, as the six most powerful could, and frequently did, ignore his summons. On the other hand, they were not the feeblest. The weakest tribes had long since sought the protection of stronger ones, and they would not dare attend a meeting that their patrons did not. Talnek wished his own tribe had a few vassals. None of the tribes here owed Talnek any allegiance aside from that of a tribal chieftain to his king, and that was cursed little to work with.

Talnek spoke loudly to be heard above the bickering. "This has to stop!" They glanced in his direction, unconvinced. Bajnik and Mular had been trying to decide, by volume, who had raided whom first. "Not just this argument, the raids. Yes, I know we've always had them, but they're getting out of hand. In another year we will have all-out civil war."

"If it hasn't come already," said Bajnik. He led the most powerful of the tribes present, except perhaps Talnek's own. An older Orc, he had the typical grey beard and shaved head of those who had seen generations come and go. He was still hale, however, and his age only served to augment his authority. "We need to raid each other. With the harvest so poor, many of the tribes don't have enough supplies to last the winter. Some Orcs will die, and we don't want them to be our own tribesmen."

"Then we should raid the human barbarians. The southern lands are fertile, and the humans few."

"And go up against their druids again?" Deslar said, his hands plucking at his sleeves. His led the weakest tribe in attendance, one less powerful than many of the tribes which had sought the protection of stronger ones. Deslar himself did little to inspire confidence. Gaunt, with a thin, pale face, he looked fully as timid as he acted. "Last year's campaign was a disaster."

"What would you rather do?" Talnek growled. "Kill one another? I say we go in force this time. Even the druids cannot stop the entire Orcish nation and our warlocks." Anyua hissed at him. She did not like the warlocks, few of the witches did, but the warriors valued their powerful offensive magic more than witch-charms when it came to battle.

"And what if the druid's mind-bending works on them too? Crazed Orcs killed more of our people than human warriors. If the warlocks turned their magic against us...," Deslar shivered.

Anyua spoke, "Witch-charms can protect you against druidic magic." She smiled. "Perhaps even the warlocks will accept our protection."

"Do you really think your puny magic will work against the druids?" came a new voice. An Orc clad in bright red robes closed the door behind him as he entered.

Talnek's hand closed over his sword hilt and held tightly as he stared at the newcomer. Anyua leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "Don't worry, my charms will protect you. He is, after all, an-sul: stupid and uneducated." Talnek's left hand fingered the witch-charms he wore around his neck, not letting go of the sword hilt in his right hand. He did not really believe his wife on either count. Gar may be an-sul, but sometimes the sul blood ran true in the lower classes. The warlock was not stupid, and while he may not have received the formal education of the sul, his arcane studies more than made up for it.

Carefully keeping his voice clear of hostility, the king addressed the newcomer, "I had not expected you, Gar, otherwise I would have prepared a place for you."

Gar smiled, showing teeth sharpened in the manner of the an-sul. "I'm certain you would have, but I did not intend to come. I heard you talking about us, though, so I thought a warlock representative should join you."

Talnek did not ask how he had listened, since he probably would not have understood the mystical answer. Anyua seemed vexed, however. She spoke before Talnek could, "What do you mean, my puny magic will do no good?"

"Just that. I have studied the magic of the druids, and it is not human in origin." He paused dramatically, then realized that the gesture was lost on the majority of his audience, who just stared at him in blank incomprehension. Frowning in annoyance, he continued, "The humans are channels, drawing power from another source. I cannot say what it is, but it has the power to control us."

"How do you know this? You were not part of the expedition." Deslar's fear seemed to have retreated under some measure of curiosity. Talnek may have considered him a coward, but he did not think him stupid.

"I heard what happened there, so I investigated," Gar said. "I captured one of the converted Orcs and examined his body--"

"You killed him?" Bajnik interrupted.

"It was necessary... and he was a traitor."

"He was mad! What right do you have to kill a crazed Orc?"

"Enough!" Talnek gestured to Gar, "I want to hear what he has to say."

"What I found, in the fading remains of the magic that was laid on him, was unexpected. I discovered that the change of allegiance came not from without, but from within."

"Are you saying that he, and thousands of others, simply chose to turn on their own people?" Anyua asked scornfully.

"Not at all," Gar answered. "What I mean is that somewhere far in our past, someone implanted in us a certain... vulnerability. When the appropriate magic triggers this geas, it compels us to follow the one who activates it. These druids simply activated something that is within each and every one of us."

Anyua had become more disbelieving by the word. "I will not believe that humans somehow placed a geas on our entire race!" Apparently her anger had kept pace with her skepticism.

Gar, by contrast, was unmoved by either her doubt or her anger. He never let others get to him. Instead, he showed exactly the face he wanted his audience to see, never what he actually felt. Talnek suspected that the majority of the awe that others felt for him came from his imperturbable control of himself. That, and the fact that he could probably burn them all to ash without a hitch in his monologue. "That is not what I am saying," Gar said. "Humans did not put this in us, but something else. I do not believe that humans are even the ones triggering this geas. As I said before, they are acting as channels for something else, the thing which did put this in us and is now using it to protect the humans. Whatever this something is, it is powerful, and beyond your--or rather, our abilities to fight." That was surprising. Gar never admitted to any weakness. "I suggest that we forget the south and look elsewhere."

"Then in which direction do you suggest we look?" Talnek asked. "North? The Goblins there barely eke out a living in the Wastes. It couldn't support us." He did not even think of mentioning the east. No one spoke of the things there.

"No, I wasn't suggesting that we conquer the desert. Rather, we should look west."

"West? Are you suggesting we attack the Kawyr?"

"Exactly!" Gar hissed. "They are few, and their lands rich. We--"

"Need I remind you that the Kawyr and Orcs have been at peace for nearly six centuries. Why do you want to break it now?"

"We need the land. They may have been our allies once, but how have they helped us recently?"

"He's right," Bajnik interjected before Talnek could respond. "We aided them in their war against the western humans over two hundred years ago and we got nothing but thousands of Orcs dead. It is time we exacted the price for our aid."

Everyone knew of that ancient war, a messy affair with thousands dead on either side. In the end the border had ended up precisely where it had started. The Kawyr had claimed that this had been their goal all along, to stop the human expansion, but the Orcs did not consider a campaign victorious without conquered lands to show for it.

"Demand repayment for a debt two and a half centuries old?" Talnek scoffed. "If I were to ask any one of you to repay a debt owed my ancestors by your ancestors two centuries past, you'd laugh in my face, if you didn't just draw your sword."

"The Kawyr are not like us," Anyua spoke up. Talnek looked to her gratefully, but she would not meet his eyes. "They have long memories, some of those still alive may have fought in that war. They do remember what they owe us." Well, it looked as if he would get no help from that quarter.

"If we were to ask for repayment, perhaps they would aid us," Deslar added hopefully. Talnek nodded in acknowledgment of his unexpected support.

"I wasn't thinking of asking," Gar said.

Well, Talnek had expected a long meeting. He settled into his chair, entrenching himself for battle.



Talnek strode down the hallway, heading for his private quarters. Anyua and Masnek hurried along in his wake, neither speaking. He was not eager to speak to either one of them anyway. Anyua had not been any help, and even Masnek had spoken up--out of turn, of course!--in favor of war against the Kawyr.

Now Talnek just wanted the peace and quiet of his private office, preferably without his wife and son. He yanked open the door to his family's apartments and headed straight for his office. On the way, he nearly tripped over a decorative table that was probably tastefully placed, but right now just got in his way. The Orcish army had looted the table from the human barbarians in a raid, who in turn had probably looted it from someone else: it was much too fine to be their work. Plus it seemed to be scaled for someone half their height. Talnek's advisors had speculated on its origins for months, the leading theory being that it had been made by a lost tribe of half-sized Orcs (as no other race could possibly have produced something so fine). Finally, he had confiscated the table in a fruitless attempt to get them to do some real work. That had only added speculation on why he had taken it, with theories ranging from a secret message in its silver-inlaid vine carvings to powerful magic in the unidentifiable golden wood. He would have given in to his temptation and burned the infernal thing if he had not known that such an act would make matters worse.

He managed to avoid the table and the rest of the furniture in his private sitting room. Since it was one of the most comfortable rooms in the castle, Anyua liked to entertain her friends here. Talnek liked to entertain his enemies here just before he called for the headsman. Everyone paid careful attention to who gave the invitation. The well-cushioned and well-matched couches and deep chairs were inviting, especially in the warmth from the large fireplace. The deep rug meant that here, if nowhere else in the castle, one could walk barefoot without fear of frostbite. Solitude rather than comfort was Talnek's goal at the moment, so he headed instead for his private office. He slammed the door behind him as he entered, heedless to whether he shut it in the face of a family member. Then he turned the key already in the lock, just in case someone tried to follow.

Talnek regretted his haste immediately, as his office was unlit. He was fumbling for the lamp he kept on his desk, wondering how he was going to light it, when it suddenly sprang to life on its own. He realized then that he had not succeeded in finding isolation.

"It's about time you got out of that interminable meeting, Talnek," a precise voice spoke with an air of annoyance. The speaker sat in Talnek's own desk chair, his legs propped up on the desk. The Orc would have found that position awkward, but the speaker did not seem at all uncomfortable. Though seated he looked taller than the king and slimmer, with less musculature than any Orc. He would have looked human except for his odd coloring. Hair the shade of polished silver, eyes the deep blue of sapphire, made it clear this was no mere human. Orcs hated humans. Something deep in their nature brought disgust at the mere sight of one. For this being, Talnek felt not animosity, but instead something near to reverence. He would not admit it, but he felt certain that this person was wiser than he was, and he knew it would be foolish to ignore his advice. He had no idea how his fellow Orcs believed they could wage war on such creatures.

"Do I know you?" Talnek asked. He knew he did not. The king had only met a Kawyr once before, and it had not been this one. He did not let his awe show. As king he spoke not for himself but for his people--whether they liked it or not.

"No, but I know of you. I came to ask why you wage war on us."

"We haven't declared war on you," he said too defensively. He had been able to prevent that for now. He had left out the yet which he knew should go in there.

"Declared war? Oh, you mean in your little council meeting. I don't care what you declare, it's what you do that matters. Orcish forces have been raiding our eastern borders for months now."

"That must be the An-kol tribe and their vassals, or maybe the Muirthin."

"I don't care who they are, just stop them."

"I'm not sure that I can." Talnek did not want to admit this, but he could not lie to the Kawyr either. "I have little influence over those tribes. They wouldn't stop simply because I commanded it."

"Then back up your command with force of arms. Surely you can do that. You are, after all, the king. You do have an army, I hope."

"Maybe. If every tribe that has answered my summons were to join me, I could defeat the An-kol and Muirthin tribes. But I don't think that would happen. Most of them think they should fight you as well. My own tribe is not strong enough to defeat all of them, assuming even it would back me."

"I am not pleased to hear this."

Talnek ignored the shiver of fear those words gave him, and even worse, the shame at the Kawyr's disappointment. He did not have to answer to the Kawyr, did he? Instead, he tried to stoke his own anger, and perhaps a little authority with it. "Would you have us fight a civil war?"

"If the alternative is war against us, yes. Kai'Wyr and Or'kai have been at peace for nearly six hundred years. Why do you want to attack us now? What do we have that you want?"

It took Talnek a moment to sort out the strange names. Some form of Kawyr and Orc, it seemed. "We want what we always want. What we always need. Land, food, water. It boils down to survival. The harvest was poor this year--"

"Poor harvests should not require war. Don't you have storehouses?"

"Not enough. The harvest only exacerbates the problem, which is that the Orc population is growing too fast." There, Talnek had said it. The Orcs did not like to admit this problem, much less deal with it, but Orcs reproduced nearly as quickly as the disgusting Goblins. Faster than the humans certainly, and probably much faster than the Kawyr. "Our population is getting too big for this land to support. We must expand somewhere, and west is the only option."

"The only option? There are other directions."

"North are the Wastes. We could never grow much food up there. And east... we don't travel east. The things there have destroyed whole Orcish armies."

"And south? I wouldn't think the humans south of you would pose much trouble."

"They didn't used to, but now it seems that they have the ability to control our minds."

"What?" For the first time, the Kawyr seemed truly startled. In one fluid motion, his feet left the desk and he stood, leaning over the desk to look down on Talnek. The next words he spoke carried an authority that Talnek did not think he could refuse if he had to, "Tell me what you mean."

Talnek told him about the disastrous invasion last year and the conclusions that Gar had drawn.

"So they're interfering now," the Kawyr spoke to himself. "Working to protect their pet humans. I wonder why they bother? Can't they just accept their fate? No, they can't, no more than we can." His voice dropped to a mere murmur at the end, just loud enough for Talnek to hear.

"What are you talking about?"

"Hmm?" the Kawyr noticed him again. "Nothing. I think we need an alternative for you."

"What sort of alternative?"

"You need to look farther west. Our land would not be able to provide for you for long. The forests are unsuitable for farming; you'd turn it into a wasteland within a decade. No, I think you should try to establish a foothold in the Novar lands."

"Novar? What's a Novar?"
"The Novar Empire is a human kingdom. Don't you remember them? It was only two hundred and forty years ago when you last fought them."

"The histories tell us that we fought humans to the west of us then. I didn't know what they were called."

"I am not impressed by your education. No matter. The Novar empire is large, with strong armies, but it has nothing near the Orcish numbers. It is a rich land, too, with much to loot and vast expanses of land to conquer."

A rich human land to invade. "So you want us to go past your land? What if they can do what the southern ones can?"

"What, convert you? Don't worry, the ones who helped the southern humans have no interest in the Novar. As for how you'll go past our land, the southern region is nearly uninhabited. You can use the passes there to enter the Novar empire."

"That might work. If I can give the tribes another target, they'll lose interest in your land. Do you have the authority to do this, though? Offer us passage through your land so we can invade another? If we do this, wouldn't you control the passes that will separate Orcish lands?" It had occurred to Talnek that maybe this offer was too good.

"Authority? You have no concept how Kai'Wyr society works, do you? To answer your question, yes, I can extend this offer to you. If you're so concerned, we may be able to simply give you the passes and the southernmost portion of our forest, although I doubt you'll find it hospitable. I'll contact you when all is ready." At that, the lamp went out again.

"When will that be?" he asked the darkness.

"A few months. Spend your winter preparing, you will go to war in the spring."

"We don't have enough food to last that long!"

"We may be able to help you there. This once."

Talnek waited for the door to open as the Kawyr left, but it never did. He finally opened it himself to see his wife and son in the sitting room, discussing him from the way their conversation cut off when he looked in. They gave no indication that they had seen anyone, much less a Kawyr. He almost asked, but decided against it. Instead he used the illumination from the open door to light his lamp, but when he searched his office he found it empty.



At the next day's council meeting, Talnek laid out his proposal. There was arguing, of course. Bajnik and Gar still favored attacking the Kawyr, contending that they were fewer than these humans and that they still owed the Orcs. Anyua and Deslar supported Talnek, though, along with Mular, the chieftain of a tribe nearly as powerful as Bajnik's. The hatred of humans was as strong in the Orcs as the reverence for the Kawyr which Bajnik and Gar tried to deny. Eventually, all the tribes in attendance agreed to support Talnek's campaign, some more reluctantly than others. Relieved that he had managed to redirect their expansionism, Talnek felt ready for another visitation by the Kawyr. When it did not come, Talnek had to assume that he should move forward with his plans.

The next step meant issuing the call to war to the tribes who had not answered his summons to council. He knew from experience that some would be eager to join in an expedition that would mean more land and resources, while others would rather remain here and take those things from their absent neighbors. Two courses of action could prevent this sort of cannibalism. The first involved gathering a large enough force that he could bully all the tribes into joining. The second involved gathering a large enough force that he could leave a portion here to deter any theft. Either way, he needed to convince at least two of the six dominant tribes to join him. The Halien tribe and, surprisingly, the Muirthin soon indicated their willingness to join his expedition. Apparently the Muirthin had discovered the hard way that raiding the Kawyr would not bring much benefit. From what Talnek could gather, while the raids had managed to take whole villages, forcing a mass Kawyr migration westward, they had not left much behind. Not only that, but Kawyr scouts would strike at the raiding parties, peppering them with arrows, then vanishing when the Orcs attempted to strike back. Whole parties had disappeared. Those few times when Orcs managed to come face to face with a Kawyr warrior, a sudden reluctance to fight overcame them. They could do so, when backed by other soldiers stirred to bloodlust, but one-on-one, or even three-on-one, most Orcs stood unresisting while the Kawyr skewered them. In short, the Muirthin were hoping that the humans would provide a richer, easier target.

Since winter was fast approaching, the tribes agreed to muster in the spring. Resources were scarce, but soon supplies began arriving from the west, brought in by Orcs who reported brief and unbelievable encounters with Kawyr who gave them the food and told them to take it east. Very strong warnings accompanied these instructions to prevent the orcs from keeping the food for themselves or selling it at the disproportionately high price it would fetch. An encounter with the Kawyr could cow even headstrong orcs. Talnek paid the bearers a sizeable bounty for the odd fruits and cured meats anyway, then distributed it to his allies. This alone brought the An-kol and Delak tribes and their vassals aboard. That left only two of the dominant tribes who were not part of the expedition, and Talnek knew that the Slizana and Kildan tribes would rather starve than join with him. Until Talnek's great-grandfather had united the marginalized tribes of middling power and seized the throne over fifty years ago, a dynasty descended from those two tribes had ruled over the Orcs. Talnek did not know how they intended to survive without the food, but the preparations of the other tribes at least convinced them not to raid their neighbors.

Much of those preparations consisted of training the an-sul to follow the orders of the sul. There were two classes of Orcs, an-sul and sul. Most Orcs had little intelligence, not much better than the Goblins, but maybe one in a hundred possessed wits nearly matching the Kawyr. These were the sul. At first, sul and an-sul were born to the same parents. An-sul could occasionally have sul children, but sul parents only had sul children. Eventually, the sul began to see themselves as a separate ruling class, and although intelligent Orcs could still be born among the an-sul, they could no longer rise to the sul class. Survival of the Orcish culture depended on the clear and rigid separation of the classes.

As much as the an-sul required training, so did the sul. Although the standard education of sul males included the warrior arts, knowing tactics in theory differed significantly from leading Orcs, particularly an-su, into battle. The leaders needed to learn how to command their less intelligent brethren, which consisted in large part of learning their monosyllabic version of the Orcish language. They had the most difficulty keeping track of names: an-sul names, like their language, consisted largely of one syllable words. This, combined with an abysmal lack of creativity, led to large portions of the population sharing the same name. Order Nal to do something, and a commander would find a dozen Orcs rushing to fulfill the order. Some commanders took advantage of this by dividing their troops into companies based on their names. Of course, a few Orcs had uncommon names, and companies tended to vary widely in size. The correction to this meant that some an-sul would go home with a different name than they went to war with, causing considerable confusion among friends and family. They took their new names with pride, but this would not improve the variety of an-sul names.

Overall, Talnek liked how things were progressing. The next time the Kawyr visited, he was pleased as well.

---

This has been Chapter 2 of Fire, a 4,947 word excerpt of a 90,111 word novel.

Above, I promised to explain what made this chapter so interesting. Doing so requires some minor spoilers for the remainder of Fire. Nothing extreme, but be forewarned.

When I first started writing Fire--which is not what the working name was--my plan was simply to follow Victor as I rushed through a few years. This chapter changed all that, and in so doing changed the course of the story. After writing the first chapter, I didn't really feel the inspiration to follow Victor, figuring that what he was going through was pretty boring.

At the same time, I decided that I really wanted to move further away from the whole Tolkienesque tableau of Orcs, Elves, Dwarves, and Hobbits. My original thinking had kept much closer to the fantasy stereotypes, but as I got older, I started to find that just a bit too stale. I got rid of extraneous peoples, and changed others. However, I couldn't just get rid of the Orcs. I had plans for those guys, and I had already put a great deal of thought into their origins and relationships with some of the other races, races which wouldn't just be disappearing. But I wanted something different from the stereotypical ugly, stupid creatures of The Lord of the Rings.

So as I was casting about for what to write about, I realized that I didn't really know anything about the new, redefined Orcs. Well, the best way to find out was to start writing about them and see where it took me. You can see that best at the beginning of the chapter, as I start with the stereotypes, and say "Here's what Orcs aren't." In the next paragraph, I say, "Here's what Orcs are." And believe me, I didn't know that until I started writing it.

So I wrote about the Orcs, and as I wrote and introduced the characters (characters who didn't even exist before I wrote this chapter), I met not just the tribes, with the chieftains and their putative king, but also a witch and a warlock, sul and an-sul, and a Kawyr. All stuff I knew nothing about until they actually appeared in this chapter (aside from the Kawyr, whom I knew something about). And when I got to the end of the chapter, I realized that I had started a war. Way to go, Donald! I had been going to focus on Victor, but I can't just ignore a war I started, and what's going on with Victor is happening at a much slower pace than the war. Darn! So okay, the focus will have to shift from Victor for a while. A whole year that I had been about to skip expanded into seventeen chapters, and as a result, I discovered that interesting things were happening to other characters. Lucia started developing much earlier than expected, I had to introduce someone to keep an eye on Victor, and a character whom I hadn't even planned on giving a point-of-view to became the focus of Fire. All because of this one chapter.

This was originally posted at 9:00 am on Dec 25, 2004. I'm reposting it, and deleting the original post, in order to eliminate the trackback spamming this post routinely receives.

Michael Novak has some thoughts on the relevance of Christmas to individual liberty:

And how is this form of liberty rooted in Christmas? Read again Jefferson's argument in his Bill for Religious Liberty and Madison's argument in his Remonstrance. For both, religion is a duty every person owes to his Creator — a self-evident duty but one to be rendered according to the conscience of each individual. And why is that? Because that is the decree of the particular God they have in mind. That God is found in Judaism and Christianity, in the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and also Jesus, Who demands to be worshiped "in spirit and in truth."

This God, as William Penn of the Society of Friends explained, created the world so as to place within it women and men to whom He could offer His friendship. They would be free to accept or reject his friendship, since He wished not slavish friendship but the friendship of the free. "The Light was sent to shine in the darkness, and the darkness grasped it not." Since He made the universe for friendship, the Creator had to make it free. Freedom lies at the heart of things.

And so, to continue the Jeffersonian and Madisonian argument, each man must make a choice, face-to-face with his Creator. This choice cannot be put off on one's mother or any other person: It is inalienable. The choice cannot be evaded. And if it is the inalienable duty of every individual, then it must also be an inalienable right. This duty belongs to every individual, and no state or jurisdiction can block its accomplishment. This is a duty precedent both in time and in obligation to all others. It is precedent to civil society, and it is precedent to the state. It is rooted in the relation of individual to Creator.

So powerful is this relation that it holds even for those who deny that there is a God. For the Creator leaves it within individuals' freedom to make such a denial. As Jefferson spells out, we humans can bow our knee to nothing else besides evidence, and if the evidence for God in this world does not convince us, so the Almighty has left us free to conclude. It lies in his almighty power to coerce us, but the Holy Author of our religion chose not to do.

Read the whole thing.

This was originally posted at 4:03 pm on Dec 24, 2004. I'm reposting it, and deleting the original post, in order to eliminate the trackback spamming this post routinely receives.

"I thought that, in today's column, I would heal the nation." And that's what Dave Barry sets out to do, with such beautiful words, too:

As Americans, we need to stay here in America and work things out, because regardless of what color or hue of state we live in, we are all, deep down inside our undershorts, Americans. And as Americans, we must ask ourselves: Are we really so different? Must we stereotype those who disagree with us? Do we truly believe that ALL red-state residents are ignorant racist fascist knuckle-dragging NASCAR-obsessed cousin-marrying roadkill-eating tobacco-juice-dribbling gun-fondling religious fanatic rednecks; or that ALL blue-state residents are godless unpatriotic pierced-nose Volvo-driving France-loving left-wing communist latte-sucking tofu-chomping holistic-wacko neurotic vegan weenie perverts?

Yes. This is called ''diversity,'' and it is why we are such a great nation — a nation that has given the world both nuclear weapons AND SpongeBob Squarepants.

Read the whole thing.

It's Christmas Eve today, and I'm wishing you all a Merry Christmas. I will be moving next week, so I doubt you'll see many posts from me in the near future. Enjoy your holiday, and hopefully I'll be posting again before the new year starts.

The Sci-Fi channel has made a mini-series out of Ursula K. Leguin's famous books. I recorded it, but didn't get a chance to watch the whole thing before my trip. How'd it turn out? Well, the short answer is not so great.

The mini-series strayed pretty far from the books. Now, it's been a while since I've read the books, so I don't remember them too well. Tanar's role, as well as that of the temple she's a part of, are completely reversed in this mini-series. Ged, at least, is pretty true to his part in the first book, at least until the end of that book. The final book doesn't really affect this mini-series at all. All that is not really what concerned me. And this mystical amulet central to the plot of the mini-series is nothing like the item--I think it was actually some sort of bracelet--which Ged was trying to restore in the books. As I've said before, I barely recall the books, so something completely different, which this was, doesn't really bother me. There were other problems, however.

I'm not sure exactly what it was about this mini-series that I didn't like. It wasn't the special effects, which were fine, although I thought the dragon looked kind of fake--too obviously computer generated. It wasn't the plot, which, while unrelated to the books, was serviceable. I think it was mostly the acting and the dialogue. Most of the dialogue seemed formal, heavy with meaning and fraught with emotion. Too heavy, too emotional. And every line was delivered with what was supposed to be deadly seriousness and intensity, but the acting seemed kind of wooden, perhaps just from the inability to maintain the required seriousness. As a result, it was just too weighty. There were some jokes, but they failed to lighten up the mood of the story.

In conclusion, the mini-series didn't work for me. It wasn't a total waste of time, and I had fun in parts, but it didn't live up to expectations.

I found this article by Jeffrey Friedman in NRO to be incredibly interesting, partly because it touches on one of my pet peeves. Here's an excerpt before I add my two cents:

At the end of the 19th century, growing government power placed more and more complicated questions, such as those raised by economic regulation, onto the political agenda. This required the electorate to master more and more information in order to vote intelligently. Not coincidentally, at the same time the overtly partisan newspapers of the 19th century were replaced by media that, following the lead of the New York Times, prided themselves on being fair to all "legitimate" points of view. The new, nonpartisan media assured conscientious voters that they could understand the complexities of modern politics by trusting journalists to present, as part of "all the news that's fit to print," both (1) a balanced account of various partisan arguments, and (2) an objective account of "the facts," which would allow voters to decide which partisan claims are correct.

The main problem with this model of journalism is not, as Okrent seems to think, whether it leans too heavily toward (1) balancing opinions instead of (2) presenting an objective account of "undeniable" facts. The real difficulty is that neither a true balance of opinions nor an objective reporting of facts is likely if politics is complicated. But the reason people feel the need to turn to "nonpartisan" journalists to help sort out political issues is precisely that-especially since the advent of big government-politics is very complicated indeed.

The new model of journalism solved the problem of complexity only in the sense of wishing it away. The facts about the problems modern governments try to solve would have to be pretty simple if the journalist could make sense of them without himself needing to be an expert. But if the political world that simple, readers would need journalists to sort it out just as little as Okrent thinks journalists need experts. Okrent's "just the facts, ma'am" approach is based on the same wishful thinking that stood behind the new model of journalism.

In the new model of journalism, reporters need to put their views into the mouths of experts so they can appear to be taking adequate account of the world's complexity. But the unspoken assumption behind the media's complacent invocation of expertise is, in reality, that the facts of the political world, when not immediately plain to the reporter, are at least clear to people who make a career of studying them: people who are "experts." These specialists need only relay their "findings" to the journalist--who, in turn, needs only report them to the public--for the public to gain a clear understanding of the world.

In a world that straightforward, honest experts wouldn't disagree with each other-which Okrent appears to think is the case. The truth, of course, is that honest experts disagree with each other all the time-which calls into doubt the expertise of some or all of them. When two people disagree, at least one of them must be wrong.

Honest experts' disagreements are rooted in the very thing to which the new model of journalism pays only lip service: the difficulty of making sense of the modern world. In the face of the world's complexity, the interpretation offered by a given expert will tend to reflect his theoretical — including ideological — assumptions as much as, or more than, it springs from his direct contact with "undeniable truths."

One of my biggest pet peeves is when people state opinions as facts, something which is particularly dangerous when an expert is talking to a non-expert. Experts often do this when talking to each other, but when talking to other experts who know the material and are adept at separating fact from opinion, it isn't all that dangerous. It's part of the background noise, and you take it into account when weighing what the other person has to say.

Among scientists, it's even easier, since scientific papers are usually divided between the experimental data and the analysis. The data should be accurate as a matter of scientific ethics--people who falsify their data are obviously not honest experts--but the analysis can invoke a great deal of opinion. Often, it's a non-controversial opinion: you apply the standard scientific model and you come up with this explanation for the data. But other times it can be very controversial, especially when your analysis shows problems with the standard model. Guess which papers make the mainstream media.

When experts, scientific or political, talk to non-experts, such as journalists, they are rarely careful to separate the data from the analysis, and even less careful when it comes to saying "This method of analysis is pretty standard and non-controversial, but that one is where we substitute our brand-new and, for the most part, untested, model." That is where the conflation of fact and opinion are most dangerous, and it's something I try to be careful of. (I'm not an expert on most of the things that I write about, but I do have a Ph.D., so there are some things I could get away with calling myself an "expert" on.) I'd ask that all experts, as a matter of principle, be likewise careful.

The eighth Storyblogging Carnival is now online at Dodgeblogium. There are seven stories from the authors Sheya Joies, Michelle Catalano, Dave Gudeman, Mary Murphy, Tim Worstall, Andrew Ian Dodge, and myself. Enjoy!

Michele Catalano of A Small Victory has volunteered to host the next Storyblogging Carnival. I'll post more details when I have them.

Now that I have an apartment, it's time for me to move again. What fun! I have a move-in date of December 30th, and while it'll be pretty easy for me to move myself there by that time, moving the rest of my worldly possessions will be a bit more difficult. I'll have to see what I can do.

Well, folks, I'm back in Louisiana. Despite my best efforts, I didn't completely avoid the snow, and I had lots of fun driving in Boston on my way back. But I did make it, and my late afternoon flight wasn't even delayed. Which was interesting, since I ended up sitting in the area with folks whose flights had been delayed three or four hours.

In any case, I have an apartment now, so I'm ready to move to Boston. I haven't yet figured out how I'm going to get all of my stuff to Boston, so it's basically going to be just me and no furniture for a little while unless I can work that out.

I was going to tell you an interesting anecdote about two girls whom I met while waiting for the plane who didn't know each other but who went to the same college and had a lot of the same friends, and who also had seats right next to each other on their upcoming flight. It was an interesting coincidence, but I was more or less a casual observer, so it's not even my anecdote to tell (well, aside from the highly condensed teaser I just shared). I will say that I don't believe in coincidences any more than I believe in fate. I do believe in God. Something like that makes you wonder whether there might be a purpose to such a meeting--although I'm quick to add that trying to discern said purpose is usually futile unless it reveals itself.

Steven Vincent has some discouraging words from Iraqis. For example:

She was a Sunni Muslim, an attractive, thirty-something writer, one of the few women I met who eschewed a scarf in public. And she was overjoyed at the demise of Saddam. "I am so happy! Freedom at last! The world is open to me now!" she exclaimed during a small social function at an art gallery in Karada. "Can you recommend some American magazines I might send my writing to?"

I promised I'd draw up a list of suitable periodicals, then added — carelessly, for this was my first trip to Iraq — "You must not mind seeing American soldiers on the streets."

The woman's smile vanished. Her brow darkened and she shook her head. "Oh, no. I hate the soldiers. I hate them so much I fantasize about taking a gun and shooting one dead."

Stunned by her vehemence, "But American soldiers are responsible for your freedom!" I replied.

"I know," the woman snarled. "And you can't imagine how humiliated that makes me feel."

As Vincent observes, this attitude is much more common among the Sunnis than the Shi'ites or the Kurds:

After more than eighteen months of fighting in Iraq, there seems to be no means of dealing with this insurrection. The Kurds and the Shia (renegade cleric Moqtada al-Sadr notwithstanding) have shown a willingness to negotiate over the future of Iraq — why not the Sunnis? What do they hope to gain from their "guerrilla" war against the U.S. and against the interim government of Prime Minister Iyad Allawi? More important, what factors in the Arab Iraqi character lie behind Sunni opposition to a democratic Iraq, and why can't American politicians, military personnel and members of the media seem to understand them?

This is discouraging, but there's one thing to remember. We don't need the Sunnis to rebuild Iraq, and they know this. If they don't participate in the reconstruction, they run the risk of being sidelined, and being forever the powerless fringe of Iraqi politics. And they don't want that any more than we do. I think once it becomes clear that they can't beat us, they will, for the most part, join us.

Who knew? (from Instapundit) Kyoto was always a really bad idea economically, and it tended to discourage some promising solutions in the effort to fix everything right now. It is untenable for third world nations which need to develop economically before they can put a cap on emissions. And while Bush is always blamed for it failing, the Senate had already voted against the treaty 95-0, and as the Senate must approve all treaties... yes, I'm afraid it wasn't Bush who stopped this one.

Sluggy Freelance — As I predicted, Horribus is gone while the Demon King remains. It's not quite how I expected, but I figure that even Pete Abrams considers Horribus probably dead. He could bring him back if he really needed him for a cool storyline, but probably won't. And then it's back to the old Sluggy crew, and Torg still hasn't told the others what happened to him. I really think he needs to tell them, but I'd be freaked out if his experiences had no lasting effect on him. Meanwhile, Gwynn's having Book of E-ville problems, and Torg gets caught up in it.

Day by Day — Let's see, there's the Ukraine elections, Moveon.org's dumb comments about owning the DNC, Marc Rich, pajamahadeen, and Hillary Clinton's disparagements of Internet commentators, all in this week's Day by Day. But by far the coolest thing is the music that plays when you mouse-over the title. I never noticed that before, but web-surfing on a computer with a broken soundcard and a dial-up connection might explain that.

Scary Go Round — Shelley wants to reunite Ryan with his father, but her methods range from cruel to ridiculous.

College Roomies from Hell!!! — Maritza's still getting morning sickness, so the comics are sporadic. The Dragon is drawing her own wrong conclusions, while Mike is giving Dave some discouraging advice.

General Protection Fault — Dex's blind date ends pretty disastrously, although it looks like there's a bit of hope there at the end.

Schlock Mercenary — Kevyn debriefs the recuperating Elf, at least if you define recuperating as having a new body grown after being beheaded. At least the possible sexual harassment case is headed off fairly quickly. Um, I think I just punned subconsciously.

Victor Davis Hanson has some interesting thoughts on the need for the left to rethink its foreign policy:

There is much talk of post-election reorganization and rethinking among demoralized liberals, especially in matters of foreign policy. They could start by accepting that the demise of many of their cherished beliefs and institutions was not the fault of others. More often, the problems are fundamental flaws in their own thinking — such as the ends of good intentions justifying the means of expediency and untruth, and forced equality being a higher moral good than individual liberty and freedom. Whether we call such notions "political correctness" or "progressivism," the practice of privileging race, class, and gender over basic ethical considerations has earned the moralists of the Left not merely hypocrisy, but virtual incoherence.

Democratic leaders are never going to be trusted in matters of foreign policy unless they can convince Americans that they once more believe in American exceptionalism and are the proper co-custodians of values such as freedom and individual liberty. If in the 1950s rightists were criticized as cynical Cold Warriors who never met a right-wing thug they wouldn't support, as long as he mouthed a few anti-Soviet platitudes, then in the last two decades almost any thug from Latin America to the Middle East who professed concern for "the people" — from Castro and the Noriega Brothers to Yasser Arafat and the Iranian mullahs — was likely to earn a pass from the American and European cultural elite and media. To regain credibility, the Left must start to apply the same standard of moral outrage to a number of its favorite causes that it does to the United States government, the corporations, and the Christian Right. Here are a few places to start.

Read the whole thing.

The T was running smoothly today, so I was able to get out on the town with minimal difficulty. I went to Park Street Church for the evening service and ran into a few old friends.

Anyway, I noticed I forgot to do the Weekly Webcomic Update. I'll get that up later tonight.

Well, I'm about to head out today: get some lunch, maybe do some shopping, and visit my old church for the evening service. I'm hoping that the T is running again, but as I wasn't able to get information on it, I really don't know. If not, I'll probably be back here sooner than I expected.

While I had fun at MIT, getting home was a bear. Apparently, there was a fire on the Red line, the subway line that runs from MIT to Alewife (which is where I parked on my way into Boston). The fire was supposed to be at the Harvard Square station, which is where all the ambulances and fire trucks were located when I went by, although to hear people who were there talk about it, they saw more smoke at the Davis Square station, the next station up the line. In any case, they shut down everything between Park Street and Alewife and had buses running between them. Kendall Square, where the MIT station is located, was so crowded that I figured it'd take a couple of buses before they could move everyone (and after waiting ten minutes, I had yet to see any buses), so I walked up to Harvard Square (about two miles, a forty minute walk) and got some dinner, then caught the shuttle to Alewife. The bus leaving Harvard Square was much less crowded since its closer to the edge of the T system. I didn't get back to the hotel until 6:30 pm, about two and a half hours after I set out from MIT. But you have to allow for the half an hour it took me to get dinner.

You may be wondering why, if there's so much wireless in Boston, I haven't been blogging more. Well, one of the reasons is that despite the numerous hotspots in Boston, I haven't been just sitting still for my stay here. I've been mostly running around. The downtime I have has mostly been at my hotel, which doesn't have free wireless--although it does offer some very expensive wireless. Right now I'm on the MIT campus, which does have free wireless. I'll be heading back to my hotel soon, though.

I was riding the T, Boston's subway, today when I saw a type of advertisement I hadn't seen before. Instead of a single ad at one of the stations, it was a series of images along the route between stations. Once my eyes caught on, I realized that it was an animation, like a flip book, and I was rather surprised that I was able to see it as such, when the movement of the train was what created the effect. Overall, it was pretty cool.

Why not? Go here for more information. You only have 36 hours or so. Hard to tell, as Andrew's in Britain, and I never know exactly what time it is there. Oh, wait, he does say Eastern time. I wonder how he knows what time it is here.

I'm in the Boston Area, looking at apartments. One of the fun things about Boston is you can find wireless just about anywhere. I'm currently in a sub shop getting lunch. I'm looking forward to being back here.

I'm heading to Boston today to look at apartments. I expect my internet access to be light, so don't expect much in the way of blogging.

That Which Redeems, which must be Sluggy Freelance's longest contiguous storyline, has finally come to an end. The ending is ambiguous, but the one thing that's certain is that everything has changed. The Dimension of Pain will never be the same. Torg will never be the same. Eh, probably. Torg has a demonstrated ability to snap back from just about anything, but it's hard to see him returning to normal after that last week. Overall, I loved this storyline, although I was disappointed in places, but I'm looking forward to Pete showing what those changes look like for the rest of the Sluggy cast.

As I expected, I was not able to complete the next chapter of Ryan's and Emily's adventure prior to my departure this week. I apologize for this. Instead, I'm going to have to give you something else, so I'm presenting an excerpt from Fire. Fire is the first, and only complete, part of a story in progress called The War of the Elementals. I hope you enjoy it.

---

Chapter 1
Coming of Age
Victor could feel the eyes of the Dominus on him. It was not a pleasant thought, and more than once he almost looked back to prove his apprehension wrong. Unfortunately, he was dismally certain that his suspicion was correct, and so he kept his eyes locked forward, ignored the sweat trickling down his back, and wished that the Dominus did not have to attend this ceremony.

It was a vain wish. A Dominus always appeared at the rite of passage, whether it be for the lowest Plebeian's son or for an Imperial prince. Even the slaves had some sort of examination when they became adults. Regardless of station, some of those newly made men disappeared. Victor's own uncle had vanished the night after his ceremony. Everyone knew that the Domini took them, but no one said a word where the Domini might hear. The Domini did not have the authority to kidnap boys for their mysterious purposes. They possessed no authority, nor did anyone have authority over them. The law did not acknowledge the existence of a Dominus; he could kill someone and the courts would see it as no different from an earthquake or a lightning strike. The law would not acknowledge the murder of a Dominus, either, but only the truly stupid would attempt such a thing. The Domini had power.

His sixteenth birthday should be the proudest day of his life, the day the Novari reckoned that a boy reached manhood. The ceremony, like much else in Novar life, was solemnly religious, filled with details that had to be performed to exacting standards. In most families the head of the household would perform the ceremony, but here the Pontifex Maximus himself led the ritual. The high priest was not a young man--the office of Pontifex Maximus was no longer a stepping stone to higher office--and he moved slowly and spoke softly, but his words were clear and his gestures precise. He had pulled the drapes of his plain white toga over his head to form a hood in indication of his ecclesiastical profession. Occasionally a well-to-do family might hire a trained priest to make certain there were no mistakes in the ceremony, but the High Priest only performed the rite of passage when it mattered to the State. Victor's father was the younger brother of the Emperor himself, and this made Victor's coming of age of national importance, whether he himself felt important or not. Though he had enough older brothers to shield him from the threat of inheriting Imperial power, his status as an Imperial prince required him to follow certain traditions. So Victor knelt in one of the alae of his family's home, surrounded by walls painted with scenes from his family history. He stared straight ahead at the marble busts of his oldest known ancestors, including the Commander himself, while the priest took the bulla from around his neck. Only the priest and Victor's immediate family--and the Dominus--attended this most private part of the ceremony.

Victor, at a gesture from the Pontifex Maximus, removed the bulla from around his neck and handed it to the priest. The bulla was a simple amulet inscribed with ritual words and filled with dried herbs, meant to protect children from evil spirits. As an adult Victor would have no need of its protection. Placing the bulla on a brazier used to burn incense, the priest breathed deeply of the smoke as the leather amulet caught fire. The high priest murmured a prayer which started by invoking the patron gods of Novaro, Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, and then the patron god of the Principius family, Quirinus. From there the prayer sought the care of Victor's ancestors, then the household spirit, and finally Victor's own Genius, or guardian spirit. Victor had not heard a single mistake in the priest's long prayers. Any misstep would invalidate the whole invocation and require the priest to start over. The young man shifted in an attempt to ease his cramped muscles, disturbed by the thought of having to stay kneeling through the prayer a second time. He'd do it though, to make certain the gods accepted the supplication. The gods did not tolerate human weakness or care about their needs. Like all forces of nature, they could only be dealt with by proper and precise propitiation. The Novari believed that every object, person, place, and idea possessed a spirit with which humans had to deal, whether seeking its help or advice, or simply trying to appease it so that it would not interfere with human plans. This required a myriad of rituals that had to be performed correctly in order not to upset these spirits. The gods were simply the most powerful spirits who possessed the widest sphere of influence. None of these spirits felt any concern for the mortals who sought their help: they had no interest in any sort of relationship beyond exchanging their blessings for the gifts humans offered by way of rituals and sacrifices.

Aside from the Genius, whose prosperity was linked to that of his ward's, only the spirits of a person's ancestors truly cared for his condition. Thus, the Novari always sought their ancestors' help, since they alone would lend a sympathetic ear to their descendants' needs. No one looked for miracles from these spirits, since they were weak compared to the gods, but the Novari did see their ancestors influence their lives in very pragmatic ways. In every way that mattered, power came from one's family line. The ruling class of Novaro were those who traced their lineage all the way back to the First Legion, the legendary heroes whose efforts defeated the demons who had enslaved humanity. Once the battle had ended, these heroes founded the city-state Novaro and set about building the Novar empire. The Plebeians descended from those who joined the city later, either voluntarily or through conquest. Only those descended from the Legion itself numbered among the Patricians, and only they sat in the Imperial Senate which ruled the Novar Empire.

The Principius family's tree began with the Legion's Commander. When the Legion began to adjust from military to civilian life, they chose the Commander and his descendants to rule until the people decided they were fit to govern themselves. For some reason, the Senate had never declared the Emperor unnecessary to the people of Novaro. The Emperor had great power, including the ability to veto any action of the Senate. However, should the Senate decide the Emperor unnecessary, the office would cease to exist, and all power would return to the Senate and whatever rulers the people might select. This led to an uneasy balance of power, with the Emperor constantly aware that his power could vanish at the whim of the Senate. Only three attempts were ever made to remove the Emperor, two early on and one during the reign of a particularly incompetent Principius not two hundred years ago.

The priest completed his prayer and motioned for Victor to rise. The young man did so, trembling slightly from knees that had been bent too long. He did not turn as his father approached carrying his new toga, plain white without an adolescent's purple stripe. Marcus Julius Principius, heir-apparent to the Emperor, draped the toga over Victor, a task normally done by a slave. Victor wavered between pride and embarrassment despite knowing that this was the Principius tradition, unshared by the rest of Novaro. It symbolized the father's acceptance of his son as a worthy heir.

"Congratulations, Son," his father whispered as he embraced Victor.

"I didn't do much... just make it to sixteen."

"Gods' word, there were times we weren't so certain you'd make it," Gaius said, referring to the strange recurring illness which had beset Victor's childhood. The middle of Victor's three older brothers, Gaius was stronger than he looked, his rib-cracking hug serving as a reminder should Victor have forgotten. He had their father's tall and slender build, as well as the same brown eyes and dark brown hair, although he lacked his father's generous amount of gray. Victor himself had the same hair, although he had inherited his mother's gray eyes.

"Well, I'm glad you made it," said Victor's oldest brother, Marcus, as he gave him a simple handshake and a warm smile. A stocky young man, Marcus looked little like his brother, although his pastimes of wrestling and Western-style swordsmanship gave him a grace which belied his build. As the firstborn, he had a more serious disposition than any of the other brothers.

"So am I," said Aulus. His smile looked painted on, as always. Aulus was the consummate cynic, never taking anything at face value. Only two years older, and shorter than even Victor, he did not appear impressed by his younger brother's continued survival. "It'd be embarrassing if our sickly little brother died on us."

"You're not a whole lot healthier," Gaius said, poking Aulus in the ribs. Aulus, skinny and pale, looked less healthy than Victor, but Gaius's comment had no real truth in it. Aulus had never been ill in his life.

Before Aulus could respond with one of his sharp rejoinders, Victor's mother gently pushed them both out of the way. "One would think you could give him some more room. Maybe he wouldn't get sick without so many older brothers suffocating him." She gave him a hug, followed by a kiss on the cheek. A short, slightly plump woman with silver streaking her long black hair, she had been a great beauty in her youth. Her grey eyes were as lively as ever. Avla came from a Plebeian family of foreign descent, with no noble roots at all, either from the Novar Empire or any other nation. Victor's father had married her in defiance of his own father and he had nearly been disowned because of it.

Victor hugged his sister, Lucia, next. Father often said that Lucia looked much like their mother had in her youth. Her raven black hair, nearly as long as her mother's, hung loose. Though nearly three years younger than he, she and Victor were very close. Neither brother nor sister said a word, since each usually knew what the other was thinking. He could sense her warm pride, even if she couldn't hide her impatience. Lucia must have found the ceremony even more boring than he had.

It felt good to be with his family, and Victor was hoping the moment would last when he suddenly remembered the Dominus. He made himself look. The man looked like any other Domini, swathed in black robes with no visible feature, his hands hidden in the sleeves and his face hidden by the hood. Something seemed wrong about that. The hood, though deep, should not have hidden his face so completely, yet Victor could not make out a single hint of his countenance. The Dominus did not say anything--they rarely spoke--but he gave the young man a slight, unmistakable nod. Despite the physical warmth of his family's closeness, Victor felt a chill run down his spine. He did not protest when his father suggested that they move into the peristylium. The Dominus followed at a distance.

The center of most of the larger Novar homes, the peristylium was a garden courtyard sheltered from the busy streets of Novaro and open to the sky. A colonnade supported the eaves of the red tiled roof of the surrounding house, which shadowed the painted walls which displayed an abstract design rather than a more common narrative one. A small fountain sat in the center of the garden, amidst pebbled paths meandering among the flowers and trees. The family spent most of its time here, where they sometimes ate, sometimes played, and sometimes just sat beside the fountain talking. Here, the servants had set up long tables filled with food for the guests. Though no one ate a proper Novar meal without reclining, early afternoon appetizers did not require such repose. The tables took up most of the empty space, while guests filled the remainder. The wandering party-goers were not keeping to the paths and thus were trampling some of Avla's rare flowers, whose arrangement showed much better taste than that of the guests. The women's dresses stood out garishly, as the brighter and more expensive dyes were a popular way to flaunt wealth. By contast, the men wore simple white togas with only a purple trim to signify their rank. Senators distinguished themselves with a wider stripe than mere elected officials, hardly enough to soften the harsh colorlessness of the men.

The Emperor's purple toga made him the sole exception to this rule. Shorter than Victor's father, he had grown thinner in his advancing years, much of his youthful musculature melting away. His hair had thinned as well, though not so much that anyone would call him bald. He spoke softly when in private but as loud as any Western prophet when speaking in public. Victor's uncle was fiercely protective of his younger brother and his family. Only his influence had prevented the former Emperor from repudiating his youngest son for marrying Avla. In return, Victor's father was as loyal to his older brother as any man could be, completely without ambition or thought of advancing himself though the Emperor's power. Victor supposed their close relationship stemmed from the disappearance of their middle brother, whom the Domini had taken. Before he could ruminate further, Emperor Gaius Julius Principius, Dictator for Life, Chief Commander of the Novar Army, and First Citizen of Novaro, greeted Victor himself, with a firm handshake and a kiss on both cheeks, as much as the Emperor could accord to anyone in public.

His wife was nowhere near as warm. Vibia politely shook his hand, while she gave him a cold smile. At least thirty years younger than the Emperor, she was as beautiful now as Avla was rumored to have been, taller than the average Novar woman but with the usual coloring, dark hair and darker eyes. She had nothing of Avla's vibrancy; precise and rigid poise marked her beauty. Moreover, Vibia was a bitter woman. Her only son had died as an infant, and she had had no children since. Though she was not yet past child-bearing years, most of the Patricians already looked to Victor's father as heir. This gave her little love for him or his children, and Victor gladly moved on to some of the other guests.

Publius Julius Aurelius, a distant cousin of an age with Victor's father, was proconsul of the Eastern border, where he commanded the four Novar legions which patrolled the Kainin mountains. A proconsul did much the same thing as a consul, elected officials who co-commanded each province's four legions. The Emperor himself appointed a proconsul to command the legions in provinces which did not yet have their own Senates. Since these areas were usually borders which needed firm leadership, a single proconsul held the office for a term of five years, much longer than the one year term which two consuls shared in the other provinces. This gave the commander the time necessary to deal with the difficulties in the area. These days, the Kainin mountain range was the only Novar border which needed protection, so Publius help the only proconsulship in the Empire. A plump, soft man, with red hair that spoke of non-Novar blood somewhere in his ancestry, he lacked the martial appearance expected of a military commander, but he had gained a reputation which belied his looks. When he saw Victor approach, he gulped down his cup of wine and tossed aside the leg of roast peacock which he had been eating.

He shook Victor's hand with his own greasy one, then smiled apologetically as he let go and wiped his hand on his toga. Victor believed his crudeness was an act. Mostly an act. "So, my boy, now that you have your freedom, are you going to join us on the front?" As long as his father lived, Victor remained under his legal authority, but fathers rarely interfered with the actions of their sons once they reached manhood.

"I was considering it. I guess my older brothers aren't carrying their weight if you want me too." Marcus and Gaius both served as tribunes in one of Publius's legions. The proconsul had the right to choose his own tribunes, six for each legion he commanded. Aside from consuls--and proconsuls--tribunes were the highest ranking officers in the army.

Publius gave a high-pitched giggle at that. "Oh, they do well enough, I suppose." Once he had finished laughing, he continued, "I think the Kawyr are planning a new push, though, and we can use all the help we can get."

"Do you mean that there might be a war?" Victor tried not to sound excited; war was a serious matter, after all, if a rarity in these times. The last war against an enemy state had occurred two and a half centuries ago, when the Kawyr had attacked the border in force. The Empire had not even seen one of its periodic flare-ups since the Agnatius Rebellion, which had ended before Victor's birth.

"I don't know about that. I doubt the Kawyr have the numbers for a full-fledged assault on the Empire, not unless their Orc and Goblin allies turn out to be real." Publius, like most educated Novar citizens, scoffed at the stories of the Orcs and Goblins who had supposedly allied with the Kawyr in the last border war. Marjori, Victor's Philosopher tutor, believed differently, and supported her beliefs with numerous citations of Philosopher records. In the end, no one really knew what lived east of the Kawyr. No expedition had penetrated the mountains along the Dark Coast, and no Novar patrol into Kawyr territory had ever reached the other side. Publius continued, "Still, our patrols have spotted a mass exodus westward, whole villages moving toward the Kainin foothills. Maybe they're planning to attack, or maybe they're just running from something. In either case, I don't think they're going to stop at the mountains."

"I'd like to see a Kawyr," Victor said, but he was distracted. He had just noticed the Dominus and his father moving off together. Why would the black-robed creature want to speak with his father?

"He wouldn't want to see you, I wager," Gaius said as he moved up with Marcus. "Those damned Kawyr don't like us Novari much."

Marcus followed Victor's gaze, and indicated that he should let it go with a slight shake of his head. Gaius gave no sign that he noticed anything. Neither did Publius, but Victor would not have laid any money on his apparent unmindfulness.

Turning his attention back to the topic at hand--Gaius was about to launch into another account of his latest, and only, fight against a Kawyr--Victor asked a question he had been pondering for a while, "What are the Kawyr? I mean, where do they come from? Are they really not human?"

Gaius laughed. "Inhuman? Well, they fight like devils, and they look a little strange, but I wouldn't believe those stories that say they're descended from demons."

Publius picked it up when it became clear that Gaius had no further insight. "It's possible that they're just humans from an odd tribe. They are very different from the average Novar, though. Their hair looks metallic: copper, silver, or even gold. Also, their eyes have odd, vivid, jewel-like colors. Now I've seen other men with odd colored eyes, but never this shade."

"I've fought them, and I'll believe the stories that they're not human," Marcus chimed in. "They're... well, I guess graceful would be the word for it. Their movements seem more precise and coordinated than any human I've ever seen, and they're faster. Unless you overwhelm them, you're dead."

"They're not that fast," Gaius insisted. "I beat one."

"Then you got a slow one, brother. Don't underestimate them, or you might not survive your next encounter."

"Do they really have pointed ears?" Victor asked.

"Of course not," Gaius scoffed. "That's just from the stories about demons. Next you'll be asking if they're really immortal."

"Well, are they?"

Gaius opened his mouth to answer, but Marcus spoke first, "I've never seen an old one." Gaius shut his mouth, frowning.

"You still haven't told me where they come from," Victor pressed.

"The simple truth is that we don't know," Publius answered. "We know that they live beyond the eastern mountains, but we know very little about their origins. Some say that they are related to the Amaranthine, but no one has seen the Amaranthine in generations. Maybe they never really existed, or perhaps they've finally faded." Publius gave his unmanly giggle at that. Although Victor did not know the origin of the word amaranthine, he knew it meant "unfading." The name referred to an immortal race of men who had aided humanity against the demons which the First Legion had vanquished. Novar legends diminished the Amaranthine's role, and the newer accounts claimed that either they never existed at all or the name is a fanciful term for the men of the First Legion. The fact remained, however, that reliable records told of some interaction with them up to a hundred years ago or so, after which they had vanished into the Delvine Mountains in the Kingdom of Manuel.

Publius excused himself as he caught sight of someone else he needed to talk to. "Let me know if you're interested in joining us in the east. We can certainly find a place for you," he said as he headed off.

Victor looked around at the other guests. Since his coming of age was as much a political event as a family celebration, his few friends had decided to hold a private party tomorrow rather than take part in this stuffy affair. Today, most of the guests were politicians, here to impress the Emperor by how much they cared about his nephew, what's-his-name. A few bureaucrats had accompanied the Emperor as well, high ranking officials necessary to the running of the Empire but hardly the sort to make great conversationalists. Aulus was talking with one of them, a decrepit, elderly gentleman who had a white beard and fringes of hair. He might have been tall, but his stoop made him shorter than Aulus. The cane he leaned on punctuated his sentences more than it aided his walking, however.

For some reason, Aulus found the bu