Unbelievable. Okay, so what to put up. Most stuff I'm working on needs some polish. For now, I'm going to put up something from Sunset over Abendau, and tease those of you reading. It's a new point of view character, but I'll not reveal exactly who he is or his agenda yet. And there's an old friend here too.
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Baelan watched the soldier make his preparations to leave for the compound. He was so jealous he could taste it, like the dark medicine his mother gave him when he wasn’t well: rich, sticky and metallic. It was his life-oath; his killing to carry out. He focused on the desert-scoot the soldier was about to mount, one showing the insignia of the empire. It was bigger than the scoots the tribes normally used, its four treaded wheels lifting the carriage and double-seated pod well off the desert sand.
The engine started to smoke, tendrils rising in the still air and Phelps nodded sharply at him.
“Calm down,” the general grated, his voice hoarse from cigaro-smoke.
“Yes, sir.” Baelan balled his hands into a fist and the tendrils stopped, only a lingering smell of burning left in the air. His forehead tightened with the strain of holding the power within himself. It felt like handling a snake the wrong way round, and it took a moment before he was able to breathe in any way easily. Phelps was right, though -- things happened when he got annoyed, and even though he was better at controlling himself the power kept growing, making him feel he was in a race he couldn’t win.
“How did my Lady control it?” he asked, when he felt able to speak.
“She practiced.”
Baelan frowned. He practiced all the time, and it made no difference.
Phelps approached the marksman. “You know what to do?”
The soldier nodded, his lack of ankhar setting him apart from the tribes. “Of course, sir.” That, and the hard eyes, professionally reading the landscape. A bought in soldier, posing as one of the tribes. Phelps’ choice and, as it was his mission, the tribes had acceded to him.
Phelps slapped his back. “May our Lady’s pleasure go with you and sustain you.”
The soldier inclined his head, but his eyes carried an edge of irony, telling Baelan that the blessing was for the benefit of the watching tribes-people. The soldier’s eyes sobered; he knew, as they all did, that he might not return from the compound. He climbed onto the scoot, settling into its high, wide saddle. The sturdy vehicle would be quick and steady, its camouflage programmes perfectly matched to the desert sand. The soldier nodded to Phelps and pulled the scoot round in a tight circle, sending up a flume of sand. It roared away, the sound muffling in the warm air as it vanished.
Phelps turned to Baelan. The desert was quiet with the scoot gone and the tribal guides dispersing back to the camp. He grasped Baelan’s shoulder. “Your quest is just as important.” A tightening of his hand. “More so.”
Baelan looked at the horizon. The words were of no comfort. A tribesman knew from earliest childhood that their oath was what gave them status. If his was stolen from him, carried out by someone else, he’d never become an elder.
Phelps crouched in front of him. “I have hundreds of marksmen, all trained and eager, but only one person with your powers. A man of the tribe accepts his destiny, and doesn’t turn from it.”
He lifted Baelan’s ankhar, turning it so the stone caught the light and shone like a real emerald. Baelan’s eyes followed the pendant’s movement, and he wanted to stop the chain twisting but to snap the ankhar was to break Baelan’s tribal link, and he didn’t dare move. Phelps held the stone for another moment and then dropped it. It thudded dully against Baelan’s chest. The general leaned in. “You are a man, now, aren’t you? Or did I choose my son without wisdom?”
Baelan fought against the urge to pull back, away from the sour cigaro smell and direct, hard eyes.
“I’m proud of my role,” he said. “I wish only to serve my Lady.”
They climbed onto their single-scoot, Baelan perched in front of Phelps, and headed into the desert. There were no ports here or grand cities, but there were things hidden in the sand. To leave Abendau city, they’d used one of the ancient tunnels, taking him far below the new city. They were used sparingly and Baelan had felt important at being chosen to use them. He felt the same excitement when he entered a docking area, disguised within one of the old quarries dotted through the desert, where a small transporter waited. As he boarded it, his mouth went dry. Phelps was right: his life-oath was his own, but his quest belonged to the tribe. He would see that it was completed.
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Baelan watched the soldier make his preparations to leave for the compound. He was so jealous he could taste it, like the dark medicine his mother gave him when he wasn’t well: rich, sticky and metallic. It was his life-oath; his killing to carry out. He focused on the desert-scoot the soldier was about to mount, one showing the insignia of the empire. It was bigger than the scoots the tribes normally used, its four treaded wheels lifting the carriage and double-seated pod well off the desert sand.
The engine started to smoke, tendrils rising in the still air and Phelps nodded sharply at him.
“Calm down,” the general grated, his voice hoarse from cigaro-smoke.
“Yes, sir.” Baelan balled his hands into a fist and the tendrils stopped, only a lingering smell of burning left in the air. His forehead tightened with the strain of holding the power within himself. It felt like handling a snake the wrong way round, and it took a moment before he was able to breathe in any way easily. Phelps was right, though -- things happened when he got annoyed, and even though he was better at controlling himself the power kept growing, making him feel he was in a race he couldn’t win.
“How did my Lady control it?” he asked, when he felt able to speak.
“She practiced.”
Baelan frowned. He practiced all the time, and it made no difference.
Phelps approached the marksman. “You know what to do?”
The soldier nodded, his lack of ankhar setting him apart from the tribes. “Of course, sir.” That, and the hard eyes, professionally reading the landscape. A bought in soldier, posing as one of the tribes. Phelps’ choice and, as it was his mission, the tribes had acceded to him.
Phelps slapped his back. “May our Lady’s pleasure go with you and sustain you.”
The soldier inclined his head, but his eyes carried an edge of irony, telling Baelan that the blessing was for the benefit of the watching tribes-people. The soldier’s eyes sobered; he knew, as they all did, that he might not return from the compound. He climbed onto the scoot, settling into its high, wide saddle. The sturdy vehicle would be quick and steady, its camouflage programmes perfectly matched to the desert sand. The soldier nodded to Phelps and pulled the scoot round in a tight circle, sending up a flume of sand. It roared away, the sound muffling in the warm air as it vanished.
Phelps turned to Baelan. The desert was quiet with the scoot gone and the tribal guides dispersing back to the camp. He grasped Baelan’s shoulder. “Your quest is just as important.” A tightening of his hand. “More so.”
Baelan looked at the horizon. The words were of no comfort. A tribesman knew from earliest childhood that their oath was what gave them status. If his was stolen from him, carried out by someone else, he’d never become an elder.
Phelps crouched in front of him. “I have hundreds of marksmen, all trained and eager, but only one person with your powers. A man of the tribe accepts his destiny, and doesn’t turn from it.”
He lifted Baelan’s ankhar, turning it so the stone caught the light and shone like a real emerald. Baelan’s eyes followed the pendant’s movement, and he wanted to stop the chain twisting but to snap the ankhar was to break Baelan’s tribal link, and he didn’t dare move. Phelps held the stone for another moment and then dropped it. It thudded dully against Baelan’s chest. The general leaned in. “You are a man, now, aren’t you? Or did I choose my son without wisdom?”
Baelan fought against the urge to pull back, away from the sour cigaro smell and direct, hard eyes.
“I’m proud of my role,” he said. “I wish only to serve my Lady.”
They climbed onto their single-scoot, Baelan perched in front of Phelps, and headed into the desert. There were no ports here or grand cities, but there were things hidden in the sand. To leave Abendau city, they’d used one of the ancient tunnels, taking him far below the new city. They were used sparingly and Baelan had felt important at being chosen to use them. He felt the same excitement when he entered a docking area, disguised within one of the old quarries dotted through the desert, where a small transporter waited. As he boarded it, his mouth went dry. Phelps was right: his life-oath was his own, but his quest belonged to the tribe. He would see that it was completed.
