2009 in review

End of the decade...and what a decade it was!

Politcal disasters, military disasters, natural disasters, economic disasters....It there is one thing you will remember from the first decade of the 21st Century, it was seeing the flag at half mast almost every week...

Nonetheless, in spite of it all, or maybe to spite it all, we had some fun. Babies were born, people got married, things were invented and believe it or not, some good did come out of all this even if you have to look deep.

I had fun this decade between terrorist threats and economic collapse. I managed to get on the radio in 1998 and though I have been through several stations, I still get to yack to a few thousand people about football and hockey.

My Steelers won two Super Bowls (XL and XLIII) and the Pittsburgh Penguins won the Stanley Cup in this year after nearly pulling it off in 2008.

I finally wrote HeavenSteel and Aries Marching will come out in January (I promise!!!) I think I will post the cover tomorrow...

My life has taken an upward swing since I left that dump of a radio station I was at in early 2008. I got married, finished writing my second book, went to graduate school (all A's so far...), and got back down to my free safety playing weight of 190. I was 189 this morning.

And I can still benchpress 225 pounds...

I hope each and every one of you has a great 2010. I wish you nothing but health and happiness and I know you will conquer whatever this year tosses at you.

Have a Happy New Year and pay attention to the don't drink and drive homes.

If you're going to get snockered, do it at home and watch out for the table on the way down!

Marching around

Friend of mine is writing a paper on military music and this is some of the stuff he is using. Makes good work out music!


The British Grenediers: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLc-bvcdNTw

German Koniggratzer Marsch: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqaOS_az5qI

US Cavalry march: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaaBN4Mm0Ok&feature=related

Scotland the Brave: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBKBI7DOLHA

Defending World Champion Flight of the Valkyries! : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AlEvy0fJto&feature=related

From Apocalypse Now: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sx7XNb3Q9Ek&feature=related

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

Final Exams Finished!

It was a tough brutal three week stretch but in the end, we won! Two term papers, two position papers and a classic final exam but we did it! First semester of graduate school is in the books!

Yes, Russian studies major! I had to declare a major in history, picking from European, American, Atlantic World, Military or Public History. EuroMajor with probably military as a minor...That Citadel stuff came in handy after all, I guess....

Maritime History of the Western World, Fall of the Weimar Repubic and Historiography are all offically credited to me. I liked all of the classes and I will put the professors at East Carolina up against anyone...even Harvard. Or even Pitt!

If they don't win, they will at least cover the point spread!

Getting ready for next semester....Documenting Lost Indian Tribes of NC (a little off the beaten path for me but I need a US course...) and History of Ancient Greece.

I know, I know...Ancient Greece is a little of a cop out for me but I need a European course ;-)

Until then I am taking a break unti classes start on Jan 8.

Without false modesty, I can say I earned it!

Time for some pizza!

Chapter One

Chapter 1

A ten pound stone stood outlined against the crystal blue autumn sky for a glorious second before it began the inevitable downward slope of the arc. Its thud on a pile of neatly placed rocks was greeted with a wild shout, announcing the end of a rather unique conditioning drill.
Kejen Densky stood in the courtyard of Sparent's castle with his fists raised in triumph. The gray oversized shirt Northmarchers favored was drenched in sweat but that was the point of the exercise. The cheers of his fellow soldiers gathered around ran a close second. Kejen waved and took a bow, doing his best to brush the dirt with his forehead.
“Not bad, my friend, not bad at all!” Gusaric, the garrison commander clapped. “But I thought you were supposed to run with each of the stones, place it on the pile and run back again.”
Kejen saluted the other officer before giving giving an explanation. “I just wanted to end the exercise with a little excitement. I think a fifty yard throw with my left hand, off balance deserves some attention!”
“You will always be good at drawing attention, Kejen!” Gusaric laughed. “And you always will be!”
Kejen chuckled, picked a stone from the pile and tossed it straight up about six feet. Gusaric's eyes followed as it dropped into Kejen's hand. Kejen's large hand swallowed the stone easily enough and the muscled arm connecting it to a broad shoulder hardly registered the mass of the falling ten pounds. A quick right pivot and even quicker overhand throw later and the rock landed at the feet of a newly promoted captain.
“That is why I make it a point never to run out into the courtyard without looking first!” Leron said in an attempt to scold the rock thrower who not only had him outranked but was also much larger. Of course, that would have no effect whatsoever and Leron knew it. “I think I am going to keep my helmet on from now on.”
Kejen's wolfish grin was answer enough.
The Hero of Dunrovin and bearer of HeavenSteel may have been nearing his fortieth birthday but Kejen Densky was showing no signs of aging gracefully. Gusaric was not in the least bit surprised. Kejen was never one to hurtle into something at less than full speed. If anything, Gusaric's


childhood friend seemed larger and stronger than ever. The garrison commander of the Castle of Sparent sucked in his gut a little. Some people were simply Blessed.
“You know better than to think I would hit you with a rock, Leron!” Kejen's voice boomed into every corner throughout the Castle of Sparent. No, the thought of aging gracefully had not even begun to enter Kejen's mind. Odds were it could not even find the front door, Gusaric smiled wryly.
“You would not hit me intentionally...” Leron began. “Well, I know you would not want to clot me on the noggin this moment at any rate. You have a visitor.”
The way Leron had stressed the last word told Kejen exactly who had come to see him. Kejen mumbled his pardon and ran across the courtyard to the entrance portal, inadvertently showering his commanding officer with some dirt.
“He could probably outrun half my horses.” Gusaric wiped his eyes before walking across the courtyard. “If he ever decided to run around the world, he could probably do it in a month.”
Leron fell in alongside Gusaric. “A month and a day.” He opined. “Kejen would stop off to get us a couple of presents.”
“He's a good fellow.” Gusaric agreed as they neared the Castle's entrance.

Kejen came to a full stop in front of a woman with a couple of baskets in one hand and a young boy in the other. He hugged her with a gentleness completely out of character. One of the guards looking on politely turned away to hide his laughter as the lady tried to hug Kejen with one hand with the baskets still on her forearm.
“How are you today, my dove?” She said with her typical barely above a whisper voice. How anyone could equate Kejen to something like a dove was beyond most people's logic but Kavala knew her husband on levels no one else could.
“Much better now that you are here, Kavala.” Kejen smiled. “How are the wee ones today? Are they giving you much trouble?”
“They are angels.” Kavala answered softly. Her Lans accent was barely


noticeable.
“Must get it from your side of the family.” Kejen grinned.
“I have been good!” The little boy said somewhat louder than a four year old should have sounded around strangers walking by. Evidently, Kejen's side of the family wielded some considerable influence as well.
Kejen picked the squealing boy up under the arms and lifted him up. “Is that true, Ank? Should I ask your mother?” He put his son down. “I know you are a good boy.” Kejen turned his attention to one of the baskets. “How is little Alutia today?”
“Sleeping.” Kavala answered. “Some people are so lucky.”
Gusaric and Leron walked by. The Sparent Brigade's leading officer patted Ank's head and the little boy smiled.
“Good morning, Kavala.” Gusaric said politely.
“Good morning.” Kavala answered neutrally.
If Gusaric was bothered by that, he did not show it. Leron nodded and followed his superior officer to his quarters. He managed to hide his smile though. Of course, he was smiling about something else all together. “Ank” was short for Ankleton, a small village near Barcova where, Kejen confided in him, that little Ank was conceived. Leron vowed that Kavala would never find out Kejen had ever let him in on that bit of knowledge. It was not Kavala he was afraid of though. It was her husband who threw rocks around every morning because he thought it was a fun thing to do...
“No need to bring that up, Kavala.” Kejen all but chided his wife.
“I just think you should be the brigade commander and he should be second in command.” Kavala's seldom used claws came out.
Kejen shrugged. “It is but a small thing. We are friends. Always have been, always will be. We fought alongside each other and we have grown up together.” Kejen motioned his family over to a table next to the courtyard as a group of soldiers began to march into the castle.
Kejen looked oddly pensive for a minute, looking through the formation of marching men at something else from another time in another place. “When you have been to some of the places I have and seen some of the things I have seen, you ask yourself, 'how important is military rank?' “
Kavala followed Kejen's gaze. She was an extremely intelligent woman


but as smart as she was, Kavala could never be able to understand what it had been like to be at Lamptra or in the bloodstained hallways of the Argual.
After the defeat of the Khaizani and recovery of HeavenSteel, Kejen suffered the worst fate imaginable. That of a warrior with no war to fight. Since that day at Dunrovin, no threats, serious or otherwise, appeared on the horizon to menace the Northmarch. The Masovian threat was always there but Regalwood's attention was focused in the opposite direction, mounting what appeared to be a never ending series of large scale expeditions across the Centola into Rhenia. Sometimes it seemed as if the Masovians completely forgot their northern neighbors even existed.
Aside from the Khanate of Khaizan exploding into civil war and Croghen's Rhenian adventurism, it seemed as if the entire world was forswearing from the wars constantly roiling across its face. Even the Sea-Faring Kingdoms were not fighting each other as usual and Thenros's almost constant border clashes with the Saracens were giving way to trade negotiations. King Fleston clearly regarded the birth of the new century a couple of years earlier as the beginning of a new era of peace.
Kejen followed the footsteps of the valiant Kuran, honoring his friend by not only volunteering for the legendary Demon Division but passing the arduous training with flying colors. Wearing the black armor of that elite formation was the greatest honor of his life.
But there was nothing for the Division or anyone else in the regular army or even militia to focus on.
An exchange of permanent emissaries with Masovia underscored the new shift in relations between countries. No one in Regalwood appeared ready to embrace Northmarchers as brothers but there did not seem to be a war ready to break out either. The forty years since the Battle of Driergam was the longest the two rivals had gone without a clash of arms so maybe a lasting peace really was at hand.
Kejen dutifully trained and prepared and prepared and trained but year after year, everything remained quiet. Knowing from painful personal experience that glory often came with a dreadful price in blood, he realized that this new turn of events was probably for the better. What worried Kejen though was that if the Masovians ever showed signs of reverting back to their

old tricks, it would be harder to convince anyone to get ready for what was coming. Especially a King Fleston who desperately wanted to usher in his era of peace.
And that would confer upon the Masovians a tremendous advantage.
Gusaric accused his friend of getting old and suspicious. To that, Kejen simply retorted, “Do you trust Masovia?”
“No, I do not.” Gusaric replied.
Eventually Kejen left the Division to go back into the regular army so he could, as he put it, twiddle his thumbs closer to home instead of in the middle of no where.
Still, he made sure his departure was on good terms and kept in touch with the friends he made there. Part of it was because of the camaraderie but Kejen had another compelling reason as well.
Kascar, acerbic as usual, also had an annoying tendency to be right. “Remember this and remember this well, boy, ” He growled in Kejen's face. “Even when Masovians smile, you still see their teeth.”

Ank sat quietly for once, hands folded, imitating his father. Kejen reached over and ran his hands through his son's hair. Brown, Kejen thought, like mine! He gently kissed his sleeping daughter Alutia and then kissed his wife on the cheek.
“You are what is important to me!” Kejen said in a quiet intensity that seemed to fill the courtyard. “You and nothing else. Let anyone take any rank they want. Do so with my blessings! I have you, Ank and Alutia and that is all I will ever want!”
“Oh Kejen, I love you so much!” Kavala hugged her husband hard. “I just want you to be happy!”
“With you I am always happy.” Kejen hugged his wife back. “Now love Gusaric like you do my brother. He is a good man and would never hurt anyone.”
“Should I give him half the lunch I brought you then?” Kavala smiled, placing the second basket on the table.
“No need to act insane!” Kejen laughed.



“Can I ask you a personal question, sir?” Leron ventured
“Now you want to become formal?” Gusaric's eyebrows raised. “You? The most informal person I know?”
Leron looked down on the wooden floor as Gusaric sat down behind a desk. “My apologies. Very well, I will just say it then. I just wanted to know why Kejen's wife does not seem to like you very much.”
“Oh that.” Gusaric snorted and added a dismissive wave. “She thinks Kejen should have been made colonel and garrison commander instead of me.”
“Why would she care about that?” Leron asked.
“Would your wife not be upset if you did not get what you deserve?”
“You mean 'what she thinks you deserve?' “ Leron laughed. “If it were up to my Hentia, she would have made me a general a week after I met her!”
“My wife thinks the same.” Gusaric smiled. “I must admit thought, I was surprised. Not just what Kejen did against the Khaizani but remember he did a stretch in the Demon Division too. Someone like that is an army onto himself!”
“But Kejen is not the sort who cares about rank anyway.” Leron said. “I have known him a long time.”
“Not as long as I have.” Gusaric finally took his rank's privilege. “Look at the entranceway behind you. He and I came trough there side by side along with his brother. And you are right. He does not care about what is painted on his armor. He cares about his soldiers and his people. And I am very proud to call him my friend.”
There was a knock on the door. Leron turned and his eyes widened a bit in surprise when he saw a guard from the gate standing with there with Kavala.
“Sorry to bother you, sir.” The guard said. “But his lady has something to give you.”
Gusaric stood up and dipped his head slightly. “Of course, please come in”
Kavala smiled and walked in. The smile seemed genuine. Gusaric wondered who much of what he said made it to her ears but he kept his face professionally expressionless.


“Even Kejen could not finish all of what I brought him.” She said. “So I thought you might enjoy it.”
“That you very much.” A confused Gusaric said as she placed the basket on his desk. “Would you like me to give Kejen the basket back later today?”
“Yes, thank you.” Kavala said. “May good health and happiness follow you wherever you may go.” Gusaric wondered what was happening. She had never said that before! Kavala smiled and left before Kejen lost control of Ank and Alutia in the entranceway, leaving Gusaric no chance to return the traditional goodbye.
“That was nice of her.” Leron finally said.
“Yes it was.” Gusaric agreed. He looked though the basket's contents. “Roast chicken. Very nice! Would you like a bite, Leron?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“For all I know, it could be poisoned!”


Beafalo rode through the open gates of his castle at Chenla, robes flapping in the cool autumn air and guards in tow, the very image of ducal glory. He doffed the floppy hat Masovians generally wore and gave one of his stable hands a withering look. The lad had not run up to the Duke of Recalto quite fast enough to suit His Grace.
The boy mumbled an apology. Beafalo was in a good mood so instead of tongue lashing the miscreant he merely ignored him him as he dismounted. After all, he, Beafalo, had just returned not only from Regalwood but from a private audience from His Most Glorious Highness himself!
Beafalo bounded up the stairs to his castle two at a time. Not too bad, he thought to himself. Even the two guards at the door nodded slightly in approval before coming to attention. He may not have been as young as he once was but Beafalo was still in the prime of his manhood.
A duke generally had others open the doors for him at his own estate but today the flew open from a powerful shove of Beafalo's own hands. Masovians were a theatrical folk and Beafalo loved theatrics more than most.



The sudden entrance had the effect he wanted as conversation in the ducal throne room suddenly stopped as if cut off. The Duke of Recalto stepped forward and announced as loud as he could, “I have returned from Regalwood!”
After a second of stunned silence, cheers erupted from his retinue and some of the cleaner serfs brought in from the fields for the occasion. They chanted his name as Beafalo walked ramrod straight down the center of the room to his throne, mounted up on a dais of three steps.
Torsovo, his second in command, stood next to the throne and when Beafalo's foot touched the first step, he dutifully sank to one knee and respectfully lowered his head. His sovereign liege patted Torsovo on his blond head and quickly touched his seat with the other hand.
“Ah, it's still warm!” Beafalo laughed. “Did you enjoy sitting in it while I was gone?”
Torsovo grinned sheepishly. “I merely did what was necessary in your absence, my lord.”
“And you enjoyed every second of it, I am sure.” Beafalo smiled back. He remembered clearly what he was like at Torsovo's age, almost twenty years ago, eager to show how capable he was. “I am glad you do like it because one day this will be all of yours.” Beafalo's wave encompassed the entire throne room and everyone in it.
All assembled bowed reverently in the direction of both men. They also dropped almost as one to a knee as the Duke of Recalto sat on his throne. The gesture was done quickly for it was well known that Beafalo reacted harshly to anything that seemed a breech of noble decorum.
Beafalo let them stay that way for a few seconds before giving his subjects permission to stand up again. “Anything interesting happen while I was away with the Emperor?” He asked Torsovo. “I am fully confident that everything ran smoothly with you in my seat.”
“Fairly routine.” Torsovo reported. “There was, however, one matter that required you judgment.”
His Grace spied his son and daughter quietly entering the room. “Can it wait a few minutes or is it something that needs to be addressed this very second?”
“It can wait as long as you desire, Your Grace.” Torsovo said with a

smile. He had sent the man away one time before. He was sure added delay only made the unwelcome visitor fume more. That, of course, delighted Torsovo to no end.
Beafalo descended the steps appearing as majestically as he could and embraced his children. Bregetene was a large lad, strongly resembling his father but a mute one as well and born somewhat slow as well. No one would ever come out and say that though. Especially after the example Beafalo had made of the one one man who ever did. The fact he was a noble did not save him from Beafalo's wrath. Beafalo would challenge anyone, anyone at all, to single combat on this issue! After the other noble's untimely end, no one, wisely, ever did.
Esteru's long black hair loudly proclaimed her to be her father's daughter. Her looks however came from the mother she never knew. Beafalo winked at a couple of the ladies of the court as he hugged his children. The Duke may have been a widower but he still clearly enjoyed his time holding court. Here and in other, more private settings.
Beafalo held his daughter's hand out to Torsovo, who kissed it gently before walking over to shake Bregetene's. Esteru had to guide her brother's hand a little and contrived to skillfully brush Torsovo's. Beafalo smiled at that. Torsovo and Esteru was the match he wanted. Esteru was of his blood and Torsovo, while not a blood relative, was like a son to the Duke of Recalto. Since Bregetene's mental faculties did not allow for a conventional succession, a Torsovo-Esteru union provided the next best orderly alternative.
Still, there were some underlying issues that made the lord of Chenla's castle uneasy. Torsovo was, by nature, an aggressive man. An aggressiveness that carried over to more intimate settings if what some of the ladies of the court said were true. On the other hand, Torsovo, as well as practically everyone else in Masovia, knew better than to cross Beafalo especially where his children were involved. Torsovo was showing signs of increasing maturity so perhaps the problem would resolve itself, Beafalo hoped.
“Now what is this problem you needed me to take care of?” Beafalo snapped, yanking Torsovo's thoughts back to the proper business of running
the duchy.
“I will have him brought to you immediately, Your Grace.” Torsovo

answered. After an audible sigh and a quick longing glance at Esteru, he barked out an order to a couple of soldiers.
Beafalo smirked as he climbed back up the dais and sat down on his throne. He knew exactly what Torsovo would do. He was just like his father. Brave man. It was unfortunate he had to die at the hands of the Northmarchers just when he had quietly and skillfully worked his way into a position to exploit their vulnerabilities. At least I have fulfilled my promise to watch over his son, Beafalo thought to himself.
And speaking of Northmarchers...

Wiart stalked angrily into the throne room, flanked by two Masovian soldiers who acted as if he was carrying some disease. Golif, his oldest son, trailed behind, was basically ignored. He glared daggers at the back of the heads of the two guards but that had no effect whatsoever. Even if he had thought of doing something more drastic, he knew the rest of the Masovian mob gathered here would prevent anything serious from happening. A good look at the edged weapons the soldiers carried made a rather convincing argument against doing anything rash too.
Beafalo steepled his hands and stared down at the Northmarcher farmer brought before him. His face remained impassive so Wiart was not sure what the Masovian lord was thinking. No greetings were offered and after an awkward moment, Wiart shrugged, mustered his rusty command of Masovian and simply said what was on his mind.
“You have a cow that belonging to me and want it back.” Wiart knew his grammar was not all it should have been but he knew he managed to get his point across.
Beafalo leaned forward patronizingly. “Do you understand what I am saying?” In Masovian, slow and very deliberate.
Torsovo smiled. He knew Duke Beafalo was enjoying himself.
Wiart scowled. He could not only sense the contempt in Beafalo's voice but feel it. “Yes, I understand you.”
Beafalo beamed like a school teacher watching his pupils reading on their own for the first time. “Excellent! Then you will understand this: I do not have your cow. Nor do I have anyone else's cow!” Beafalo's head swiveled around looking at on one in particular. “I have only my own cows!”

Laughter filled the room but Wiart saw nothing funny. He only saw a pompous overdressed Masovian twit trying to make a fool out of him. Nonetheless, he still tried to sound reasonable. “There is a brand on the cow---”
“I cannot read that scrawling your people call a language.” Beafalo lied. Anyone living on either side of the border picked up at least a little of the other's language. And Beafalo not only knew a little of what the Northmarchers spoke but had spent years studying it. The Duke of Recalto pointed in the direction of of the soldier on Wiart's right. “You! Your name is Auggio, is it not?”
The soldier stiffened to attention, both delighted and alarmed the duke knew his name. “Yes, your Grace!”
“Are you the one who first encountered this man on our side of the border?”
“Yes, your Grace.” Auggio answered
“Does he seem to be in his right mind?” Beafalo said with a nasty grin that also seemed to invite the soldier to share in a joke. “Do you think he sees cows everywhere? Perhaps he rides around from castle to castle claiming they have taken cows so that he can build up his own herd?”
A gale of laughter swept over the room and the now seething Wiart. This was beginning to get out of hand. Golif's feet shifted uncomfortably.
Auggio reached up under his helmet that looked like something Hernando Cortes would have worn while sacking Tenochtitlan and scratched his forehead. “Now that you mention it, Your Grace, he does seem a little off.” He addressed his friend on the other side of Wiart. “Would you not agree, Fornebu?”
Amid the laughter washing over him anew, Wiart did the unthinkable. He took a step forward and his foot was on the step of the dais. Auggio and Fornebu's inattention allowed Wiart to travel more than halfway to Beafalo, much to the dukes sudden horror.
Wiart, as angry as he was, at least had the presence of mind to approach with his hands open to show that he was unarmed.
“Now look here!” He shouted at Beafalo. “I did not come here to be mocked or to have you justify stealing my livestock!” In his anger, Wiart forgot he was shouting in the Northmarcher language and was demonstrating

that he nothing of or cared anything about Masovian nobility etiquette.
Beafalo stood up and kicked Wiart where it hurt the most. The farmer doubled over, clutching himself and Beafalo's fist landed on the point of Wiart's chin. Wiart tumbled down the stairs. Fornebu knocked Golif down and Auggio put his foot down on Wiart's neck. Amid the shouting, Beafalo walked down the dais, squatted down and yelled into Wiart's face. “You have some nerve to walk up to me when I did not give you permission!”
Wiart wanted nothing more to lob a globule of bloody spit into Beafalo's face but a sidelong glance at his son in the grip of a Masovian soldier stayed that thought. Golif struggled for a bit but another Masovian soldier came over and helped Fornebu subdue him further.
“Get him on his feet!” Beaflo shouted at Auggio from point-blank range.
The soldier pulled Wiart up roughly and held him up on the balls of his feet.
“Now my dear Northmarcher.” Beafalo said in a voice louder than usual so the rest of the throne room could hear him. “You seem to know nothing of how to act in the presence of your betters. Your education begins now.”
Wiart growled in frustration but Auggio's grip was like iron. The Masovian soldier knew that Beafalo was angry with him too for letting Wiart slip up to the dais so he was determined not to let anything like that happen again. Fortunately for Auggio, Wiart dominated Beafalo's attention.
“First of all, you address me as 'Your Grace' or 'my lord' or even 'duke' “ Beafalo began his lecture. Wiart looked away. A sharp sounding slap echoed across the room. “You are not paying attention! You are lucky that was only a slap, not another punch. Again, address my as 'Your Grace.' Do you understand?”
Wiart just glared back at him. Northmarchers were a stubborn people. Mules must play a prominent part of their ancestry, Beafalo thought.
“Very well.” Beafalo huffed. “Bring the boy up here.”
Wiart's eyes widened as his son was yanked up off the floor but Beafalo knew it was a little early to take any satisfaction from that. “Again, address me by my proper title!” The Duke of Recalto commanded.
His captive still remained defiantly silent.
“Kill his son.” Beafalo said nonchalantly.

“No, no, Your Grace!” Wiart shouted and struggled ineffectually against Auggio's hold. “Do not punish him for my mistakes, my lord!”
Beafalo waved off the approaching soldier with the spear. “See? You do know what I am saying! Not bad at all.” He leaned forward into the face of Wiart who was beginning to show some signs of fear at last. His nasty smile presaged the next words well. “I look forward to working with you some more.”
The Masovian noble took a step back and began issuing orders. “You! Boy!” He pointed at Golif. “Run home and tell your mother that your father will be along in a week or so.” Then he glared at Auggio and Fornebu. “Take our friend here into the dungeons. We will teach him some manners.”

December 7, 2009

Has it been 68 years since Pearl Harbor? Seems like yesterday.

Actually, I wasn't there.....LOL But watching Pitt's collpase to Cincy and the Steelers lose to Oakland(!) makes me feel like I was watching some sort of disaster unfold...

I promised you the first part of Aries Marching and here is the prologue and first chapter! Gunning (odd word for a medieval epic...) for a December 16 release!




Prologue


Strangely enough, it all started because of a cow. Granted, there were other reasons as well but it was a lost cow that set the whole series of events in motion.
It was not just any cow! It was a cow that provided more milk than any other two cows in the surrounding countryside. Or even three as the proud farmer would boast at the market.
That was precisely the reason Wiart went on a frenzied search through the fields and even ventured onto the grounds of some of his neighbors, desperately trying to find his lost “Lilja.”
No man who wanted to continue sharing his bed with his wife would dare name a cow after her. Instead, Wiart named his prize milk producer after his first love nearly half a lifetime ago. Wiart briefly wondered where the original Lilja was now but the ruthless practicality of this man of the earth crushed the irrelevant thought as he scanned the horizon for the current Lilja. Any remnants of that lingering thought were swept away by the brisk autumn wind, a harbinger of another brutal Northmarcher winter. Wiart shivered a little and shook his head. He was not a young man any more but he still wished he was in bed with his wife. For a variety of reasons. Chief of which was to stay warm during the winters that were beginning to effect him more with every passing year. He cursed youth's abandonment of him. For a variety of other reasons.
At least he had three good strong sons. Good boys everyone of them. Boys? They were men now, capable of running the farm without him. Maybe even better without him even though Wiart would never admit it. Where had the years gone?
Wandering thoughts were another sign of advancing years, Wiart growled even though he was no where near senility. What he did notice was that his search was starting to move ever more southward. The old man hoped it did not go too far south.
Livestock disputes between farmers were nothing new. Usually it was

resolved quited amicably when one man pointed out the branding on an animal to the other. Sometimes they simply settled the difference in kind or in an exchange of goods. It paid to be on good terms with your neighbors. Farms that butted up against each other were bound to have some kind of conflict from time to time.
Unfortunately, with every step southward, it was starting to look more and more likely that the farm Lilja had wandered off to was on the other side of the always volatile Masovian-Northmarcher border.
If she wandered there, Wiart thought harshly. He would not put it past some Masovian to have hopped past the rune stones marking the frontier and running off with his property under the cover of darkness. Born thieves, those Masovians! Constantly casting scorn on the Church when they were not outright persecuting it did not help Masovia improve its image with Wiart.
Why would they care? Wiart grumbled. He was just a simple farmer. Masovia was a great empire. Wiart stood up straight in righteous indignation. He may have been just a simple farmer but was a man, was he not? And a man with a legitimate grievance!
Wiart walked up to one of the stones marking his homeland's border with that of Masovia. The north side of the stone was painted in proud Northmarcher black and green with a some gold lines. The other side,Wiart knew, was in gaudy red, blue and even more gold. Wiart looked around and saw no guards or roving patrols, Northmarcher or Masovian. He was not surprised. The border was simply too long to put someone along every foot of it.
Wiart clenched and unclenched his hands, feeling his anger grow. The Masovian thieves may have crossed at this very spot! On the other hand, maybe Lilja did indeed wander over the border on her own. Well, no Masovians were coming forth to tell him about it and as far as Wiart was concerned, it was the same thing!
Wiart saw the shadows start to lengthen as the Sun started to sink toward the horizon. Earlier every day now, he noticed. The upset farmer considered stepping defiantly onto the Masovian side of the rune stone but elected not to. He would see enough of that heretical land tomorrow when he


went to reclaim what was rightfully his. He did not want to spend a second more than he had to on that accursed soil.
Wiart looked around and mentally retraced his search. He'd looked north, east and west and no one had seen Lilja nor had he found anything to indicate she gone in any of those directions. The farmer glowered in the only direction left.
He turned and began to trudge home. Wiart was not sure if he would get his cow back from those thieves but, by God, he was going to give them a piece of his mind!



His Highest Majesty, King Croghen of the Pugu, Ruler of the most glorious Masovian Empire, sat upon his golden throne, receiving tribute and praise from a defeated Rhenian princeling.
That he was here was proof he was beaten but he also looked beaten, down on his knees before the Masovian emperor, eyes averted and staring at the first stair of the dais. The thin, sweat soaked clothes did not lend themselves to a favorable impression. And the feathers sticking out of a battered hat in some laughable attempt to retain a veneer of dignity failed utterly. It seemed an almost disgraceful waste of any martial effort to even consider fighting men like this. Appearances could be misleading however. The Rhenian clans, disorganized and lacking any central authority, fought and fought hard to protect their megar fiefdoms. Individually, they were as tough and skilled as any soldiers in the world. Especially when fighting on their home soil. But it was no match for the organization, tenacity and resources of the Empire to their immediate north. The superior leadership of Masovia's armed forces also imbued in her soldiers a confidence that translated into a feeling of near invincibility. Obstacles fell and challenges not only were overcome but actively sought out. Their fighting edge was honed, sharp and fearsome.
And completely wasted on the rocky, mountainous land across the Centola seemed to produce chieftains like this by the thousands. The pathetic pile of coins in a shoddy looking chest seemed to underline the laws of
diminishing returns.
The defeated man stayed on his knees for a long minute. For once, it was not due to Masovian arrogance His Majesty's mind was focused on something else. Croghen finally noticed his newest vassal looking up the dais imploringly and the King waved him away, boredom clearly evident. The other Rhenian brought to bear by Masovian arms was much more interesting. At least he brought a couple of very fine daughters to the court of His Most Glorious Majesty.
Queen Ohalate's mouth was a hard, thin line. She could read her husband's mind like a book. She would not dare berate the King in public but might venture to make her displeasure known in private. Perhaps. It was not unheard of for Masovian Emperors to have their Queens executed.
Ohalate, however, would not be one of them. She was a strong willed, educated woman. What she did, or did not do in public, was all for the greater and continuing glory of the Empire and of the Pugu tribe. It was a shame she had been born a woman, some thought. Ohalate could be a splendid Empress and Masovia's glory would be even greater, others whispered. Of course, such thoughts stayed private. The eyes and ears of the Scarlet Paladins, the elite of Masovia's military, were everywhere, seemingly able to divine everyone's most guarded secrets. The scarlet armor and helmets were hard to miss, not only when they were assembled around Croghen but all around the throne room itself.
Still, Paladins or no Paladins hovering nearby, Ohalate stole quite a bit of attention at court. A few years younger than her husband, her hair, pulled back in a bun today, was the color of the setting sun. Her still slender build contributed to her aura of magnificence and it was said her smile outshown even the jewels of her crown. Three children and three decades of ruling failed to erode her looks appreciably. Ohalate, it was declared with no false modesty, was the personification of Regalwood and the very epitome of Masovian womanhood.
Croghen's black beard tumbled down onto his chest as he looked down at his own feet for a second. All assembled at court knew that was not a gesture of self-pity. Croghen did not seem capable of that particular emotion. Years of attending their King had taught the assembled nobles their ruler's
mannerisms.
As they expected, His Most Glorious Majesty stood up. “Do you think yourselves lords of the earth because you have defeated a collection of peasants and their array of pitchforks?!”
The nobles and generals flinched not only at their King's thunderous voice but the sheer vehemence behind it. The angry question seemed to lift the roof off of the columns buttressing the entire, vast Grand Place of Masovia. Even the tremendous space between the floor and ceiling seemed to be filled with the King's anger. “Rhenia is a land you can conquer but it is not one you want to rule. Poor, stony, it is even hard to get to because you have to cross the Centola River! Yet you stand there,smug and comfortable, like you have actually accomplished something?!”
The members of the court shuffled their feet uncomfortably. None dared look up at their lord. It was not only fear of imminent death but few people could match the fiery, piercing stare of Croghen's dark, dark eyes. They not only seemed to absorb the light of the room but even the very soul of whoever he was angry with.
“The shame of my ancestors!” Croghen's hand went to his forehead. “They fought real enemies! Powerful enemies! Not only defeated them but conquered them! Crushed them completely and utterly!”
Their King's scorn ripped into the nobles and their retinues Anyone not concerned with His Highest Majesty ordering an immediate mass execution was at the very least looking for a direct route to the great doors of the throne room.
Most found a temporary escape from Croghen's fury by looking at the paintings and impressive frescoes adorning the walls of the Grand Palace. A couple of others though won a bit of favor from the King when he saw them looking at the map on the other wall. Croghen nodded with a sliver of satisfaction but not enough for anyone to notice. Anyone not with a mind as sharp a mind as Ohalate. She knew exactly what her royal husband was doing. Those looking at the map were the ones looking for an opportunity to further the greatness of the Empire And perhaps there own as well but why not? Those who advanced the interests of King Croghen deserved to have their fortunes advanced some as well.
The one staring hardest at the map he probably saw in his dreams every night was a tall well made blond man in his fifties, the Field Marshal of Masovia's armies. Croghen felt his spirits rise but fought to keep it from showing on his face. Destrane had fought in the Rhenian wars more than anyone else. The King knew of his chaffing to fight a real war against a real enemy too.
A noble in an orange tunic stood next to Masovia's highest ranking general. His black hair and goatee contrasted sharply with Destrane's fair hair and clean shaven face but the hardness in his eyes matched the general's easily enough. His shoulders may have borne the weight of a few less years than those of Destrane's but the intensity Croghen felt radiating from the Duke of Recalto seemed to raise the temperature of the room.
Croghen felt excitement begin to course through him and even his hands felt as if they were tingling. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. He chose to ignore his son Sarnello uncomfortably adjusting his eye patch as he too looked in the direction of the map and accurately read his father's mind. The King hoped no one noticed the subtle message the Crown Prince and Heir Apparent was trying to send Croghen would have to deal with that later.
“Leave us!” His Highest and Most Glorious Majesty commanded all in the cavernous chamber. Everyone quickly shuffled through the great doors. Everyone not in the Royal Family. And Destrane. Croghen caught his eye and motioned him closer.
The last person to leave the room was the orange tunic wearing nobleman. He turned, faced the King and Emperor of Masovia, bowed at the waist and pulled the doors shut. The Scarlet Paladins quietly watched every move.
Destrane stood next to his King. Both were the same age and had known each other for nearly half a century so the Field Marshal was able to take a few liberties.
“Are you as troubled by this map as I am, old friend?” Croghen inquired of his leading, and favorite, general.
“Every day and every night, your Majesty.” Destrane answered. His eyes flitted over to the Paladin closest to the Queen. Her name was Serita
and her shapely muscled form occasionally rivaled the troubling map for Destrane's attention. The female Paladin, hair red like her principle's, was the Queen's favorite. Destrane chuckled inwardly. She was his favorite Paladin too but that was because she was the only female of the elite unit. And even he, the Field Marshal of Masovia, knew better than to do more than look. It was not because Serita could obviously take care of herself. It was not even because she was married to Benoto, the Commander of the Paladins. The reason was quite simple. His wife would kill him.
“You have done very well in Rhenia, General.” Croghen praised Masovia's first soldier and shattered any reveries in Destrane's mind. “We have fought well and won but for what purpose? We did not annex any land because it is not worth having. We have some vassals across the Centola River but do they serve us in any productive manner?”
Destrane shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “We have blooded our army.”
Croghen stroked his beard and frowned. “A blooded army with no enemy to fight.” The frown grew deeper. “Some of the best officers are not of the Pugu. With no enemy to fight and feeling there is still glory and honor to be won, do members of the Sinuli and Ranata think perhaps of the old days when they were first among equals and sat upon our throne?”
The question was not only poised to Destrane but Ohalate as well.
The Queen's sharp features looked pinched for a second at the sound of the names of the other tribes who had occupied the pinnacle of the Masovian world.
“There are not many opportunities for conquest.” Destrane sighed sadly. “Sometimes I feel I was born too late.”
“I feel the same way.” Croghen agreed. “The last real war we fought was forty years ago and both of us were almost too young for that!”
“We never lost on the battlefield!” Destrane's fists balled up. The memory clearly still rankled. “The Verrentian pretender would have won and we would the country in our pockets if it were not for the accursed Northmarchers at Driergam!”
“My father said the same thing to me many, many times.” Croghen revisited the same memory. “The pretender we set up was not quite strong enough to move on Clutzen on his own but the fool did anyway and was
killed within sight of the city.”
“If it were not for Maridon, we would have taken Clutzen and we would have driven a wedge between the Nyhissians and Northmarchers.” Ohalate added. “Then Masovian banners would be on the Pergus River.”
Croghen acknowledged his Queen with a grave nod and a brief longing for opportunities missed. He shifted to the present “What options do we have? Invading Verrent would soon turn into a war with Nyhissia and the Northmarch all at the same time.”
Masovia was vast but fighting three countries at the same time might be even more than Croghen's vaunted arms were capable of. Despite his long relationship with the King, Destrane decided to keep that thought to himself. After all, Croghen surely knew the same thing and his Highest Majesty would not say that aloud.
“Perhaps we could somehow exploit the dislike between Keinsen and Verrent.” Destrane began. “Despite having the same language and culture---”
“That leads us back to a war with three other nations again!” Croghen cut him off, clearly irritated. “Asrine is isolated and vulnerable, even more so due to our foothold in northern Rhenia but the Church lunatics would call for a crusade and the cursed Northmarchers attack us from the rear, aided by their lapdogs, Verrent and Nyhissia!”
Destrane began to point to another part of the map but Croghen quickly squelched anything the general was about to say. “Moving against Kielstrock results in the same problem.” Croghen had been doing some serious thinking on this matter, Destrane thought to himself. “We have to march up and over the mountains.” The Emperor continued without even recognizing the fact anyone else existed. “We can fight our way through anything they throw in our way but the Northmarchers attack us on our flank.”
“So every direction we turn, our problem is the Northmarch.” Queen Ohalate summed up.
“It has been that way for centuries, my dear.” Croghen said with a good dose of sarcasm. Ohalate scowled for a second and Destrane bit back a grin. Regardless of who ruled the household, Croghen was clearly beyond any shadow of a doubt, the Highest King and Majesty. “I still rue the day nearly twenty years ago when I had a chance to strike at the Northmarchers' back
when the Easterners attacked.”
“Perhaps the problem is not the Northmarchers but ourselves.” Sarnello, the Heir Apparent, stated boldly.
“Explain yourself!” Croghen nearly shouted. The near shout nonetheless echoed throughout the vast chamber.
The unperturbed Sarnello proceeded to do just that. “Our glorious empire is vast and powerful. No nation or concert of nations can destroy it. Is it possible that there are ways to achieve greatness other than war?”
Croghen burst out with an un-regal spate of laughter. Destrane smiled and looked away. Even if the King disagreed with Sarnello, it would not be wise to laugh at the Crown Prince.
“My dear boy.” The Emperor and King of Masovia finally said after regaining his composure. He wiped away an inadvertent tear and continued. “Do try to act like the King you will one day be and not like a court jester.”
Croghen only laughed at his son's bristling and walked over to Destrane, putting a hand on his Field Marshal's shoulder. “Look at Destrane's face. Do you see his scars? Do you think he would agree with you?” He went back to the map without waiting for an answer. “Twenty-five years of life does not make you a master of it.”
“But I do know something of war, Father.” Sarnello said coolly, tapping his eye patch. “The Rhenian who shot that arrow was an excellent teacher.”
The room suddenly felt colder as a deadly silence descended upon it. Even Ohalate shivered, thinking that perhaps she was about to lose her oldest son.
“That will be all.” Croghen ground out between clenched teeth. “Dismissed.”
Sarnello bowed and then stalked out. He may have gotten the better of the exchange but his anger was clear as he stomped across the marble floor.
The King glared daggers at the back of his son's head as two Scarlet Paladins opened the door to let him out. Croghen turned his attention back to the map, hands clenched in anger behind his back.
After some hesitation, Destrane defended the Prince, who was also one of his soldiers. “Not only does the lad have our Queen's looks and your raven hair,” he began. Ohalate's smile said Destrane was on safe ground.
“But he also has your iron will and resolve, your Majesty.”
“That resolve seems to march in a direction I find most inconvenient.” Croghen said sharply. Then he turned around slowly and looked at his Field Marshal. “Do you not think the same?”
Destrane cast his eyes down. “Yes, your Majesty.”
“Say what is on your mind, Destrane.”
The veteran Field Marshal thought carefully before beginning the most hazardous advance of his life. He felt safer trying to navigate through those rocky canyons the Rhenians like to spring ambushes in. “Our Crown Prince fought most valiantly and well in Rhenia, your Majesty. I was there when he lost his eye.”
“What is your point?”
Destrane spread his hands out imploringly. “I only ask that you not judge your son too harshly. Men, boys really, are quite impetuous at that age.”
“You forgot to mention 'impertinent' as well!” The still angered Croghen shot back. Destrane looked down and said nothing.
A few seconds of silence passed. “Still what you say does hold some seeds of wisdom.” Croghen graciously admitted. “Persino has the same force of character but it runs in the proper direction. Anasia is under Ohalate's wing so there is no need for worry there. They do not have any of these, these....” Croghen struggled for the right word.
“Delusions.” Ohalate found it for him.
“Do you know what an old man once told me, your Majesty?” Destrane asked. “He told me life's lessons were like a puzzle. You have the pieces and you put it together. But first you have to know what the final picture looks like. When you realize what the picture is, you know how to put the pieces together.”
Croghen snorted and turned to look at the map again. Puzzles? What did that have to do with anything? Then he noticed the map was made of tiles and it actually did look like a puzzle of sorts.
His mind rearranged the map into a way that suited him. “The final picture...” The Emperor said to himself. He put his hand on the map, touching his empire, then the land of the hated Northmarchers and finally
Asrine. “Pieces to a puzzle and there is the picture.” he said a little louder this time as an idea, a vision really, began to take place. Now there was an interesting thought!
“Is everything well, your Majesty?” Destrane asked.
Croghen spun around with a smile on his face bigger than the Anker Mountains. “Yes it is! More than well!”
Destrane was confused “I do not understand...”
“I need to think on this some more.” Croghen seemed to be dancing with uncharacteristic joy. Something had definitely captured his imagination. Something he saw on that map. “I will talk to you more on this in the days to come!”
“As you wish, your Majesty.” A befuddled Destrane mumbled. He was about to leave but the King gave a powerful tug on his elbow.
“Who was the nobleman next to you earlier?” Croghen demanded. “He wore the markings of the Pugu but had the heraldry of someplace beyond the Plikon.”
“Beafalo, the Duke of Recalto.” Destrane answered while at the same time still wondering why His Most Glorious Majesty was suddenly so excited.
“Up on the Northmarcher border.” Croghen said mainly to himself.
“Yes your Majesty.” Destrane felt obligated to answer. “He probably knows more about them than anyone else.”
“Good! Good!” An enthusiastic Croghen rubbed his hands together. “Tell him I should like to meet him. Immediately!”