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!”