Arthur: A Serialized Novel

Soon.

Sat, 09 Mar 2013 15:35:03 -0500

1350 fan letters later, you people win. Fine. I will go on.

Arthur's Dream

Wed, 20 Jun 2012 03:42:00 -0400

Arthur was standing in a grand cave of some sort: grand because it was filled with elegant carvings of men and beasts which, when he looked away, seemed to have shifted into a different position, a thumb up — here — where it had been down before, or an eyelid shut — there — where once had clearly been an eye; cave because that is what the place was, a great chasm of a thing, the carvings engraved into uniform-brown, dusty rock walls which rose high into the darkness.

That was another odd thing about the cave; there were no sources to cast the light. In fact, all the visible things were simply that, visible, and this seemed to be because they were. There were also things that were not. Everything a dozen meters beyond the crest of Arthur’s head was shrouded in black: in fact the black seemed to be what was cast, as if luminescing out of a strange reverse-sun.

“Hello?” he called out, tossing his head quickly around as echoes, clear as crystal, returned to him. “Hello, is anyone here?” he asked. And no one answered.

Not for a long time.

But in this time, he began to walk against the breadth of the cave, studying its odd carvings and designs, which seemed, to Arthur, to tell a story; he couldn’t make out which story, but it had a connected feel to it. He studied a pair of demonic things, which looked like snakes with arms and had wispy manes that wrapped around their necks. There heads were awful to look at, bug-eyed, with sharp, grinning teeth and a placidness that reminded Arthur of temple monks lost in meditation. He didn’t like them, and so began to walk away.

As he moved on he began to study less ghastly carvings, of dragons and of men with swords, and one that looked like a funeral pyre but the fires burned too high, into the darkness above. He heard a sound behind him, like soap rubbing against shower tiles, and turned.

The pair of demonic things were now occupying the wall directly behind him, and it took him a moment to realize he’d come too far for them to be so uncomfortably close.

He walked faster, the sound followed; so did the pair of carvings. He ran, and the pair came on and on. Each time he looked behind him they were there. Sometimes they went behind the relief of the other carvings, and other times they slithered right over them, interrupting the scene with their small hands and serpentine crawl.

The soap-on-tile sound took on a weird rhythm of its own: first with louder grinds, later with hissing whispers. Soon, as he pushed himself to go faster, he made out what they were saying:

So came the boy to cave of lost

in Avalos his slumber tossed.

The wayward prince is moving fast,

oh, where shall he end up at last?

We know the stories, that is true!

But now we’re coming after you.

And it is good you run, my lad,

‘tis sometimes best to run.

And then they were out of the walls, chasing him on their bellies, their little, predatory hands grabbing and snatching. He was running out of breath. They would catch him soon.

The Journey Begins

Mon, 18 Jun 2012 04:00:26 -0400

For hours they travelled the London streets in silence, not really having much to say to each other: Mrs. Vole had said ‘drive,’ and that is what mattered, and that is what Boris Gant did. As the day sank away and ushered in the night, the old woman still said nothing. Eventually they needed gas, stopped, refilled their tank and got a bag of chips (which was shared by all), and continued driving as the quiet became expansive and the background hum of city chitchat faded — moving behind the doors of homes and of pubs and of nighttime haunts — until Boris felt speech the skill was story-stuff, a practice from long ago, and its occasional practitioners charlatans, no more credible than a whistler misrepresenting the notes of a popular song. Soon, the odd company ran out of chips, and nothing to say.

“What are we doing?” Vivian asked; it had an effect like shattering glass, Boris nearly hitting a post box.

Mrs. Vole sat with her fingers folded in her lap, seeming grandmotherly in way that suggested an oven full of pies, embodying the needed patience and time to bake. “Deciding what to do next, my dear” she said unhelpfully.

“You don’t have anything, do you.”

Mrs. Vole sighed. “No, I’m afraid not.”

It was then that Boris entered the conversation. “Well, let’s have a start, like this: What’s our best chance of not dying?”

He turned down an embankment and the car rocked slightly as he passed over a bump. “We’re being hunted by magical people and people alike. I’m afraid that I don’t see how there’s much we can do.” She didn’t add, but wait and die.

“Then why,” said Boris, “aren’t we already dead?”

Mrs. Vole considered the question. It was a good question — one which had lurked around the back of her mind for some time now. “I don’t know, mister Gant.”

“There is no profit in keeping us alive, is there?” asked Vivian. Mrs. Vole’s face became placid.

“I suppose there is one, small profitable reason.” The old woman hesitated. “They still haven’t discovered what they sent you to find out.”

In the fray and threat, Boris had forgotten the small dossier, which now seemed remarkably uninformed, and the purpose it had assigned. “Is it that important?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then we could trade it for our lives, maybe?” said Vivian.

“Doubtful,” Boris said, “I think that option really never works out.” Then he thought of something else. “Mrs. Vole, hold on. You can do magic.” The bluntness of the statement took everyone by surprise.

“I had thought that apparent,” she said. “But, indeed, I am a sorceress.”

“Can’t you just hide us from their magic with your magic?”

“Not for particularly long,” she answered.

“Is there someone who can do it for particularly long?” asked Boris.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Vole, thoughtful. “My master can hide us.”

“Then hide us until we reach your master, whatever the hell that’s about,” Boris said, “and then he can help us the rest of the way.”

“She won’t do it,” Vivian said.

“Viv, shut it! Come on, what do you say?”

“Miss Bracht is right,” agreed the old woman, causing Boris’s new wellspring of confidence to dry up. “The risk of failure and them getting to him is too high.”

“The risk,” spat Boris, “is everything, if we don’t.” For several minutes, they all fumed, each for his or her own reasons.

“Actually,” said Mrs. Vole, once more breaking the quiet, “I think we have to go to him.” She studied the back of the drivers seat. “Or we must get Mrs. Bracht to him.”

Boris was lost, once again. “Why?”

“Because she defied the monster with a single touch.”

Vivian hid her injured hand. “I’m not doing that again.”

“No one’s asking you to, dear. We merely need to know why that worked, or at least some clue as to what that man was.”

Boris and Vivian both knew better than to ask questions, especially when things had finally started to go in their favor. The plan was settled upon, and all agreed:

They would go to find the master of Mrs. Vole.

Cloak; Dagger; Wizard

Sun, 17 Jun 2012 14:12:07 -0400

Hector listened, and the house whispered in bendy creaks and occasional scampers: they kept him awake, though the doorway’s dusty, plank-wood floor — his pillow and mattress —might have accomplished this unaided.

A noise like curtains swishing came, and he tracked it with his mind, not wanting to move and ruin the stillness he’d preserved while attempting sleep. The distance between him and the sound lessened with time and with each swish, until it passed him by.

He peeked, and discovered the silhouette of a man marked out by the street’s light, which came in from a broken old window. It must have been Holmes; the figure was too tall to be Arthur and too young to be Merlin. With Hector on the ground only one candidate remained, and he moved like a cat, noiselessly opening the door and slipping down the walk.

A few heartbeats later, Hector pursued him. He felt secure — after all, tucked about him were all those hidden, loaded guns.

Holmes was a lone figure, looking like the only person in all the world; but he wasn’t: there was Hector.

It was still dark outside, save the streetlights, and a weekday. Hector cursed himself; it was hard enough to blend in, be unnoticed, but it was only him and Holmes, who gave off a creepy vibe as it was, among the shadows and the roads.

Hector believed Holmes would turn around any second, catch him there, not so far away, dogging his steps. What would happen then was an unknown, and depended on why Holmes had gone out, whether he had wanted to be seen.

Given the circumstances, this stroll didn’t make sense. As he walked, Hector wondered over it all, his tired mind unable to twist or fabricate meaning from what was going on. Not a glimmer.

A few blocks later Holmes finally stopped walking, his entire body drooping sullenly, like an abandoned marionette. He stretched and sat on a nearby bench, which Hector made out in the dark.

“Come on then, Hector,” Holmes called out, cupping a hand to his mouth. Hector froze, his heartbeat racing. Instinctively, he reached for one of his guns, but held himself, letting his arm fall to his side. He made for the bench and sat down, hunching his broad shoulders forward and folding his hands in his lap.

“How’d you know?” he asked.

“The shadows ahead of me; your back against the lamps.”

“Could have been someone else,” said Hector, feeling foolish. The exhaustion was getting to him; his lids drooped.

“Not with leather soles,” came the reply.

“True enough. So, what are you doing?”

“Sitting on a park bench.” The answer was curt.

“You know what I mean.”

“I wanted to look outside, again,” Holmes said. “Actually, perhaps for the first time.” Hector rolled his eyes.

“Come on, you’ve been outside before.”

“Part of me has,” said Holmes, correcting him.

Hector yawned, getting a mouthful of humid air. “I’ve decided not to try and understand all… all this,” he gestured expansively, “yet.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Me being here is an accident.” Hector blinked a few times, trying to placate his ever heavier eyelids. “One second, I’m doing my job, the next I just snap.” He looked up into the sky, barely making out a handful of stars. “I just couldn’t take it, you know? Low satisfaction, high mortality. Not for me.” The other man nodded appreciatively.

“So you thought joining up with your targets might gain you some margin of safety from your old employers.” It wasn’t a question.

“Exactly,” Hector said. “That’s exactly it.”

“Well, in your defense, you could not have known what you were getting into.”

Hector laughed. “No, I couldn’t. But I don’t care anymore.”

“Why?” asked Holmes.

“I think I stopped caring when they told me I couldn’t change jobs. They kill you, if you try to quit. I mean, where the hell was I supposed to go from there?”

“Hell, apparently.”

Hector let just one of his eyes close — a compromise of sorts. “See. No family, no prospects, nothing. Just, nothing.”

Holmes patted the muscle man on the back. “Chin up. You’ve won a fresh start. We’ve got a fresh start.”

“You’re right,” Hector said, rising. “I’m going to head back, you coming?” Holmes shook his head.

“No, I think I’ll stay out here and consider things for a while.”

“Okay, see you in a few,” said Hector, and, sleepily, he made his way back to the house, where he finally managed to rest.

But it wasn’t until both his eyes were shut and his groggy mind forgone that he finally managed to shake a strange sensation: Holmes’s eyes, drilling into his spine.

Moriarty Holmes watched Hector leave. When he became sure he was alone, he dropped his head into his hands and wept without tears - an intellectual’s weep, one of the mind.

Observing the night indeed. That idiot.

Parts of his mind rumbled with a maddening speed: deducing and calculating and feeling with shivering clarity; he wished it would slow. It almost hurt, and would, he knew, eventually.

Everything was so familiar, so real, but wrong. But where was Watson? Where was Moran? Each name stirred deep hatred within him, and deep love, the product of his two adversarial parts. Three parts, actually: Gregory’s memories linked with his own, which weren’t really memories — Conan Doyle’s fabrications. Magic was what he was. He didn’t feel particularly magical.

“That is because not even the wonders of magic can bring happiness,” whispered a voice. Moriarty leapt from the bench, twisting around, hands raised to defend himself. Standing behind him was Merlin.

“How did you sneak up on me?” He felt the irony, almost a full reversal of his and Hector’s positions just moments before.

In the streetlights, Merlin awarded the question a condescending smirk. “Magic. I am, if you’ll recall, a wizard.” He looked down, not meeting Moriarty’s eyes, suddenly grave. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry this happened to you.” It appeared to be the truth.

“Me too,” said Moriarty Holmes. He thought about lashing out, striking the old fool to the ground. But he didn’t. “Your not sorry about what’s happened to me.” The bitterness seeped off him like smoke. “You’re sorry for Gregory.”

The silence was long and thick. “I don’t know any more, really.” This also seemed true.

Then, Moriarty said “Let me see your wrists.” The wizard pulled his sleeves down uncomfortably. “So, it’s true.”

“Truth is relative.”

“Who do you serve, Merlin?” The wizards lips frowned. “Is it the enemy? Someone else? It isn’t, Arthur, that is for certain.” More silence.

“I serve my order,” he answered, finally.

So, there was another player, as he’d suspected. “And what order is that?”

“One in which less than ten remain.”

“That’s still more than the confused three left to mine.”

“I’m here, fool. That’s worth a great deal!” Moriarty Holmes gave a laughing cough.

“Until someone tells you to otherwise. Isn’t that so?”

“I will serve Arthur with all my resource, power, and strength.”

“Is. That. So?” repeated Moriarty Holmes.

Merlin hesitated. “I suppose,” he admitted, “that I could, in theory, be recalled.”

“Fair weather friend.”

“You know nothing,” rasped Merlin, raising his voice.

“Oh, I see. You think I’m just going to follow along, like a good, stupid, organ grinder’s simian.”

“I said no such thing,” said Merlin.

“I said such a thing. I, who knows far more than nothing.”

“I’m sorry, I spoke in anger.”

“Can you give up your order?” Merlin looked horrified.

“What? No, that wouldn’t help anybody.”

“Why?”

“Because my order is what grants me the arcane arts. What use am I without them?” The man’s point was compelling.

“Then how can you be trusted?”

“Enough of this,” sighed Merlin; they weren’t getting anywhere. “Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” and he was gone as suddenly as he’d appeared.

Strike of the Deal; Flit of the Match

Wed, 13 Jun 2012 00:05:00 -0400

Inflicted Man

Hands cuffed, the shuffling of chains audible, attached to a stretcher, the Inflicted Man was rolled down a beige hallway, guards on either side of him, and behind, and in front. He was wearing a blindfold they’d wrapped around his face in the car. The procession halted.

He heard three short taps, and then “Come in.” A woman’s voice, succulent and languid.

He was moving again, then again stopped. The blindfold came off.

The light was harsh, blinding. Things resolved themselves.

He grinned. “Mrs. Morgose? Of all the people I expected to nab me up, you weren’t even on the list!” He spoke as if they had just bumped into each other on the street. “How are you? How’ve you been? Good? I’ve been good.”

“Be quiet,” said Morgose. Her hair was long, black, and straight. Her eyes were brown, but harsh red flecks that caught the light spiraled toward their pupils. She was young, beautiful, rich, powerful, and frightening. “I see my reputation has once again outrun me.”

She looked back down at some papers. “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit?”

Without looking up, she said, “Of course not.”

“Then why am I here if not to sit?” he grinned.

“You’re here because I need you for something.” She put the papers down, picking up a pen and marking something on one of the corners; and then down went the the pen. She folded her hands on the desk and looked straight into the Inflicted Man’s eyes.

“I think I’ll sit.”

“I think you’ll stay.”

“I think,” the Inflicted Man began, but whirled into action. He kicked out as hard as he could. If the straps had held his legs in place, he might have bruised them. The thick leather tore effortlessly.

His feet pushed hard off the ground, toppling the stretcher backward into the guard behind him, crushing the man beneath.

The Inflicted Man might have had his head damaged by the fall, if all the other restraints, defying probability, had not also given way, allowing him to backwards summersault to his feet; he used the fallen guard’s larynx to support his entire weight as he righted himself.

There was a crack and gurgle.

The men on either side pointed their guns at him, flicking the safeties off, aiming, and pulled their respective triggers. Instead of an automatic burst of fire, there was a clicking. Both weapons had jammed.

While this went on the Inflicted Man leaned over, picked up the dying guard’s pistol, and pointed it at his first target: the man on the left.

He pulled the trigger.

When nothing happened, he tried flicking the safety. The next time, he put the man on the left down, permanently; the man on the right rushed toward him, heaving his gun to the side, but his foot caught on the fallen stretcher. Bang, bang. Two rounds in his head, and now this guard, like his compatriot, was also dead.

The final guard who had taken point looked to Morgose, who hadn’t even batted an eye. She waved him away.

He went, leaving the powerful woman and the homicidal, cannibalistic lunatic staring at one another.

“Now why won’t I kill you, exactly?” asked the Inflicted Man, waving his gun.

“Because it’s hard to shoot someone with a tree branch,” she replied. And as she said the words, his gun became a gun shaped tree branch.

“I see,” said the Inflicted Man, tossing the useless piece of wood onto one of the corpses. “May I sit?”

“If you must.” He sat.

“So, Morg, what’s the deal-ee-o?” Morgose shuddered at the name, but tolerated it.

“I want you to use your unique gifts to kill someone for me.” The Inflicted Man giggled.

“Okay, why would I do that for you?”

“Because I can give you what you want,” Morgose answered. Her lip curled invitingly.

The Inflicted Man thought for a moment. “But I don’t want anything.”

“What if I told you I could kill you,” said Morgose, “would you want that?” The Inflicted Man laughed.

“Can’t be done, Morg.”

Morgose threw a letter opener at his leg, it nicked the side of his pants and landed in the carpet.

“Jeez, what was that for?” said the Inflicted Man. Then he saw his knee. Where the pants were ripped was red. Blood was welling up.

His blood. He was bleeding. He was bleeding.

He put two fingers in and tasted it, just to be sure. He looked up at Morgose, the humor gone. His face was a dark cloud. “How?” he demanded.

“Because I am the only one who can kill you,” she said. “That’s all you need to know.” The Inflicted Man got up, angry, and smashed his hand down as hard as he could on the desk.

It felt like he had barely touched it. A feather landing. “Fine, I’ll do it,” he said, but there was something icy in his throat.

“Good, you’re on the next flight to London. Company jet, very nice.” The Inflicted Man didn’t respond.

“But let’s get one thing clear,” he said. “If I do my half, and you screw me, if you screw me, if you think about backing out, I am going to hunt you down; I am going to hunt you down and eat your brain out with a spoon through your eye sockets.” Morgose rolled her eyes.

“Yes, no need for the dramatics.” He glared. “Anyway,” she continued, “that goes without saying.”

Blaise

Mon, 11 Jun 2012 16:06:00 -0400

Blaise

Blaise flew on enchanted wings; the head of the wizard order sped through clouds, holding the magical sword, Caledfwlch, in front of him. He had twenty minutes to reach a small warehouse downtown in New Zealand’s capital, Wellington. Fifteen hundred kilometers left.

“Fenri’ri’anae’ona’tamcha!” A hole opened in front of him, a strange entity hanging in the sky. He passed through it, taking him from over coastal India to New Zealand’s eastern tip. Five kilometers left.

He pushed for more speed. He had gotten the distress sign twenty minutes before from his apprentice, Vilamur. A sonic boom erupted behind him, tracking water droplets from the feet of his cloak. Two kilometers.

He sensed the screams. Then, he was slowing, crashing through a roof window. His wings dissipated into the air. He landed, his sandaled feet touching the ground. It was dark.

He raised an arm and tiny orbs entered existence near the roof, casting their light into the warehouse.

There was Vilamur, crucified. Blood dripped from his right lip, and he caught his master’s eye. Blaise was a wrinkled, tiny man adorned in rags with hair that fell to his feet. ‘Old’ would not account from this man, a spindly stick. “Vilamur, what has happened?” he said quickly, not waiting for nonsense. His voice was the billowing of thunder.

The small, brown man looked up at his master. “I’m sorry, master Blaise. They made me call you,” and before he could say anything else a bullet erupted from the back of Vilamur’s head, its path almost striking the old man.

Blaise whirled, facing the dark around him. “You kill my order,” he shouted. “You try and trap my might?” The bellows echoed around the warehouse. “Well, come and die!”

And they did come.

Fifteen men, dressed in body armor and fatigues. Instead of guns they carried swords: rapiers, scimitars, longswords, broadswords, claymores, and some of a make Blaise didn’t recognize.

“Master Blaise, how nice of you to come,” said one of them. Blaise didn’t care.

“Caledfwlch, burn and prepare for battle,” Blaise said, and the sword gripped in his bony hands caught aflame. Tension and heat brought sweat to his brow.

This was the fourth apprentice he’d found in such a state in three weeks.

These, clearly the men responsible. “Who are you?”

“We’re the order of the Grail, master Blaise, and our lady demands the blood of wizards.”

“Morgose,” he hissed. “Very well, I challenge all of you to combat.” Some of the men laughed. They were knights, real knights, each and every one. “State your names, blaggards!”

“You insult us, wizard?” spat a man holding a claymore. “I am sir Delany!”

“Sir Flip.”

“Sir Briant!”

They announced themselves one by one, Blaise barely listening. Finally it came to Blaise.

“I am the Wizard Blaise, first among Mages, carrier of Avalos’s keys, keeper of the Fates, master of the orders. Let us combat, cowards.” His mind saw only Vilamur’s head exploding outward.

Combat began.

Blaise charged before they even had a chance to move. One moment he was standing in the glow of werelight, the next everything was pitch black save for the burning sword.

It lit horrified faces, protruded from jaws and chests, leveled heads from their shoulders. One moment it was so clearly in front of the Knights of the Grail, then it was behind and someone was screaming.

Swords struck the ground as they’re owners arms were separated from their bodies. You could hear the swish of raggedy robes passing by you, brushing your clothes, and would check to see if you were still breathing.

Blood begot blood, and death begot death. None survived, save for a single, tired old man. He looked like a beggar except that he carried a sword. It looked like a normal day, except for the warehouse burning behind him and the bloody footprints his sandals left as he walked.

Rendezvous

Mon, 11 Jun 2012 12:11:00 -0400

Arthur

Moriarty

For a second he thought he heard something, but decided he hadn’t.

Arthur slept in an unfamiliar cot, or tried to sleep. The rest of the round table meeting had been uneventful. All had agreed that too much had been done for a single night, yet as the young man laid awake, realizations slipping across him — magic-real, gunman-after-him, wizard-rickshaw — one thought, a particular image, kept recurring.

The eyes of Moriarty Holmes: one green and glimmering, the other a dead black, like pitch. His fingers darted among themselves, head oscillating back and forth, sometimes rapid, other times slow, as he thought in silence, never speaking a word.

Had Arthur really created him?

It had felt like all that the man was had funneled out of him, into the white-aproned lifeless vessel; yet Arthur knew nothing of Moriarty Holmes, only able to hold in his mind the vague imprint of a person, a brief overview of the whole, a snake and a falcon smashing against each other.

Another noise.

Arthur knew he had heard something then. He forced his eyes open. In the dark was a single, lively gleam leaning over him. “Hello, Arthur,” said a voice. He recognized it.

“Moriarty,” replied the tired young man, overcoming his initial surprise. “What are you doing?”

The single glittering iota studied him. “I need to speak with you.” The iota backed away - the man straightening, Arthur realized. “Would you mind if I sat?”

“Go ahead, I guess.” Arthur felt something settle down at the end of the cot, squeaking the old springs and dipping the surface inward. “What’s up?”

“Besides you, about forty or so things,” he answered. “But I won’t trouble you with most of them.” Arthur’s brow creased.

“Alright, what’s up that you are going to trouble me with?” Arthur began to wonder why Moriarty had come to speak only with him, alone.

“First, I wanted to ease your mind on a simple matter, then unease it on a more complex few.” The one glimmering eye oscillated in the night. Moriarty waited for Arthur to respond, he didn’t. “I’ve finished reading Sir Thomas Malory’s book,” he continued, “Le Morte D’Arthur.” Arthur hadn’t even though of reading the book. He reddened, feeling ashamed that an activity that important had been put off because of the tome’s size.

“Wait, you read it all,” Arthur said, “tonight?”

“In the last few hours.”

“How?”

“How do you draw breath, Arthur? How do you walk? I learn. I plan. I study. I conclude,” said the oscillating head, moving faster as he spoke. “It is the way of things.”

“Alright, and what did you find?”

“Do you speak French?” Arthur was startled by the randomness of the question.

“I studied Spanish.”

“Really? No Latin or Portuguese?”

“Hey, I work hard in my classes,” retorted Arthur, growing hot.

“I never said otherwise. In any case, have you considered the title of the book?” Arthur hadn’t, and Moriarty didn’t wait for a reply. “It means ‘The Death of Arthur.’”

The words hung in the air. “King Arthur didn’t die though. I mean, not until after a long reign,” Arthur managed to stutter the words out; Chill rode up his spine.

“Yes, but he dies at the hands of his enemies in the end.”

Arthur shook his head. “Why did you come in here to tell me this?”

“Because, boy, he dies as the result of grave betrayals.” Arthur thought quickly: Hector, Moriarty, Merlin. Who was there to betray him? He didn’t trust any of them, except Merlin, maybe, but…

“So you’re going to betray me? Now?” Arthur braced himself.

Moriarty laughed, a raspy chuckling sound. “Heavens no. I couldn’t if I wanted to.” Couldn’t?

“Why? Is that what you’ve come to reassure me about?”

“Astute of you,” he said. “Yes, these marks on my wrist are more than titles. They are shackles.”

“I didn’t ask you or anyone to do any of this!” Arthur shouted.

“Keep your voice down,” Moriarty hissed. “And I never said you did. I wouldn’t exist if not for you.” Arthur blinked hard, tears had started to come again.

“What do you mean then?”

The head’s oscillations slowed. “I mean that they are preventatives, Arthur. I could not hurt or betray you even if it were my fondest wish.” Arthur wondered if it was.

“How do you know this?” Arthur asked.

“I spoke with Merlin.” Again, Arthur was confused.

“Why didn’t Merlin tell me?” It would, after all, be something he’d like to know.

“You didn’t ask; in any case,” continued Moriarty, “I don’t trust him.”

“Merlin?”

“Yes, Merlin.”

“Why?”

“Ah,” said Moriarty. His head stopped moving, the gleam focused on Arthur’s position in the dark. “Now that is quite the question.” Arthur waited for an answer.

Nothing came.

“Okay, again, why?”

“Because before Merlin served Arthur, he served someone else,” said Moriarty. “And if he has the marks on his wrists, like myself, he will be hard pressed to betray this other person.” Arthur’s mouth was dry. He wondered how long it had been since he’d had anything to drink.

“So what?” said Arthur; but it was a futile gesture.

“So, he isn’t necessarily serving you.” With that Moriarty rose and the sound of steps came as he walked toward the door. Arthur was stunned. “Food for thought, Arthur,” he said, and went out the door, shutting it softly behind him.

Into Their Waiting Arms

Thu, 07 Jun 2012 23:52:26 -0400

Mrs. Vole’s emotional state was in shambles.

As she made her way down the purple and teal hallway, friendly colors for the children, she caught herself staring at last week’s art projects. Her boys and girls had had a joy making them, and she’d lovingly taped their pictures onto the walls, all the while telling them how proud she was.

Now she passed that same hall, each lopsided house and discolored building haunting her steps.

Mrs. Vole shut her eyes tight, but the tears snuck past. Maybe she would see her kids again one day, when this was all over.

She could only blame herself, really. After all, her master had said that war was coming; that it would just be a matter of time.

Now, coming in a new unfamiliar march, war had arrived. This wasn’t a war of ideology or countries. This was a war being waged on her.

And she had nearly thrust her wards in the crossfire.

As she turned at the end of the hall, she heard scuffling and finally opened her eyes, which were still blurred with tears, her spectacles misty. Men in masks were what she saw, one of them balled up on the the ground, sucking in breath and clutching at his arm; broken, she guessed. Four of them pinned Boris down against the wall; another three had Vivian cornered by the exit. Oddly, the ones guarding her weren’t getting too close, which confused Mrs. Vole until she caught the glint of metal in the young woman’s hands.

She let herself wander over the scene, getting a feel for it. The conflict had chipped some of the red paint from Eve’s drawing of a squirrel, which the little angel had been particularly proud of. In addition, many others were being crumpled or damaged, especially where Boris was struggling wildly.

Apparently too preoccupied, no one had noticed the old woman with the stuffed paisley handbag. Good, she had surprise. Mrs. Vole noiselessly lowered the bag to the floor, freeing her hands. Delicately, she took off her glasses and hung them on the front of her shirt.

War was at the gates.

Vivian was the first to notice the old woman’s arrival. “Why are you just standing there?” Vivian cried, jabbing her knife at a man who’d tried to inch nearer.

Some of the men stole quick glances over their shoulders, but were too concerned with their work to care about Mrs. Vole.

What a terrible mistake. She raised her hands like a puppeteer, and in her mind’s eye she wasn’t wearing frilly clothes any more, but a green military uniform patched with a Union Jack on its sleeve.

Her head tilted so that her brow almost hid her eyes; she was too offended by the sight in front of her to continue watching.

Mrs. Vole spoke. “You think you can do just about anything, Uthor. Oh, how far you’ve come from your bedwetting days.”

The man on the floor looked up at the mention of Uthor. “I bear the mark of his highness, and you will give him his due respect.” Mrs. Vole sniffed. She hated lackeys.

Boris started freeing an arm, but his oppressors shifted in time to keep him held. “And who might you be?” asked Mrs. Vole.

“Sir Waites, The Landsman.” Vivian swung again, landing a glancing blow.

“Well then, sir Waites.” She raised her arms high, splaying out her palms and curling her fingers upward. “Allow me educate you about his highness’s limitations.” She balled them into fists and throttled the air.

All around the room came the sound of unpleasant cracking and gurgling accompanying the breaking of necks. Heads dangled at awkward angles. Bodies thrashed wildly; hands searched for their owner’s windpipes, hoping to clear whatever was stopping air from entering their lungs. The man on the floor, the only one to be spared, tossed his head back and forth in horror. Mrs. Vole twisted her hands more.

The four holding Boris slumped to the ground; so did the men guarding Vivian. Each and every one of them, dead.

Beneath his mask sir Waites’s eyes widened. Mrs. Vole moved toward him, and he tried to inch away. He failed, recoiling on the pain of his broken arm. Boris and Vivian wordlessly stared.

Aberdeen Vole loomed tall over sir Waites. He shut his eyes. She bent over him. “Please inform his highness that he’s chosen the wrong war.” He nodded, trying, and failing, to shield his face with his good arm. “Inform Uthor that Aberdeen Vole is coming,” she whispered. “And she intends to bring ruination down upon his head.” She exhaled and turned away. Sir Waites was breathing shallowly. “Miss Bracht, please get my bag. Mr. Gant, the car.”

They obeyed, and soon the three were speeding down the road.

After a while, Boris, without looking at her, asked “What the fuck was that?”

The Battle of the Orphanage

Wed, 06 Jun 2012 13:47:00 -0400

Mrs. Vole

Boris

Vivian

Rodimer

Aberdeen Vole had fought in wars, the experience building instincts into her, like run, dodge, fall back, or fight. Though her body had aged, her mind was a keen edge.

The instincts of war erupted through her. She needed time to consider.

“Valen drial’timo-tey!” she shouted, and the world around her rapidly slowed; then, it came almost to a stop. An invisible vice wrapped itself around her head, squeezing slowly as the energies needed to maintain the spell began to drain. She was unable to move, forced to stare at the horrifying thing in front of her.

Vivian was behind her on the left, and Boris on the right.

The vice began to tighten, and Mrs. Vole felt the pressures rise — her eyes bulged.

She’d faced tanks and men with guns, even minor entities with varying skill in the magical arts, but this was unknown. It felt raw, the very antithesis of what magic should be. Yes, it was certainly magical, or perhaps anti-magical. Her master would have known what to do.

The overexertion threatened to break her, but she pressed on.

She examined her options: fight or flee. Reaching through her soul, she tried to pick out a location to take her and her allies.

She remembered the children.

No, flight was no choice at all. She abandoned her search Leaving this…this shadow man with the children was not an option, but neither was fighting. What if one of her wards were caught in the mayhem. She would never forgive herself.

There was one choice left: move the children, but the power needed for that would leave her stranded in the orphanage with the shadow man, and she’d barely be able to put up a defense.

The pressure was about to destroy her.

Mrs. Vole decided on her course: send the children to safety and hope she would survive.

The old woman released the spell, instantly relieving the pressure and slipping her back into the normal flow of time.

She began to hastily murmur, focusing her intent.

“Where is Boris Gant? Ah, is this Boris Gant?” hissed the shadow man, still soaking in the darkness all about the room. Mrs. Vole kept murmuring.

“Who wants to know?” Boris asked, his voice unsteady.

The spell was done, and Mrs. Vole felt the power escape her, rendering her exhausted from the strain. The children were safe.

It was time to take control.

“Leave, beast. I demand that you leave at once!” shouted the old woman, surprised by the wash of vitality that swept over her as ballooned with rage.

The shadow man gave a shuddering laugh.

“I’ll leave when my work is done,” he replied. The voice was American, its normality grating against the speaker’s nature.

“What work?” she demanded.

“Murdering you all. I’ve been asked to find Boris Gant, and I have. I’ve been asked to leave no loose ends, and I don’t.” Mrs. Vole heard Vivian moving behind her.

Suddenly, the air held a storm of knives.

They came from and around Mrs. Vole’s left shoulder, heading straight toward the shadow man, where they disappeared into the wispy darkness, and were quickly met with the sounds of impacts.

The shadow-man grunted.

“That,” he said, “just put you on top of my list.” Once again, instinct took over, and Mrs. Vole knew what was coming.

Her arm shot in front of her, dropping her bag as it went. “Praenaut!” She had been just in time. Knives with shadows dripping across their blades and hilts flew out from the shadow man, heading straight for Vivian, but they didn’t find their target.

Blades struck an unseen barrier a meter in front of the old woman’s hand, embedding themselves in its surface. Mrs. Vole released her power’s hold, causing the knives to fall.

“Well, well, well,” cooed the shadow man. “Looks like we’ve got a contender.”

“Yeah, enough. Shut it,” said Boris, and Mrs. Vole wondered what he was thinking.

“Fine!” replied the shadow man, laughing wildly. He leapt from the door, charging at Boris. Vivian moved almost instantly toward the now unguarded exit. Mrs. Vole followed her example.

Boris fluidly moved left, avoiding the shadow-man’s charge, who went straight through the chair before stopping and whirling once again toward its target. What was left of the chair was shredded beyond recognition.

“I am the rock, and I cannot feel,” he shouted. It whipped out an arm that stretched toward Boris’s head, its shape becoming scythe-like.

Boris allowed himself to fall backward off his feet, again escaping, but hit hard against the floorboards. Vivian was now directly in the line of the shadow man’s attack.

The scythe hit her left palm, and the young woman yelled in pain so loudly that it took Mrs. Vole a second to notice the other cry. The much deeper cry —the shadow-man’s cry.

Cracks of light, so hot that Mrs. Vole could feel it from where she was standing, formed along the scythe, extending quickly along its length. Soon, it reached the shadow man, covering him in the cracks.

As the cracks seemed about to replace all the darkness, the shades lifted from him, exploding outward, disappearing into the air like an aerosol spray.

The shadow man, now just a man, really, was launched into the far wall, slamming against it. He twitched and began to rise, then slouched. Despite this, he started trying again.

Mrs. Vole turned her attention to her allies. Vivian’s palm was stained red, but not with blood. It had been as if she’d colored ink into her skin. She was holding her palm tightly in her other hand, the shock of the pain working about her features, flexing her jaw and blinking away water from her eyes.

She was hurt very badly, it would seem, and Mrs. Vole admired the young woman’s ability to keep herself under control.

“Boris, Vivian,” said Mrs. Vole, realizing they might not have long. “We must leave; this is no opponent for us as we are.” Boris lifted himself quickly off the ground, never taking his eyes of the shadow man, who was starting to regain his bearing.

“No shit,” said the cremator.

“I saw you had a car. We’ll use that,” said the old woman, “you lead, miss Bracht and I shall follow.”

Boris knew better than to argue when the whole world stopped making sense. He ran out the door first. Vivian followed, stopping at the door to look back. “Coming?” Mrs. Vole held back.

“Be a dear and have mister Gant pull the car up front,” Mrs. Vole said. Vivian looked once at the shadow man, nodded at Mrs. Vole, and took off behind her partner.

The old woman leaned over, taking her time, and picked up her bag. She placed it gingerly on the desk. The shadow man groaned. Mrs. Vole fished out a small, green gem, which had been loose in the bottom of the bag, and studied it closely. “This will do nicely, I think.”

“I’ll,” said the shadow man, but stopped, unable to finish.

“Yes, dear?” asked Mrs. Vole.

“I’ll turn your bones to gravestones,” he spat. Its contents had a reddish hue.

“Of course you will,” said the old woman in a motherly way, and with that held up the gem between her thumb and forefinger, pointing it at the would-be killer. “Flentia.” The gem shot out like it had been fired from a gun, imbedding itself deeply in the shadow-man’s gut. He gagged and flexed, grabbing his wound. “Of course you will,” she repeated.

And with that Mrs. Vole took her bag and left the shadow man to his writhing.

The Truce and The Monster

Mon, 04 Jun 2012 03:44:00 -0400

Boris

Vivian

Vole

The stretched feeling faded almost the instant it had come leaving both Boris and Vivian dazed; it had been roughly like seeing a new colour.

“What the fuck was that?” Boris muttered groggily.

“That was me leveling the playing field, mister Gant,” replied Mrs. Vole. At the sound of his name Boris jumped, or would have, if something weren’t keeping everything below his neck from moving. This woman, whoever she was, had far superior resources and intelligence than the dossier had lead Boris to believe.

He swiveled field of vision, hoping to find that Vivian had gotten free and was about to make confetti out the old bird; unfortunately, his partner was in much the same state as him. He wondered how much of a liability she would be, now that she knew his last name. “Also, mister Gant,” Mrs. Vole continued, “please do watch your language. There are children scuttling about everywhere.” The look she gave Boris was comically stern, especially when he remembered he was in an orphanage.

“And how,” asked Vivian, “have you leveled this field?”

Mrs. Vole grinned widely, revealing gums and teeth too healthy for her age. “I have discovered that I do not need to — necessarily — kill you like the last few.” Tiny things began connecting in Boris’s mind with her words, giving him the sensation - then the realization - that something had eluded him. Something was not right with this assignment, something that didn’t quite sync. But that all depended on what the old bird meant by ‘last few.’

He needed to be sure.

“The last few?” Boris said.

“Yes, you are the fifth team that has been sent after me,” answered the old woman, “but I think I won’t have to dispense with you just yet or maybe ever, if you act sensibly.” The way she said think made Boris’s momentarily relief run out.

“And why might that be?” said Vivian.

“Ah, miss Bracht! You’ll have to thank your friend, mister Gant, for this good turn.” Boris memorized the name, in case he needed to use it. Gant for Bracht: he could make a trade of secrecy, maybe not have to kill her.

“Sorry, what I do?”

“You, unlike your predecessors, have knowledge which will allow us to converse on a,” she thought, “more reasonable and common ground.”

“And where does the path of this ‘common ground’ lead?” demanded Vivian, which made Boris worry that she would go into hysterics and get them both killed.

“That will be for you each to decide on your own — once you’ve gotten the gist of things of course.”

As a rule, Boris hated circling around the point; he wanted to charge in and get things done — or set them on fire. “Alright, transmit the gist.”

“Most equitable of you. Let us begin by understanding that we have mutual knowledge,” said Mrs. Vole in a lecturing tone that she might have to explain something trivial to a child. “I know that you and your predecessors are employed by the Goruiren corporation.” Vivian laughed. “What’s all this dear?”

“Then your information is wrong,” she said. “We are never told who employs us; it’s part of the contract!” Boris wanted to slap her. The ‘common ground’ may be they stood on to keep themselves alive. Spoiling it did no one any favors.

Then, he registered what the old bird had just said. The connections in his mind completed, moving faster and toward an inevitable conclusion.

“Ah, but look at your comrade’s face there, miss Bracht.” She did, becoming confused by Boris’s look of frowning concentration.

“What about it?”

“He,” replied Mrs. Vole, “knows that I am correct.” She dipped her chin to indicate Boris’s direction; Vivian looked again, studying her partner’s features more carefully, perhaps looking for denial somewhere inside them, but finding nothing but his stony face guarding his thoughts.

“Is this true, Boris?” Vivian asked hesitantly. There was silence for a stretch of time where everyone watched Boris expectantly. Finally, he snapped out of his thoughts, having reached the logical destination and felt he’d adequately considered the options.

“Yes, that is the truth,” Boris said. Something about his thoughts made his tone go very grave. He felt like all all of him wasn’t quite there. Could he even go back to the Crematorium after this?

“So, mister Gant, do I sense that you have a grasp on the implications?” asked Mrs. Vole.

“Yes,” he answered breathily. Sweat creased his thick brow, but he didn’t feel hot.

Vivian, feeling left out of life-or-death parts of the conversation, became insistent. “What implications? What is everyone talking about?” she asked in diffident tones.

“Alright,” said Boris patiently. Vivian alive might be slow to the uptake, but they’d need each other soon. This was reason enough to keep her abreast of things, though part of him wanted to cut a deal with Vole then and there, leaving Vivian out. She was, after all, also a liability.

Mrs. Vole sat quietly, looking not a little amused.

Boris sighed. “Alright, so four other groups were sent here, right?” The harshness of this fact — his closeness then to death — made him reflexively shut his eyes as he spoke.

“According to her,” Vivian replied almost instantly, spitting her words at the old woman. “She could be lying, trying to get more information before killing us.” Boris resented that, though mostly because she was wrong.

“You’re the idiot, love. She’s already got at least as much, if not more, info than I do. If there weren’t other teams she’d just kill us here and now, then go about her day.”

“Oh,” Vivian acquiesced.

“So?” Boris prompted.

“So they sent four inferior teams? What difference does this make?”

“They all died, Viv.” Something in her face told Boris she’d gotten it.

“They didn’t expect us to live.” She considered this. “But why send us in the first place then?”

Mrs. Vole interjected, “Miss Bracht, it’s terribly obvious, though. You were never meant to finish this alive.” Boris found a superior mind in Mrs. Vole and traced her conclusion.

“Shit,” he cursed. He’d found the flaw in the assignment, the oddity that had nagged at the back of his mind the whole time. “Even if we’d succeeded we’d have questioned you and then killed you. Shit.” He didn’t understand how he could have missed something that obvious — maybe if that stupid german girl hadn’t distracted him.

“What?”

Boris groaned. He wouldn’t be going back to the Crematorium. They’d been double crossed. “If they knew the last four teams died they must have known that the old bird knew too much, or at least enough. If we’d questioned her there would be no way of telling what kind of information she’d have given us.”

“So what,” Vivian shouted back. “the other teams died!”

“That means worst case we die, best case we know too much. We’re risks. Risks get fucking killed, get it?”

Mrs. Vole slammed her hand on the table so loudly that it shocked the assassins into silence. “Mister Gant, I do not wish to do nasty things to you, but I must insist for the final time that you watch your language with children about.” The room was so quiet it seemed empty. Boris wanted to burn it all.

“We’re going to die,” Vivian said quietly. Something about the way she said it took the conclusion floating around Boris’s mind and made it finally sink in. Now, death felt all too real, too soon. He felt sick. Everything seemed queazy and slow, like the world was trying to jump up his stomach and escape through his mouth.

“Actually,” said Mrs. Vole, “you do have less fatal options.” To Boris, the words were a light at the end of a shortening tunnel or a pure ring in the midst of a metallic clamor. He grasped them tightly, and hoped.

“Tell me,” demanded Vivian, beating her partner to the punch.

“I’m afraid all these murder attempts won’t do anymore, especially with the children about. I’m going to have to leave the orphanage.” Something wet sped down along the ancient wrinkles of the old woman’s cheek. “I’ve known for a while now, you understand. I’m forced to look at everything and choose — forced to leave this,” she gestured to the room around her, “my life’s work.” She produced a small white handkerchief from a pocket and batted at her cheek.

Boris waited until she was finished before asking, “Nice that you didn’t have to kill us and all, but where exactly does matters?”

Mrs. Vole’s face took on stonier features, perhaps resolve, and she peered down the desk at the man and woman who’d come there to kill her. “By now, you must have realized that I am not all that I seem.”

Vivian rolled her eyes. “You’ve got incredible information on a secretive company and have somehow used poison darts to paralyze us,” she said. “I think I’ve got the picture.” Boris blinked; he hadn’t thought of poison darts, but now that he did, it made sense.

Maybe Vivian wasn’t entirely useless.

Mrs. Vole tinkled another of her rusty-bell laughs. “Delightful, you young people are creative, just like my boys and girls.” At the mention of the children, she sobered and cleared her throat. “Yes, in any case, there are greater goings on than you perceive. Though, I dare suspect in time you’ll discover more than you’d ever want to.”

“Assuming we don’t die,” said Vivian.

“Quite,” answered the old woman. “In any case, I propose that we all leave this together and begin work on something much grander.” Boris wondered — had he not already decided to bolt for the door the second he could— whether he would still get to burn things if he went along with ‘much grander’ things.

“Done,” said Vivian.

“Right, as we don’t have choices, yeah,” assented Boris.

Mrs. Vole clapped her hands in the way that happy old women tend to. “Oh, that is lovely of you both!” she exclaimed. “Just one more small matter to attend to. Will that be alright?”

“Since we don’t have any real say, why not?” said Boris. The old woman ignored him. Vivian said nothing.

He wondered how long the poison would last before he’d be able to get up. Could this cause permanent damage or something? Hopefully not. Mrs. Vole continued, “I need you both to take an oath of binding fealty to me and those to whom I am, myself, obligated.” Boris checked that he had heard right, realized he had, and concluded that the old bird might be more insane than he already believed.

“Sure, yes, whatever you’d like,” said Vivian.

“And you, mister Gant?” asked the old woman. Boris gave a nod.

“Excellent,” said Mrs. Vole. “Please repeat after me, in unison if you would: I do swear by Avalos and Fate and Free Will to serve the fiefdom of Aberdeen Vole, and all to whom she swears allegiance, that I do this of my own volition and consent to the unbreakable pact which binds us in chivalrous servitude to the One True King.”

Both Vivian and Boris did as Vole asked, Boris growing more nervous by the minute that the old woman would kill them anyway after making them do all this rubbish.

A few seconds after they had finished, to the sound of many cries of surprise — except from Mrs. Vole — Boris and Vivian’s sleeves began to shine with warm, golden light. The skin under the sleeves lustered out, to the horror of the assassins.

“What is this!” yelled Vivian, frantically staring from arm to arm, still unable to move. Boris couldn’t words and just shook slightly in fearful shock.

“Those are your marks of allegiance,” answered Mrs. Vole matter-of-factly. While speaking, she pulled a colourful, flowery handbag out from under the desk and began packing it with various contents. “Here, this is a big moment after all, Plen’astria! There, the use of your arms should be returned to you.”

Just as she said, Boris watched as he twitched and lifted his arm; the light had stopped.

Suddenly, three razor-sharp knives hissed through the air at Mrs. Vole, aimed perfectly at her head. Then, a half meter from the old woman’s serene face they simply stopped and clattered onto the desk. Mrs. Vole promptly scooped them up and put them in her bag, giving Vivian a small smirk.

“Ow!” shouted Vivian. Boris watched her arms start glowing again, but this time with an angry, red light.

Mrs. Vole tutted. “Dear, I should have mentioned — I just thought the oath was so straight forward you understand. Anyway, you tried to betray your oath. I’m afraid twice more and you will die, and that,” she tutted, “will be your own fault miss Bracht.” Vivian moaned slightly, rubbing her arms through her sleeves in circular motions. “There should be a single black strike on your wrist to serve as your first reminder.”

Boris grinned. He ignored the two woman’s discussion, pulling his sleeves tightly over his burly arms to examine his skin; it came as s shock when a set of twin, amber-coloured tattoos came up to greet him. He didn’t understand.

No technology he’d ever heard of could do this.

He studied the pattern of the twin doves encircling one another, making two helixes around each of his wrists. Then, he noticed words among the pictures and colors. Inside the first loop read: Sir Boris Gant. He discovered more in the second loop which read: Champion of Dame Aberdeen Vole.

Things had officially gone beyond him, and he gave up trying to reason.

He glanced over at Vivian, to see if she had experienced something similar but found she’d already looked and replaced her sleeves. Boris looked back at Mrs. Vole who seemed to be having a rough time deciding between a roll of white and yellow yarn.

“Mrs. Vole,” he said, trying to be polite. Part of him was deathly afraid of all…all this..but at the same time oddly glad about there being an alternative to death.

“Yes, mister Gant?”

“I notice that you can paralyze our body parts at will and have tattooed my arms with very specific information and, well, doves,” he said in a tone unlike his own yet all he could come up with for addressing the situation.

“Yes, I do love doves. They’re my fiefdom’s raiment.” The old woman decided on both the yellow and white yarn, forcing them into her already overstuffed bag.

“Yes, it appears that’s the case,” said Boris, “But what I was wondering was how you’re doing all this.”

Vivian burst out laughing.

Boris glared at her. “Oh, and I suppose you’ve nailed it out, eh?”

“As a matter of fact I do,” Vivian replied concisely.

“Oh, do share, darling, do share.”

Vivian smiled, “This old woman is using magic.” Boris didn’t even try to formulate a response and just let the statement pass.

Mrs. Vole hefted her flowery bag over her shoulder and muttered something under her breath. “You can move now,” she said. Boris was way ahead of her. He lurched up and made a run for the door.

Then, he was stopped. His arms glowed red and nauseous pain climbed up his midriff. The old woman sighed audibly. “You swore fealty, mister Gant. There are no special exceptions for you. Attempting to forsake your duty is dreadful.” Boris lifted up his sleeve, thinking about a few dreadful things he’d like to do to her, and saw a new, blackened strike on his upper forearm.

Magic, why the fuck not?

He was just about to say as much when Mrs. Vole made a hushing gesture accompanied by a hiss. She stood motionless. Vivian straightened from her seat and waited. “Oh, dear. Oh, oh, dear,” the old woman crooned.

“What?” asked Boris.

“Your old employers sent something to catch up with us,” the old woman whispered. “Of course, you two were the distraction. Oh, oh, dear. With me focused on you it could get close.” Mrs. Vole tightened her grip on the bag straps.

“Let what get close?” asked Vivian, backing off from the old woman.

“We must flee, now.” Her voice was urgent. “There is a monster here, close, too close.”

Boris grinned and then frowned, “A monster?” He noticed Vivian’s gaze had shifted. Then, Mrs. Vole’s gaze shifted in just the same direction. Boris turned, facing the door behind him.

It swung inward.

Standing in the frame was a tall man wearing an ink-black suit. The light from the window reflected red off of blotchy stains which peppered his clothes. Boris could tell, having enough similarly ruined clothes of his own, that it was blood; it looked fresh — wet. The man grinned, chuckled, opened his mouth to just a slit, and said “I am the Rock, and I cannot feel.”

Boris raised his fists. There was something rabid in the newcomer’s voice. That made him instinctively defensive.

“Come to burn your bridges to make me real,” the intruder whispered softly, and with the words the many shadows cast within the tiny office quivered and elongated sinuously outward until each shadow caressed the man, weaving together to consume the monster within the dark.

Okay Readers, Here's What's Up: Q&A, Explanations, About Writing

Sun, 03 Jun 2012 08:51:00 -0400

I’ve been getting a lot of questions. So, this is a mix of answering question as well as discussing the future of Arthur: A Serialized Novel (from here on out called AASN). Also, herein lies an explanation of the magic system of AASN. ALSO AN EXPLANATION OF MORIARTY HOLMES: WHY AND WHAT.

Things marked explanation are me explaining things. Things marked question/answer are my answers to actual questions you have asked.

Question: Why haven’t you edited that work I sent you?

Answer: The computer on which I did my editing was…yeah. Killed dramatically? I have to redo all that stuff, and I’m getting to it.

Question: What the [flip] is [AASN]?

Answer: This site, aside from my periodic rambling pieces, which are always deleted to leave only canonical work for AASN, is a special kind of Novel. It is released here on this website in readable parts.

Question (roughly approximated): Why do you write AASN?

Answer: I started writing AASN to practice writing. I am a goal-setter when I work, and to create an environment where this would be viable, so I started AASN. (I’m the kind of guy who says like, “Okay, today I will write 1000 words” and, after I finish, put like a checkmark next to the goal.) So, I needed something that would, as I became a better and better writer, allow me to evolve it in any direction I wanted to. Not in terms of plot, you understand, that is already laid out for the most part. For example, when I started AASN I viewed my ability to create unique character voices as poor and thus working from first person viewpoints of lots of different characters was what I needed. (That’s how I improve by the way, target a weakness and figure out how to systematically practice it, and then do so.) So, the way AASN is written, at least originally, was for me. I never expected this large an audience. Now, on that point - and back to the whole goal-setter thing - I needed an environment that would 1) make the improvement in my work measurable and 2) keep me obligated to keep going. I expected a few friends to read this and that I would keep going so I wouldn’t seem like an impulsive ditz. Using Google Analytics I can measure the traffic on my tumblr, and by rarely reblogging I can assume that any change in the amount of traffic to my website (longer than one minute) comes from changes in the quality of my work. As many of you know, I prioritize the enjoyability of reading a piece over its functional value, and this method makes it so that if I don’t put out good stuff, I don’t see traffic-based improvement. Also there are the likes, but I really don’t know how to use those as valid measures. Today, AASN is a living work, and as a result of its popularity (and thus positive feedback from my traffic measures as well as a moral obligation to keep this going for you guys) I’ve had to change a few things. For example, I had to stop for a month so I could get ahead on the whole thing and actually organize releases. If it were 15 of my friends reading this, I’d be okay working when I could to make high-quality posts and posting stuff whenever. However, now you guys are an audience and I have to change how that works. That means that stuff is prepared way in advance and released on a regular time table. So, that, ladies and gentleman, is the meat of why AASN is.

Question: How many people actually read AASN? You keep talking to ‘readers’ and [fecal materials], but who the hell are they?

Answer: In terms of follower count, I’ve stopped writing count announcements, so that may be why you’re having trouble. I don’t want to give definite numbers any more because it would skew my feedback from traffic. Internet Fact: More Viewers Gets You More Viewers. If I say something like “I have X” many followers or “I get X unique visits a day according to Google Analytics” three things are going to happen. First, a lot of people will think “oh, this must be good if so many people read it.” Simultaneously, second, people will say “What a D-Bag announcing how many people he has reading, is he really that insecure?” And it’s not that I care what other people think, it’s just that to stay true to this project and keep my improvement measurable (getting visits and follows primarily for high quality work and good content), it’s not in my best interest to say something like that. And finally, third, people will have negative feelings as a result. Look at it this way, a lot of Tumblr, and let’s be honest, is an ocean of really unhappy people looking for a way out of whatever their lives are doing. Let’s say for one second that many people you know think that the longer your hair is the better you are as a human being. How are you going to feel if your friend Ecrid, with his enormous, puffy, long hair walks up to you, when you already know he’s got that great mop, and starts telling you how long the strands are and how much they grow each night? Life isn’t a pissing contest, and if you treat it like one you’ll just piss people off. I have no desire to unnecessarily diminish people (and that’s natural, not presumptive on my part, that’s why we have words in english like jealousy or greed or resentment - because that stuff’s common.) So, to answer this question, lots of people read this blog, and, more importantly, it would still be here if they didn’t - though perhaps not as motivated.

Question: I just realized that all the events that have taken place so far have occured in less than 36 hours [except the past pieces]. What kind of a story is AASN?

Answer: Most importantly, AASN is a story. It is a long story that is special because, unlike a novel, it can be told in a very different way and because of the presence of command- (if you’re on a mac) or control- (if PC) -F, you can search through it when you forget. The large spacing between events as well as the many different characters makes things hard to follow, which is AASN’s primary medium-based weakness. Unlike a web-comic, which AASN models in some ways, you have no visuals to connect to which help to recall the information or events, and thus the complexity of picking up a novel (which you would read in large chunks and several sittings) as well as the memorability that goes along with that kind of readings, is lost. Thus far, reports to me have indicated that re-reading it is the best way to combat this, but this is the internet and this novel uses a unique medium. So, this allows me to combat this logistical problem uniquely. Just as tumblr-noveling has its disadvantages, it also has its advantages. So here’s how I plan to work on “the confusion problem:”

Have a free E-reader release so you can peruse and reference more easily
Update and maintain a reference section which is easy to look through while being spoiler free if your behind (hyperlink in the sidebar)
Include short prior-event summaries in the new sections
Make the characters more contemplative about what’s gone on in they’re past (a technique you’ll be familiar with if you read sequels to books - somewhere first twenty to fifty pages or so always manages to have an overview the events of the last book by using character dialogue).
UPDATE ON A SCHEDULE TO KEEP YOU INTERACTING REGULARLY SO THERE’S LESS OF A GAP IN TIME TO FORGET.
IF YOU HAVE ANY MORE IDEAS TELL ME, BECAUSE I NEED MORE IDEAS.

Question: I find your world intriguing but the magical system confuses me. What is going on exactly?

Answer: Magic in AASN comes in many different flavors and varieties. The Magical System, for those of you unaware of this lingo, is the basis and rules by which magic operates in the AASN world. Based on my familiarity with fantasy works (don’t even get me started - trust me, it’s extensive) it is unique and nothing really like has been done before. Let me give you a breakdown and side-bar explanation (which I can do more frequently since the story is period released and thus doing so won’t draw you out of the world - although it will undermine my reviewer’s ability to judge whether or not I’ve conveyed something well in my writing, so if you are a reviewer not-privy to advanced knowledge, and you guys know who you are, do not read the below explanation. Honor System.

Explanation: Let’s start with the big picture in fancy philosophy talk: Fate V.S. Free Will. There is no answer nor will there ever be in the world of AASN. However, there are aspect of both affecting the world, in other words Free Will to act within certain Fates, where the participants (those who are a part of the Fates) in turn have Free Will that let’s them choose different outcomes, which may or may not be predetermined. Okay, let’s do the more understandable explanation.

In the AASN world, there are people in the past with the ability to detect future events at what is something like the subconscious level. These futures are highly undetermined, and not even the people with the ability to detect them can transcribe what is literally going to happen. For example, in Legends we see that Sir Thomas Malory wrote a book called Le Morte D’Arthur, and he is described by Merlin as being a balls prophet. Malory could sense that at some future points events similar to the events in Le Morte D’Arthur would occur, but he didn’t know it would occur in an age of cars and such and thus wrote a poor approximation of events containing chivalrous medieval knights. Not really what’s going one, is it? So, by connecting magically to this sense of the future and writing down his interpretation of it, he’s created a magical link which allows for far more variability in the actual events than there would have been otherwise. For example, if you get shot in the chest you die. If I tell you four seconds beforehand that a bullet is going to hit you in the chest, you can change the outcome of events (being shot in the chest) by dodging and maybe getting shot in the leg. That is what the CEO does. His employees use the magic of variation released by Sir Thomas Malory writing down the legend of king Arthur to detect and kill various threats to his existence, as does Morgose. For instance, if there were no King Arthur, anyone it’s indicated that he’s destined to kill would not necessarily die. Something would interrupt the paths of destiny resulting in a paradox of fate. By messing with the predetermined events, people like Morgose and the CEO hope to gain by making events more predictable and in their favor.
There’s also normal magic. This is the magic of wizards and allegiances and tampering with reality. Magic like when Mrs. Vole blew up a panzer tank or when Hector received tattoos on his arms for choosing his allegiance to Arthur. This is the magic of Excalibur which lets Arthur into Hector’s inner most consciousness to cause strange, but real events to unfold. This is the magic of Fated Souls in the wrong bodies, resulting in strange beasts of men, like Rodimer, or the fouling up of Fate causing the Inflicted Man to be unable to die.
The two different kinds of magic may be summarized as such. The first comes from logically altering the outcomes and destabilizing reality, resulting in strange events to occur out of paradoxes. In addition, working within the parameters of the destined reality can cause predetermined events to be fulfilled, whether or not they are logical, but simply because that is how things, in some cases, must now be. The second is a classical magic, like fireballs. I cannot, at this time, reveal any more other than it is limited and thought through. For now, trust that Mrs. Vole’s, Merlin’s, and Morgose’s sources of magic and the mechanics of their workings do exist. Finally, these two systems are intertwined.

Yes, I really worked this hard to create something unique.

Question (and I’m copying this one word for word): What is Moriarty Holmes. I can’t tell if this is turning into some BBC fanboy’s slash fic or you’re actually being really brilliant or what. It’s awkward. WTF.

Question (Translated to the best of my ability): Pardon, kind Ecrid, but the presence of Moriarty Holmes in the presence of a King Arthur story confuses me. I cannot tell if ‘twas whimsy that made you bring him into the fold, though based on the text I see that hints and logical promises to that event did exist. Seeing as it was not impulse that drew you to his inclusion, I supposition that perhaps you are a fan of Sherlock on the BBC, and are creating a strange sort of homosexual romantic fiction between Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. Whatever the reason, I feel this detracts from your story, and would like further explanation so I can forgive you and appreciate your reasoning and work to the utmost once more. By fornication, I am confounded.

(See what I did there?)

Answer/Explanation: As you so adroitly stated, yes, Moriarty Holmes was planned from the very beginning. Sadly, up until the point where I actually wrote and posted the work, I considered not doing it, changing the plot of the story to get rid of his inclusions. However, I decided that upon a deep examination by the reader, such a presence makes sense. Let me give you my writerly reasons:

AASN uses a magic system that links magical energies to the revelations made in books by prophets. The birth of Moriarty Holmes gave me the opportunity to show how important and powerful the connection between using texts as a focusing point for magic in the AASN world are. It also gave me the opportunity to show that the magic of this world is fallible. Up until this point, the only time we see weakness in terms of magic is Merlin’s incompetence during the chase scene where even if he is a great and powerful wizard, he can only do so much at once, i.e. magic rickshaw. His limited knowledge of modern weaponry and habit of being underprepared also contribute to this but overshadow the weakness of magic with their presence; the net effect becomes that magic was not the problem in that scene but the wielder of the magic. While a good scene to introduce human flaw into Merlin’s suspicious character, it was only when he absentmindedly allowed Arthur to pick up the wrong book (a fact very underplayed in the scene to lend more focus on the dangers of magic) and draw a destined soul into Gregory’s body. That scene, irrelevant of the reader’s emotional reaction of introducing a Sherlock/Moriarty character at a time when it’s becoming cliche, serves to show the weakness and dangers of magic, that magic tied to destiny can interact outside those bounds, and show that excalibur has more than a few uses.
AASN primarily, in its heart, is an English Novel by its nature. True, AASN explores themes like Fate V.S. Free Will, Good V.S. Evil, a young man’s journey of choices between greatness or survival, or just how powerful the changes in extremely evil people can be when approached with life or death situations or opportunities for a kind of redemption. However, and most important of all, it also explores the interaction of fictional history’s impact, in this case quite visibly, on the modern time; how given these fictional events of England’s past and myth and legacy would come to bear in a modern view. Things like ‘where is the chivalry of knighthood?’ and ‘what is the price to incite betrayal?’ and ‘Can friendship so sudden be true and exist and beat all out?’ are toyed with and experimented upon. Sherlock Holmes and Professor James Moriarty have laid more weight and impact upon the modern day than perhaps any other fictional characters in history, and they’re pseudo-inclusion in this story is natural.
Moriarty Holmes also, from a literary standpoint, adds a lot to the narrative. First, the reader is familiar or at least acquainted with the notions of these two characters, which makes the Sherlockian Canon an apt source and superior over other options I might have had, such as Dorian Gray or Oliver Twist or even James Bond. Familiarity is key for enjoyment, after all. The story is hard enough to follower as it is. Next, we have a character about which nothing really is known, outside of the fact that he is a combination of persevering good and insatiable evil, shoved straight into the middle of Arthur’s - our main character whom we care about - enclave. It adds the threat of interminable danger. We don’t know that the tattoos on his arm would prevent his betrayal or selling Arthur out. Perhaps he wants to manipulate and extort the boy, or steal Merlin’s secrets. On the other hand, he may take after his good counterpart, want to do justice, put the world right, help Arthur to defeat the villains who abuse their power and commit terrible crimes. In that sense, he is a ticking time-bomb, waiting to be released. Because of his harsh tones and nature, he may never really be trusted.
Functionality is also important. We have a muscle man/enforcer, Hector, a University Student, Arthur, and a dodgy old wizard, Merlin. This team of rag tags are pitted against an almighty wall of impossibilities trying to kill them with men and women and guns and blades and magic and nearly infinite resources and power to back all that up. There’s being an underdog and being an underdog. To get by this spider-web of danger they need a spider, and who better than the aspect of James Moriarty? To help in the fight against this evil this aspect must have a supreme willpower and motivation, the ability, or at least potential, to be a towering pillar of good. Who better than Sherlock Holmes?
Why not just have Moriarty or Sherlock? Because that is cliche and there are limits on creative borrowing. It makes sense that there are parallels between known fictional historic figures, so it’s okay not to make a new character. Arthur Pendragon and Merlin are hardly new ideas, and neither is Sherlock Holmes or Moriarty. However, it’s not just that Moriarty Holmes is an aspect of these two fictional behemoths, it’s also that they are put into a older-middle-aged man’s body. Sherlock’s prowess with strength isn’t really there as far as we know, and by amalgamating the sleuth with his arch nemesis we are, in fact, actually creating something new, especially in a different body, but with the benefit of true familiarity that the reader can associate strongly with.

Okay, that’s all I have time for.

Learn to Write Well, Free

Wed, 09 May 2012 23:14:23 -0400

Youtube playlist of Brandon Sanderson being awesome.

The Meeting

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 17:25:00 -0400

Arthur, Merlin, Hector…Greg

Camelot

Since four-thirty this morning Arthur had been assaulted by a police officer, kidnapped by a wizard, assaulted again by guns and cars, had a muscle man swear fealty to him, gotten tattoos grafted onto him by ethereal essence, discovered he was a king, though that apparently didn’t mean anything in particular yet, arrived at the seat of his strength, which incidentally was a tenement, fainted, pissed himself, nearly died in a magically propelled rickshaw, and accidentally transferred the idealized soul of a Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty amalgamation into the brain dead body of comatose sixty-year-old, who also decided it was a good idea to swear fealty to him. Now he was sitting at a circular table, surrounded on all sides by these… nutters… in the middle of a dingy kitchen which had, according to an offhand comment he overheard from Merlin, not been used since nineteen-forty-six. On his left was Hector, to his right, Merlin, and directly in front of him was the strange creature, Moriarty Holmes, or Greg — as he apparently liked to be called — looking conspiratorially in all directions and somehow managing to seem far too stimulated to be conspiring with anything at all. Everyone took their queues from Merlin and stared attentively at Arthur.

After a few minutes of this, he spoke.

“Hello. What the bleeding fucking fuck is fucking going on?”

Merlin spoke, gaining the attention of attendees. “You are Arthur Pendragon. Your soul is destined to rule England. Many men and women around the world were likewise fated to be your knights and noblemen. This all follows the legend that was created about you many hundreds of years ago. Are you clear thus far?”

“Yes,” answered Arthur, glowering.

“Your rise to power either implies or necessitated many people die. People that were supposed to help you. Ideally, you would die as well. They’ve been being killed for the last eighty years. They have been hunted down and killed. Old men, babies, children. If it forced the death of the wrong people, then they were killed to prevent the corresponding events that led to their deaths.” The wizard’s eyes grew wet, and he looked at the table, cloaking this truth from the gathering. “They found you, tonight. If they had know who you were, they would have sent an army of men like him,” Merlin said, nodding in Hector’s direction.

“What’s stopping them from finding the boy now?” interrupted Greg, whose eyes were closed. He had leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

“Their methods of acquiring such knowledge are limited. It is not time for you to die, and thus by beginning the first steps to achieving your destiny, those methods will no longer work.” Merlin sighed. “They’ll have to find new ones.”

“Ah,” said Greg.

“Ah: That’s all you can say?” shouted Hector, slamming his hands on the table. “When I saved you idiots, I thought it was because you were powerful enough to save me from the repercussions.” His face was turning red.

“And yet the thought of killing all three of us right now seems so morally repugnant to you that it is unacceptable,” finished Merlin.

“Yes, but…” Hector was confused.

“I’d like to see him try to kill me. It would be an interesting experiment in which I could examine the capabilities of this body,” said Greg, which made everyone stare at him very quietly.

“Alright, ignoring that preposterous dialogue: no, Hector.” Merlin wiped his face and looked up, staring straight into Hector’s eyes. “You can’t because you know what the right thing to do is. Your soul knows what the right thing to do is. You’ll do the right thing,” Merlin said gravely.

Arthur folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, well that’s a fucking relief, at least this guy won’t kill me.”

“Well, that’s one less thing you have to worry about,” said Greg.

“Shut it, Holmes,” replied Arthur.

“Arthur, you created this man,” rebuked the wizard. “He literally became alive to serve you. And his name is Greg.”

“I do prefer Greg,” Greg agreed. Aside from his lips, he hadn’t moved.

“So, what are we going to do?” Hector asked.

“Well, first, we are the only ones right now that any of us can trust,” Merlin explained.

“How the hell are we supposed to win this?” The question left Greg and hit the gathering like a wet slap.

“He’s right,” Arthur said.

Hector looked over at Merlin. “Do you have resources?”

“I have faculties, and that should be enough.”

“Nobody ever built anything on faculties alone, old boy,” said Greg. He crossed his legs and balanced them straight out on the small table.

“Ah, to that extent, no.”

Arthur was starting to freak out again. “You’re a wizard, right? Can’t you just turn some things into gold?”

“Chaps, we don’t even have a plan. What are we going to do with money,” said Greg. Hector had taken to just craning his neck and looking at whoever happened to be speaking. He felt out of his depth.

“That would be your job, mister tactician was it?” Arthur countered.

“Ah,” which was the best Greg could do for an answer. He’d only been born forty minutes ago, after all. He sorely craved a pipe.

“We begin at the beginning,” said Merlin. As he spoke, he cast his elder gaze around the table, encompassing all of his fellows there. “Arthur has to end up being the King of all England, which means running the show, as it were. The first step, as sir Hector has kindly pointed out, is acquiring resources,” he gesticulated his hands out in a classic don’t ask me I have no idea sort of way, “of which, we have, as was said, this home.” There was silence in the room. “On the bright side, once there are a few more knights, the house will change and take on its true form!” announced the wizard brightly.

Nobody felt consoled.

Arthur decided to take a lead. “Very well, Merlin. Greg, your job is apparently to be a man with a plan. So plan, Greg.”

“Without a pipe?”

“Without a pipe,” said Arthur.

“Ah.” And Greg thought. All was silent.

After a few minutes, he said, “Merlin, do you know who any of our enemies are?”

“The foes who are trying to kill us?” Merlin felt very tired.

“Sure.”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

“They have money,” one steepled hand freed itself and flitted about, “you know, to hire killers and this and that.”

“I would not disbelieve it, yes.”

“So, ideally, we get some of their resources,” concluded Greg. “It is twofold. We strike out whilst supplying our coffers with the needed pick-me-up.” Arthur had to admit that the logic was very good, but saw a flaw. It was Hector who identified it.

“And how would you propose doing that.” Greg’s eyes snapped open, clearly focusing on the muscle man.

“Why, old man. It occurs to me that we have a wizard, a genius, and a gunman. It can’t be that hard. Magic, after all.”

“What about me?” Arthur asked.

“Ah,” said Greg. “You’re pretty useless, sorry to say.” Arthur knew that from the beginning, but resented hearing it being spoken aloud. He wished that he could show them all how not-useless he could be, if they would let him have a chance. He could…He found his conclusions depressing.

He said, “Then why am I supposed to be king? If I’m useless, why is this happening to me?” His question was met with silence. He closed his eyes tight, trying to hold back the trauma of all that had happened.

He felt a touch on his shoulder. It was frail, but kind. “This boy has more power than you can imagine. He’s right before the beginning, as we’ve all been. He’s born to greatness, Greg. He is our king. He is the moral compass that guides us, and without his leave we could not act.”

Arthur thought that was cheesy and unhelpful. Hector said, “But in terms of stealing from the people trying to kill us, is that really what we’re going for?” Merlin turned on the man.

“Okay, don’t believe the bleeding great wizard. Let me give you a practical example,” he swung his gaze around to Arthur. “Boy, without looking, how many corners, including the ones on objects, are there in this room?” Arthur didn’t need to look around.

He went through the room and mentally counted, from the old pans to the door frames. “One-hundred-twelve.”

Greg’s chair tipped over. He fell backwards hitting the hard, stone floor. Hector jumped a little. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“That was correct!” shouted the floored tactician. “That was correct!”

Arthur suddenly became aware of what he had just done.

“I suppose if you think so, it is correct, my friend,” said Merlin. “Now, Arthur, how many pistols does our good, sir Hector carry on his personage?”

Arthur didn’t need to look. “Four.”

Greg and Hector, who had managed to pull himself off the floor, looked at the old wizard, who was smirking. “What good is a king who doesn’t understand his subjects?”

Astonishment crossed Greg’s face. “You mean to say that he is capable of taking onto himself the talents of his knights?”

“In a sense,” Merlin replied.

“Do I get to say anything aside from numbers, because I’d like to know what the hell you’ve done to me,” Arthur yelled, disoriented and flumuxed.

“No,” snapped the wizard. “This boy may use your talents, but he lacks your experience with them.” Hector and Greg stared at Arthur.

“You mean he can fire a gun as well as I can?” asked the muscleman.

“Not as well, no. But very, very well, if given the opportunity. This is the king’s right. To command his subjects, he must also understand them.” Arthur thought to demand why the wizard hadn’t mentioned this earlier, but then realized that this was earlier.

“So as the number of his knights rises, he becomes more capable. Fascinating,” murmured Greg, rearranging his chair. “He’s like an simpleton bestowed with incredible gifts.”

“Listen, you really need to stop insulting me,” interrupted Arthur, angry.

“I suppose I do, your majesty,” Greg said sarcastically, his eyes closed and his body resettled into his contemplative position from earlier.

“And don’t call me that, either.”

Chapter Three: Beginnings

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 15:54:00 -0400

Opening

Arthur: Chapter 3

Some people spend their lives twisting things around their fingers, playing with them. Morgose, in her tower, uses her whole arms to manipulate and destroy, manipulate and destroy, and all for the love of her son.

Somewhere in the aether, things, gruesome of calling and power-hungry in nature, use their whole essences to wrap and unwrap the ordinances of destiny. They’re voracious.

Arthur, the young man, the hinge upon which the world opens, sits at his first council of war; with what he must war he is unsure, but certainly something has gone to war with him. Two knights and a wizard, his only allies, tied to his destiny like hooks to a line, all of them plunged into icy waters, unfamiliar and deep.

Hector looks at the young man, and knows, from what the wizard told him, that by his impulse his life is now tied to Arthur’s, his arms burned with a sign of service.

Boris Gant, a man made of fire and cheerful boredom, sits paralyzed by the grip of an old woman, frothing at the mind and willing her to die beneath his stare.

His accomplice, Vivian Bracht, the young murderess from Germany, sits next to him. She’s thin and wiry of frame, the knives in her hands growing warm with her continued contact, fear and confusion held tight to her immobile body.

Uthor Pendragon, CEO of one of the most powerful organizations in the world, continues to wage a systematic war against his fate to die, knowing full well that his chances of survival drop ever more quickly as Arthur draws breath. He’s waiting for his number two to show up, not sure if he’s going to kill him or devise a plan, trying desperately to put a stranglehold on the soapy neck of his rage.

The Inflicted Man cannot seem to die, or be harmed, for that matter, ensconced and protected within a shield of low probability events. He’s being taken to Morgose, watering her plants and making her plans - why he kills, why he obsesses with the destruction of the human form, his ends and purpose are confusing and terrible to contemplate.

Earnst Rodimer is maybe the most dangerous man in the world. Psychologically shattered, insane, possessed of conflicting souls and destinies, driven into a mad killing spree. He’s coming for Boris and Vivian, and they don’t even know it yet.

Mrs. Aberdeen Vole runs an orphanage from which thirty-eight children have been adopted by the same, fictional couple, and then never heard from again. Her control of destruction and magic seems like an iceberg in nature, its limits unknown and hiding beneath her wizened skin. For now, she’s not allowing Boris or Vivian to move, trapping them like flies in honey.

Greg, or according to his arm tattoos, Moriarty Holmes, those seals of loyalty gleaming on his wrists, was an accident. When Arthur attempted to draw a destined soul out from a special book, he picked up the wrong book, cracking under the stresses of the moment, cramming an amalgamation of good and evil, forming a mind dripping with dangerous possibility, which Greg has probably already considered, and much more besides.

Then, there’s Merlin, the old man who came upon the unlucky Arthur in the night, only to find he’d taken him away right before assassination brought a conclusion to the plots of many and hopes of few.

There’s a lot going on, and knives are being sharpened. Minds are planning, and danger is coming from the North in the black night. The round table seats four, and the rickshaw is mostly broken.

Death is coming. Fate is coming. Destinies are drawing their blades, assembling their guns, gathering to a great game of who drops last?

Chapter Three Preview:

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 19:37:00 -0400

Arthur

After a few minutes of this, he spoke.

“Hello. What the bleeding fucking fuck is fucking going on?”

Arthur awakens, Gregory is born.

Thu, 05 Apr 2012 22:02:00 -0400

Arthur

Camelot

Present Day

Word Count: 888

I was reading the book in my dream when the whole of it starting to shake, an unsteady back-and-forth like something violent and without a real pattern to it. Then, I came awake, and there was that man from before, his strong arms outstretched on my shoulders, tugging at me.

“Oy, what do you want?”

“Old man!” he called out over his shoulder, “Kid’s up!”

“Good, we have much to do and to discus. Lead him round to the room I showed you earlier!” That was Merlin, and a deluge of memories flooded back into my head.

“Come on, Arthur,” said the man. Hector. His name was Hector.

“Right, right,” I replied getting up and following him to a dingy room with a small circular table. Oh, Christ.

“Let me guess,” I said poignantly to Merlin, who was sitting at the far end of it, “The round table, right?”

“Indeed,” the old man replied. I went to sit down when he cried out sharply, “No! Arthur! Stop!” I halted.

“What, I thought you wanted me to sit down?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong now?” Hector chimed in.

Merlin looked sternly from Hector to me. “What’s wrong is, even when the table is in this form, a seat is reserved for the Siege Perilous.”

“What are you talking about, Merl,” Hector said.

“Merlin. And what I’m talking about is that if, since you only seem to understand the most pugnacious and rudimentary of explanations, is that seat will kill anyone who isn’t meant to sit in it.”

“Then why is it in here?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why don’t we put it somewhere else?” I said.

“I won’t even dignify that with a response, boy.”

Hector just looked blankly.

“Now, the first order of business is for you to add but one more knight to this table. Next, we shall have to begin transforming Camelot.”

“One more knight?” I asked.

“Yes, one more knight. Follow me please,” Merlin said, and then waddled out of a back door.

We followed him into what seemed like a nursing room from a hospital. There was a man on the bed plugged into a respirator. I had no idea what the hell he wanted me to do.

“On the table there are books connected to destiny. Pick one up.”

Hector held back at the door, clearly nervous.

“Why?”

“Because you will need them, boy, now pick one.”

“But I can’t see anything!”

“It doesn’t matter, pick one!”

So I choose, feeling around the side-table in the dark.

“Now,” Merlin continued, “touch the sleeper’s hand.”

“I don’t understand, and I won’t do anything until I do.”

“This man is the shell of a destined soul, with the soul ripped out.” I had no idea what that meant. Hector spoke up then.

“So you want to put another soul into him in order to increase our numbers?” I whirled.

“How the fuck does he know what’s going on, and I don’t!”

Merlin replied, “You were sleeping.” Dammit, whatever. I touched his wrist.

Curls of light riled across his wrists, as had mine when I absorbed excalibur. Then my tattoos, the ones on my wrists - which sadly I had forgotten about - also began to glow until my whole chest was lit up.

Then I felt the world tear apart as emblazoned on the arms of the the man in the bed formed into art and words and glowed.

It read: The Royal Tactician, Sir Moriarty Holmes.

“Oh…well then, can’t say I saw that coming,” cursed Merlin.

“What just happened?” I yelled, still feeling the world passing through me into the sleeping man.

“It appears that you picked up the wrong book.”

“How could I pick up the wrong fucking book?” I yelled.

“I was reading the works of Arthur Doyle…and,” Merlin was stammering.

“And what?”

“And, well, this can only work with a book that is in some way prophetic. I had no idea Doyle was sensing the future.”

Then, weirdly, Hector spoke, “Maybe it’s prophetic only by the virtue of this mistake. Maybe it was just a book until you idiots fucked up and made it real.”

“That would appear to be the case, my new comrades.” I looked around the room. I didn’t recognize the voice.

I turned back to the bed. Sitting up there was a man that looked nothing like the one who had been there before.

Evil glints caught in his eyes while a true goodness played across his features and in the kind set of his features. He was at once tall with dark hair and an aquiline nose.

He looked nothing like the man who had been there a moment ago.

“Gregory, is that you,” Merlin spoke, in a tone I’d never heard him use before. Then again, we hadn’t met until this evening.

“In a sense, my friend,” a fiendish lightheartedness played across his face. “In a very broad sense.” Something about the way he said that sent chills up my spine, just as it made me trust him implicitly.

“Well, fuck me,” Hector said.

Those eyes turned on me. “I see by your features that you are twenty-two, blond, a virgin, and the rightful king of England.”

“Oh god,” said Merlin.

“Quite,” said the tactician, Moriarty Holmes. “Call me Greg.”

END OF CHAPTER 2

Intermission part 4: The Death of Gregory

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 21:46:00 -0400

Gregory

Drinking too much Jane Austin is what did me in. There is a certain kind of haunting that only recollection can bring. That’s what happened to me. Fate dogged me until I couldn’t give a damn what happened, like when a chum is trying to do something you don’t like, you say so, and they keep rephrasing it until you can’t get yourself to care anymore. That’s what happened to me, and I knew what was going on. I’d say I have some kind of reverse Alzheimer’s, the insinuation of true memories of things that never happened cropping up all over my thoughts.

I worked at a grocery because I was old -no, that’s not it. It was because my age made me tired; I was just too tired to justify and tell myself that in my retirement I should keep on working. I needed something that would pass the time, and the chump money they promised at the end of every week was enough to make me feel like I had done something.

I was standing there lost in my own thoughts, scanning the bar code of item after item when I first realized that I was reminiscing about something that hadn’t happened. I remembered being part of a book club. It was called Dynasty or League or some other shitty words used to trick guys with too much time into thinking they could be a part of something.

I remembered reading classical stuff, stuff I don’t even like, looking bored at every meeting, telling myself every week that I should read the book and contribute to the conversation, feeling guilty after, and then getting kicked out. It was me and this other guy, he’s going to be important in a bit, and without talking we had developed this weird contest where every time he took a drink I had to lean over to the table and take a drink. I can’t really remember how it started, but after a while we were both really drunk. They asked us to leave; then they told us to go.

Then the arrogant bastards threw us out and told me never to come back. I can’t remember what they said to the other guy because I didn’t care at the time. You see, that’s how thorough these facades were. I specifically remember trying and failing to remember specific things.

So me and the other fellow are standing there when he says, “Hello, would you like to get a drink?” I gave him a look, because he was older, older than me, and I didn’t swing that way. He seemed to understand, said, “To commiserate our loss, nothing more,” and laughed.

He seemed a friendly enough chap, and I’ve always been of the opinion that if you are drunk, you might as well go the whole bleeding way. That’s how we did it in the war.

So, there I was, standing at this counter, and shook myself. I’d heard of similar collapses of the brain happen to my friends, those that were still alive, and must have gone very pale because a manager came over and let me off the hook for the day. I went home, a ramshackle house off Brixton, called my doctor, and saw him the very next day.

He’s a cheery old thing, and after a week of testing told me cheerily that nothing was wrong. I was fit as a fiddle, he said. Can you believe someone actually said that? So, back to my home with the shabby carpets, old pictures, uniforms, and untidy mess of things.

I sat down to watch some Football in a couch so familiar to me that it was popping springs and standing, quite literally, on its last legs. I reached over for the remote and realized I was doing it again.

The fellow from the book club and me got real chummy and introduced ourselves while we sat on musty benches in a booth and slowly disappeared a couple of pints. He said, “My name is Merlin. Your name?” I thought that was pretty funny, so I snorted and said…

“Ulfius.” He smiled wide, and his beard hair stretched across his face like some kind of beast of prickly pray. Now, I had meant to say ‘Victoria,’ which would have been funny given the context of anybody introducing themselves as Merlin. My name is Gregory Phillips. I blushed, which is hard for an old man to do and realize he is doing. “Sorry,” I tried, “Gregory, call me Greg.”

After a bit of a silence I asked, “Is your name really Merlin?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Spelled M-E-R-L-I-N,” I pressed.

“Yes.”

“Prove it, mate, and drinks are on me.” I didn’t expect him to prove it. I noticed that the prices of his drinks went up from that point onward and, despite that, we got along famously.

We started spending time with one another. Sometimes I would go over his place and he and - I snapped out of it for a second and looked at the remote. I decided to keep digging. A girl he called his apprentice - can you believe that, the old coot - used to drink and talk.

The memories at that point came in a flood.

After a few months of regularly meeting up to chew the fat (these meetings occurring when the book club used to be scheduled) he pulled me aside one day at his place. He asked me to sit, which was oddly serious for him, and also asked his apprentice to go out for a bit. I’d never seen her out of the house before, and that’s when the fact that something was really up came crashing down.

“What’s wrong, Merly?” I had taken to calling him Merly, which he constantly objected to.

“Don’t call me that,” he said.

“But seriously, what’s wrong? You taken by the gloom?”

“In a sense, depending on what you make of gloom, that happened a long, long time ago.” His expression seemed old, even to me, who judged the world constantly as young, new, and frivolous.

This is when things became off, a little. As I sat on my couch, the memories became more a of a dream, a cinema of events, with Merlin and the ambient sounds of his flat happening in my head and me speaking and talking to him from the couch. It was as if I was participating in a memory, making something that already existed.

“What’s all this, you’re not dying are you? Oh, is this about the bet on Madrid because-” I stopped speaking. I was saying these things there, where I was sitting, in my home. My own voice had startled me.

I learned to be brave in my past, and with a harder heart I went back in.

“No, it’s not about the bet, Greg,” Merlin said.

“What is it then?” I handled it better this time, intentionally trying to stay calm and keep with the rhythm of the moment.

“It’s time I told you who you are.”

“Who am I then? Because I hope it’s not Merly, ugly guy.” He gave a soft grin that offset those ancient features so strangely that I couldn’t help but study his face with dancing, darting glances as we spoke.

“You are destined, Greg. I’m sorry.”

“Destined to do my laundry sometime,” I joked.

“No Greg, destined.”

“Alright then, what’s destined mean exactly?” I decided he was addled or had drank too much before I came over - you could never tell if Merly had been drinking. “I’ll humour you on this one.”

“There are, as far as you are concerned, two types of people in this world,” he began. “Some have normal souls. They are not meant to do anything in particular, free to swim about in the current of a stream, but bound not to walk on the land. They can do what they want, but cannot alter the course of the stream.” He sniffed and drank some tea.

“Right…”

“Other people are destined. They are the current of the stream, not only bound to the water but crucial to its progression.” He looked at me with a powerful gaze that held mine, “You are from the latter group, Greg.”

“That’s very nice of you,” I said.

“It’s not a compliment,” he snapped, “It’s a bloody fact.” He took a second to calm down. His tone had become pious and heated. “It’s a fact,” he repeated. “Now, some people, usually writers, actually prophetic, sense the way the currents move, write down stories that equate, not necessarily to the time and the place or the person, but to the general story. Therein lies the problem, Greg.”

“And the problem is?” Something about his tone had me hanging on his words, and I just wanted him to keep speaking.

“Let’s say that your counterpart in one of these prophecies kills someone or leads to their death. If someone knew that they were meant to be your victim and had a copy of these writings, what do you suppose they’d do?” he said in a lecturer’s tone.

“They would look at the prophecy and try to find out who I am.”

“Exactly,” he seemed pleased and sad almost at once. “They would try to eliminate you, to shift the currents of destiny in a direction that would favor them or their interests.”

“Are you saying I kill someone?” I asked. I don’t know why, but I believed him, even wanted to believe him.

“You kill a lot of people, but it’s the one you accidentally lead to death that is important.”

“How?”

“You introduce them to me, leading them to conceive a child whose future rise to power necessitates their demise.”

“One action cannot proceed without the previous action in the chain?” I was beginning to understand.

“Not quite. Sometimes exactly that, sometimes things shift, the story changes a little, but the current moves on. Do you remember the name you gave me when we first met?”

I was a little confused, but I remembered that name. It felt righter than my own somehow. “Ulfius.”

“Yes, Ulfius. You do something rather terrible to someone rather powerful,” he said.

“What exactly?”

“You introduce someone to me.” His tone had the finality of death in it that reminded me of the tones that doctors use for patients that aren’t going to be okay.

“Can you help me, old friend?” Merly had become my best friend in life. After we had met, the pointless trot of my existence had gained meaning, and I wasn’t ready for it to just end. I had a friend, a real one like I hadn’t had a since the last of my squad was shot down by Germans.

“In a way,” he looked away.

“Are you crying?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because no one’s dying!” I said. He looked at me again, then looked away, studying the carpet.

“No, you can’t mean that!”

“He’s found you, Greg. The man you introduce me to has found you and is going to come for you and end you.”

“I’ll end him first then!”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?” I demanded. “I’ll go and I’ll hide.”

“Because you are destined. If left alive, you will eventually fulfill that destiny. They will never stop searching you out, my friend.” He leaned over and put a hand on my shoulder, and for no other reason than that I trusted Merly with my life, I believed him.

My heart sank deep down and into my couch, like a led brick. I blotted out my feelings; I didn’t want to have them right now.

“I want the man who will do this to me, Merly,” I said.

“He’s a terrible, selfish man, Greg.”

“But I’ll be dead, how can I get him?” I asked. “Could I approach him for our meeting, the predetermined one where I introduce him to you, and then take him out?” I thought it would work.

“No,” he wiped his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll just end up spending the rest of your time rotting in prison, or at least another interested party will come after you. There’s no way out. I’ve tried these many months to think of one, and I can’t, Greg. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t look at me, nor I at him. He blinked and slapped his knee. “But I promise you this, Greg. You’ll get him. I swear that your hand shall be the one to destroy him.”

“And how many more like me will that save?”

“A few hundred, potentially.”

“And if I run?”

“Then I can’t make you that promise.” His tone was flat.

“Fine, what should I do?”

“Go home, Greg. Just go home.” He was staring out the window behind me. The first droplets of rain long coming pelted the glass.

So, without saying another word or looking back, I went. I marched out the building, hailed a cab, rode home, opened my door, and the sight there before me was horrifying but all too right.

There I was, sitting on the couch, remembering this very moment.

I walked over and sat next to myself, looking at my bald scalp and war scars, and remembering within the memory. I relished the time I had, staring about the room with all those trinkets collected over my past. I felt satisfied. It had been a good life.

I opened my real eyes.

There was a man with a gun in front of me, pressing it against my head. I noticed that the metal of the muzzle was warm and wondered how long the other man had been there with me, just like that, waiting for my eyes to open.

He said, “I am the rock, and I cannot feel…” as if singing, crooning to himself.

“Yeah, well, that’s fantastic for you,” I said. He looked at me oddly for a second, then did what he had come to do.

I felt a small tap on my forehead, and everything went black as I cried out the only thing I could think of: Merly!

Morgose

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 19:11:00 -0400

Morgose: Do you think he'll try to interfere?
Screen 1: The tool become the workman.
Screen 2: Must be kept the worm.
Morgose: Stop that.
Screen 1 and 2: Very well.
Morgose: Do you think we're going to have to go to war?
Screen 1: A war betwixt Goruiren and Morgosetec could set things back years.
Screen 2: Would it be preferable for us to attack first?
Morgose: No. If we can neutralize The Once and Future King now we may be able to-
Screen 1 and 2: Too late. Too late. Fate lines are wrapping faster and faster.
Morgose: We've spent seven decades working against it. We made Goruiren just so Uthor could take control.
Screen 1 and 2: We have killed more then two-hundred destined.
Morgose: That has to allow us to vary the predetermined lines.
Screen 1: Once the lines were tight and we were destined to die.
Morgose: Arthur's rise necessitates Uthor's death.
Screen 2: The accidental murderer. Killing because he was born.
Morgose: It would not have been a problem if not for Merlin's apprentice, ferrying all those children away.
Screen 1: We have not discovered who the apprentice is yet?
Morgose: We can't even find the old man.
Screen 1 and 2: Processing complete. We should wait and see Uthor's hand first.
Morgose: What if he attempts to destroy us.
Screen 1 and 2: Then we send Mordred out early.
Morgose: My son isn't ready.
Screen 2: Then you'd better get him ready.
Screen 1: I must agree with the sentiment.
Morgose: You idiots are advisors, nothing more, and if you do not wish to be reduced to nothing, then by Avalos, you had better not speak another word about my son.
Screen 1 and 2: Our son.
Morgose: My son. Goodbye.
LOGOFF: MORGOSEFLOWERGIRL
Screen 1: Her motherhood clouds her judgement.
Screen 2: We'll have to rethink things, variables have shifted.
Screen 1: Perhaps Arthur's rise has caused this sudden change.
Screen 2: If anything has actually changed.
Screen 1: True.

Model 500

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 18:19:00 -0400

Hector

I checked for my guns. The old man was out doing something, I didn’t care what, and I always liked to be prepared.

There are five in all, barrels wearing on my hands with their calming, cold touch. These are my family and friends. I don’t have people over for dinner, but I do have a weapons locker, and across the street is a shooting range.

It hit me: I’d never see those things again. I’d never have my life again; now it was someone else’s life, and I had to live it.

Hell though, this someone else had five beautiful guns. I say this because I wear five holsters under my jacket, three on the left, two on the right, and none at the same level of height, alternating the way down. The last one’s in my…damn, my briefcase, which was gone now. The empty holster pressed hard against my side.

Fine, I was a guy with four guns, an old man, and a magic college kid. I saw a glint of golden light reflect from my wrist - two tattoos. I’d lived my whole life avoiding drugs and all that crap, and I had two tattoos. Damn.

I pulled Molly out. Yes, okay, I name them. Molly is a Model 500 S&W Magnum Revolver. I’m shallow, but she’s the most powerful handgun in the world.

Sleek and heavy and wonderful.

I need help. I am beginning to realize what I’ve done. I need someone to help me, but I’ve never needed anybody in my whole life.

I don’t know what to do. I stroke Molly and put her away.

Arthur's Dream

Tue, 03 Apr 2012 05:41:00 -0400

He was reading.

He stood, a man centered in an army’s row,

the center stage and arms to show,

those Saxon dogs whose bloody boss,

to toss them out on boxed up ears,

fleeing fields, trailed by tears.

Yes, this man was anointed, king of all,

England would harken, heed his call,

“To Arms! To Arms! Good soldiering men,

and women, children, there again,

I say to Arms, and arm you shall

bear weapons upon each person,

stop!

Do not dwell, for I am Arthur,

king of all, and they don’t have

the wherewithal to stand and say

they came to conquer England here this day!

Nay, these fakers, frauds, and shams,

couldn’t stand up to English curses! Damn

your bloody useless carts,

they’ll look good burned, broken apart,

we shall, like bloodhounds, hunt down your supplies,

and it shall not be a surprise,

that we will burn them, one and all,

to spite this glorious year of famine,

Ha,

soon to watch the bounty of our crops,

once the thirsty land is drowned

in your dirty Saxon blood!”

The curdling rush, the faces flush

and full of life each man and wife

for this was the appointed day

where all these men would go to slay

the pillagers who had even dared

to trample grasses not their own,

for these people would defend their home.