Chapter One: The Sands of Sorrow -Part Three-

Dhalryk's stupor was shattered by the lunging blade of Batoda. There was hardly a moment after Jekka fell before his enemy was off the floor and upon him. Dhalryk parried the rapid stabbings of the Nillian knowing full well that even the tiniest nick would kill him in an instant. Batoda’s body was turned sideways and he held the blade in his right hand, his left trickled blood from the arrow in his shoulder. The attacks were a series of forward thrusts that changed target each time, trying for Dhal's shoulder, belly, leg, and head. Suddenly, he slashed horizontally at neck level. The blade severed the cord of Dhal's white desert cloak, but didn't graze his skin.

Batoda eased up his attack for a moment to see if his strike had found its mark, and Dhalryk seized his opportunity. With the same speed he used to parry the lighter dagger, he slashed viciously and connected with Batoda's right calf muscle. The wizard screamed and dropped to the floor, bringing the dagger down in a stabbing motion as he did. Dhalryk sprang under the blade and to his right. The weapon pierced the fallen cloak where he'd been standing.

Batoda was hobbled. He tried to stand but slipped back to the ground heavily, a look of hatred as he watched Dhal circle him from a safe distance. His breathing was ragged as he spoke.

"You'll join her! Mark me, you will!"

Dhalryk shook his head. “Not today.”

Batoda's eyes were wells of darkness beneath his bushy eyebrows. With tremendous effort he pulled his injured leg in front of him and assumed a lotus position, cross legged on the floor, fingertips from each hand spread and touching. Dhal moved in to strike the sitting man but as he approached the fallen dagger rose from the floor near Batoda and began to float in the air directly in front of him, as if wielded by an invisible assailant. It only hovered for a moment before it lunged.

Dhalryk was back to where he was before, blocking and parrying the fatal red blade, only now, he lacked the ability to read the body language of his attacker. The task was much more difficult and over and over the blade came within centimeters of his skin. A loud hum was beginning to permeate the room. Dhal couldn't spare a full glance, but out of the corners of his eyes he could see violet colored energies starting to flow in fog-like rivulets out of the great ashen stone and towards Batoda.

Dhalryk knew what he had to do. He parried the next attack as hard as he could and turned his back on the floating death. He took the steps of the dais at a run and as he passed the vibrating monolith he smashed into one of the three copper legs holding it up with all his strength. He was almost certain that the dagger would land in his back before he had a chance to wheel around and parry; but he needed to destroy that stone, even at the cost of his life.

The old leg, tarnished green, and worn from the ages of sand, broke easily under the impact. Dhal fell down the steps of the dais and rolled onto his back ready to defend himself. As the ancient stone fell it intersected with the blade that was a hairs breadth behind him and brought it crashing to the ground with it. As the gray monolith crumbled and shattered down the grooved onyx steps it released a bright purple light. The wild energy surged out of its cracked remains uncontrollably. Fierce winds spun around the room, surging to be free of the tower's confines. Sand stung his eyes and the gale carried small stones and sparks within it. Dhalryk struggled to his feet against the dervish and raised his sword.

Batoda was still sitting, being buffeted by the tempest of sand, wind, and color. His murderous hands left red streaks as he clutched his bald head and wailed at Dhalryk.

"Do you even know what it is you've done? Do you? You have no idea what you've released!" His eyes, often hidden, were wide with terror as Dhal approached his with a raised sword.

"I know you've killed Jekka. That's all I need to know." The blade descended and Batoda was no more.

_____________________________________

The conclusion of Chapter One arrives next Thursday!  Missed the beginning?  Check out the Writing tab for earlier parts.

The What and Why of Me and The Horsemen

A lot of you know me as a horror writer.  Oh sure, I've mentioned that I do sci-fi and fantasy as well, but it's not what people generally associate me with.  I'm also fairly close to finishing up my collection of short horror stories, Nest of Scars.  So finding out that I'm writing for an afro-centric comic book might come as a bit of surprise.  Here's why.

Horsemen hits a whole bunch of my biggest buttons.  Button one, comic book settings are often an awesome hybrid of pseudo sci-fi worlds with iconic, somewhat mythological, archetype characters.  I like that blend of fantasy and futurism.  Horsemen is heavy on the mythos part of things so it lands squarely in my comfort zone.  These aren't normal heroes, they're normal people imbued with the powers of literal gods.  Very fantasy. 

The world setting is a technologically advanced near-future where Africa has gotten its act together and has become the "New Frontier" and people are fleeing the dying American superpower.  For a long time the world saw America as the last frontier; the place you went to for hope and opportunity.  In the world of the Horsemen, this dynamic has been upset.  From an authors point of view it's a fantastic platform for looking at globalization, post affluence American identity, and the direction and purpose of governance.

I've had several "raised eyebrows" that I'm writing for Griot.  Sort of a "shouldn't you be black?" undertone.  I mean, what could I possibly know about writing a series of all black characters?  My response, generally, to this sort of thinking it as follows;: that's a load of crap.  It's insulting to my creativity, empathy, and makes gross assumptions about my life experiences.  Black characters are fun to write.  There's a degree of complexity in empowered black characters that is engaging and interesting.  It's part of the appeal of writing Horsemen, another button.  Thankfully, the "wtf" response has been limited so I haven't had to slap anyone.  Yet.

So that's why I'm writing.  Here's what I'm writing.

Those are the Deitis.  They're gods who represent things like War, Religion, Lust, etc... Ages ago, there were tons of them and they were bad news for everyone.  The Orisha, humans transcended to a god-like equivalent,  whooped their asses, defeated them, thought they were dead, and then left the world godless so it could choose its own fate.  But these Deitis weren't dead.  These ones survived, hid long enough to see the coast was clear, and have been messing with humanity ever since.  Now the the spirits of the Orisha have returned and empowered a normal human family to combat them.  These are The Horsemen.  That's the general shape of the comic.

Here's where I come in.

In the centuries that the Deitis have been around they've managed to accumulate a fair number of bastard children.  Born of the gods they're fairly powerful but are usually unaware of each other, causing them to be no real threat.  Not anymore.  These bastard children are tired of living in their parents shadows in the slow rotting American empire.  They've set their sights on the new horizon.  They're going to the African Union and only the Horsemen stand in their way.  Ready or not, the Cloven are coming!

Eight stories, released monthly, one for each of the seven Horsemen all leading up to a climactic eighth part finale.  Here's the schedule.

• Yemaya's Chapter - November 1st, 2013
• Ogun's Chapter - December 6th
• Oshun's Chapter - January 3rd, 2014
• Eshu's Chapter -  February 7th
• Oya's Chapter - March 7th
• Shango's Chapter - April 4th
• Obatala's Chapter - May 2nd
• Grand Finale - June 6th

November is a way off but I'll keep you filled in on details as they go and Jiba will tease us with character sketches and tid-bits.  I'm also planning on doing live pre-release readings over the summer.  It's going to be a hell of a lot of fun! 

Chapter 1: The Sands of Sorrow-Part 2-

The onyx floors of the landing were scratched rough by the countless battles with the invading sands.  Dhalryk cautiously approached the weathered balcony door while Jekka coiled the rope and returned it to her satchel.  At his feet, Dhalryk noticed an arc pattern in the sand at the base of the doorway.  He drew a yard of steel from its scabbard and hissed to Jekka quietly.

"We are too late."

Jekka's face clouded with concern and she removed a bow from her shoulder and notched an arrow.  Dhalryk glanced to see that she was ready and took hold of the door.  He braced his legs and opened it quickly, his hand immediately returning to his weapon.

The scene that met Dhalryk's eyes was not what he had anticipated.  They had know that Batoda and his chosen seven were seeking the same goal.  They knew now that the Nillian had beaten them too it.  Dhalryk was prepared to face them all, even to the death, when he opened the door.  Now, this seemed unnecessary.

Scattered around the room, the bodies of the chosen rested in horrible wet stillness.  Bright, flesh blood colored their drab acolyte tunics.  The room was aglow with light streaming in from ceiling damage.  These gaps illuminated every mote of dust and left crack shaped splotches of white on the floor beneath.  The room was dominated by a large tiered pedestal that featured a great ashen crystal.  This stone centerpiece vaguely resembled the shape of a man.  It was held upright by a large copper ring around its middle supported by three tarnished legs of the same material.

It was before this crystal that Batoda stood, still holding the pair of serpentine daggers he had murdered his own chosen acolytes with.  Dhalryk heard Jekka's bowstring creak behind him, raised his own weapon, and stepped into the room.  The Nillian heard Dhal's steps and turned around to reveal his robes dirtied by his crimes.  He laid both daggers on his chest, crossing them, and spoke.

"You must know that your only hope was to arrive here first."  He glanced at the bodies of his dead minions from under bushy eyebrows.  "You have not."

Dhalryk adjusted his sword and felt sweat on the leather grip.  "I can't let you Batoda.  If allow this then it's my fault.  I'll not live with that."  Batoda continued to look at his dead companions.

"Do you know that I poisoned them?  For months.  They took it willingly."  He smiled at their loyalty. 

"Back away from the stone." said Dhalryk.

"It isn't what killed them though.  I killed them with these."  He raised the two bloody serrated daggers above him.  "Do you know why I killed them now?  When every single one of them would have given their life to protect me?"

"Because you're mad!" snapped Jekka, and released an arrow.  Batoda lurched to his left.  The shaft missed its mark but found a home in his shoulder.  He dropped to a knee and hurled one of the daggers as he did.  Jekka was already moving but the ill thrown blade was lucky and managed a scrape just above her boot.

"No, fool!  Because I was harvesting the poisons!" cried Batoda.

Dhalryk watched in horror as she crashed to the floor with the slap of skin on stone and lay as dead as the other corpses littering the room.

_________________________

The Sands of Sorrow - Part 3 coming Next Week!

Image Inspired Mini Story #17

"You knew it was going to be like this."

Spoken aloud, to himself, the words seemed even more empty and brought little comfort.  Tiny things, muffled by plastic, glass, and thousands of pounds of water overhead.  He'd forgotten how it was a bad idea to speak.  How it was a reminder that nobody would be answering.  That they were gone and he was...

Damn it!  He cursed himself silently.  He was doing it again.  Time to get up, to focus on the task at hand and occupy his mind with other things.

He strode through the wide glass hallway, walking on the scintillating patterns the light, strained through the water, left on the ground.  He walked on the shadows of fish.  He checked the airlocks one at a time, first flooding them, then re-pressurizing with forced air.  The pumps were good.  The seals were good.  The same as yesterday.

He took some readings on the bacterial growth on the bio-filters, ensured they were rotating in and out of the water properly, and that the fans were functional.  Air was good.  He didn't need readings on the algae food processors.  Simply looking at the thin layers of green being scraped into the processor told him that it was working fine.  Same with the plankton tanks.  Food was good.

It was time to send Roscoe up to the surface.  He released the automated submersible and watched it go.  Three hours before it would get back.  He busied himself by doing the weekly maintenance on Roxanne, Roscoe's counterpart.  Next time she would go and Roscoe would be serviced.

He would do these things over and over, until the day that one of them came back with low enough radiation.  He hoped it would be within his lifetime.

Finished with time to spare, he sat for a while, looking out into the vast blue blur, eyes unfocused.  He was having a bad day.  Couldn't shake the feeling.

He decided to check on them.

This was one task he didn't do often.  There was always a risk when opening the chamber and he didn't like risks.  There was far too much at stake.  But sometimes he just had to do it.  There was no reason for it mechanically.  He justified it as maintenance for his mind.

Putting on the winter parka, goggles, and gloves he entered the access code that opened up the pressure core.  It was darker in here, among the rows of tubes, no natural light.  The tanks, hundreds of them, each glowed faintly.  He walked down the hallway, his breath puffing in the cold air, ignoring the glass cylinders until he came to an intersection and turned right.

A metal plate on the wall simply read: Homo Sapiens.

Here he stopped, gazing into the first tank.  In the center hung a tiny embryo the size of a marble.  He went from tank to tank, visiting them.  Looking at the tiny faces, the miniscule nubs that would be arms and legs.  The pinprick dots of eyes.

When it was time for Roscoe to return he left, took off the cold gear, and re-sealed the arc.  For the thousandth time he hoped the readings were good, knowing the chance was impossible.  He rubbed his eyes.

"You knew it was going to be like this."

Chapter 1: The Sands of Sorrow-Part 1-

The Cheytagaroth Empire died with the thunder and left her ruins to languish for centuries.  Her cities had long since become playthings of time to be buried by sand and excavated by wind.  Over and over the hourglass tide washed the dead shore.  Mighty Cheytagaroth was dead and gone, her soldiers very skeletons ground to dust and mingled with the wild breezes. All that remained was her cities, her magnificent cities, still reaching for the heavens.  The ruinous tombs of a nation left standing in once fertile fields that had long ago devolved into deserts and hungry dunes.  When the wind blew just right the sands parted and the palace of the old Sorcerates was revealed for a time, or perhaps centuries dried Aquiary of Venoms, or the famous statue of Dekandis the Wicked.  Only briefly did these ancient structures emerge from the ever changing sea of sand.  All things were eventually re‑shrouded in grit and hidden again from the eyes of the sun.

It was across this wasteland, where every footstep trod upon the buried history of a long dead people, that Dhalryk Morvellum and Jekka DuRell traveled.  Burdened and horseless they walked onward, mouths shut to avoid the heat that could evaporate water straight from their tongues. Dhalryk looked ahead, eyes straining against the heat distortion and brutal glare.  He looked at Jekka and pointed ahead.  She nodded and they continued.  Ahead lay the top of a tower, buried in the sands save for the last few floors.  Slowly, with tired legs dragging, they made their way to it.  The dune that engulfed the tower was angled and, although the tower was straight, the strange tilt of the ground made it appear to lean awkwardly to the left.  They reached its base and moved into the first shade they'd felt since sunrise.

They sat panting for a while, enjoying the feeling of coolness on their skin.   Jekka's voice cracked when she spoke.  "Can you feel it?"

  

Dhalryk nodded and uncorked a bottle of water.  He took a small drink, rolled it around in his mouth, swallowed, and replied.  "Yes, I can."  He offered Jekka the bottle and she repeated his actions for herself.

  

"Do you think they feel it too?"

Dhalryk nodded.  "I'm sure.  Probably better than we do."  Jekka squinted up at the tower and un‑slung her pack to remove a rope and grapple.

"Then we've little time to spare."

Dhalryk nodded, put the water away and watched her deftly fasten a line to the roof balcony.  Together they hauled their tired bodies up the rope and into the long abandoned Citadel of Keeping.

_____________________________________________________

To be Continued in Chapter 1: The Sands of Sorrow - Part 2

Emerald's BalmPrologue: The Delivery

Celedar Dell crested the lip of the frozen valley, a glistening bowl of white, and looked to the city of Secres in the center of it all. Icy wind blasted his eyes and tossed his golden hair around frantically. Despite the bitter cold, he took a moment to gaze upon the wonder below. From this vantage, the patterns of the protective glyphs were visible.  Each massive symbol was defined within the main thoroughfares.  Three immense runes were made of roadways: the middle glyph inside the largest, and the smallest within the middle. Eighteen towers dominated the other buildings and stood situated on the intersections of these giant symbols, each lending and amplifying the powers of the inner patterns, and, specifically, the castle at the very center of it all.  The entire city was a sort of magical battery, focused on building energy toward this elaborate goal.

Celedar was proud of his home, but not so proud as to freeze from the cold in his reverie upon beholding it. He concentrated, and his fingertips shifted to a blue color.  Winter's bite receded, and he began to run down into the valley, seemingly weightless across the surface of the deep snow.

There was no barricade guarding Secres city from invaders or the icy weather outside, only a small stone wall made of rock and rubble. It looked very much like the sort of thing a farmer would use to pen sheep, with the exception that every single stone was enchanted.  Each had some particularity to it, being either covered with tiny letters or glowing symbols, or embedded with jewels. Celedar stopped at this small barrier, whispered a few words, and stepped over it and into the warm summer air that filled the City of Mages.

Inside, he no longer ran, but retained purpose in his stride. He passed one of the outer towers, Moongleam, but could only see a vague crystalline shape of it in the noonday sun. It emitted the sound of wind-chimes, playing an old song he knew. He crossed the bustling merchants' square, ducking to avoid the suspended goods and merchandise hanging here and there. He narrowly avoided colliding with a woman walking a half-dozen cats on leashes.  He did not see the center glyph tower of Black Necros as he passed near it, but the hair stood up on his neck, and his head ached until he crossed the Entspine Bridge over the Estery River.  He moved deep into the city to where he could see three of the inner six towers. Though they all looked identical, it was toward Tor Larchim he headed.

The edifice was simple enough, light grey stone perhaps thirty stories high. Its roof was domed with a glass encasing that had a distinct green glow at night. Each of the six inner glyph towers were exactly the same, with the exception of the color of their glass under starlight. Together they formed the most important symbol and were ruled by the six lords of the council.

Without hesitation, Celedar walked up to the main door and pulled on a small chain (which in turn triggered a bigger chain that released a hammer to collide with an even larger gong) to ring the doorbell. After a moment, the great stone door melted to vapors and vanished. Celedar entered and followed a circuitous route unerringly to the tower library. The building was quite bright inside, despite the lack of windows. Many of the stones had been enchanted to allow sunlight to stream through them. When Celedar entered the library, he saw a man looking out one of these thick granite blocks at the city below.

His hair was an ashen color and his deep green robes were well-worn and should have been replaced with newer clothing. He was aged, on the cusp of elderly, but still stood with strength.  The left side of his face was concealed by an elaborate silk veil that hung from a black iron circlet.  This circlet was adorned with seven multicolored gemstones the size of a man's thumbnail. Iron tracings curled decoratively down from the metal and held the fabric in place. He turned and looked at Celedar with a single eye.

"Well, Mr. Dell, do not stand there.  Let me see them." He reached out a hand expectantly.

Celedar unhitched his pack and opened it. "It was no easy task, Sir Dhalryk. The Blisten left many an abomination in their old temple. But they were where you said they'd be." Celedar pulled out several thick books, bound in cracked leather and dust, and handed them to Dhalryk. "Are they powerful?"

Dhalryk raised his eyebrow and gave the man a half visible smile. "Not in the way you're thinking. They are my old diaries."
 

Celedar stared at Dhalryk in confusion, followed quickly by anger.

"But I assumed they were important tomes! You sent me to the ruins of Y'mir and the Ebon Temple of Blisten for your old diaries?" 

Dhalryk slid several of the books onto one of the library shelves.  "They are important to me Celedar.  I very much appreciate what you've done." 

Celedar fell back into a chair and ran fingers through his golden hair.   "You've no idea how difficult... the things, they were..."
 

"Yes, yes." interrupted Dhalryk.  "I was aware of the challenges.  I had every confidence in you and, look, you performed exceptionally!"
 

"But..."
 

Dhalyrk took a seat across from Celedar, a book still in his hands, and looked at his frustrated companion. "I'll tell you what. I believe you might feel better if you knew what was in them.  This is the first, and I was a very young man."

Without waiting for an answer, Dhalryk began to read.

_________________________________________________

Continued in Chapter 1: The Sands of Sorrow -Part 1-

Image Inspired Mini Story #16

"Your mask.  It is unnecessary," whispered Ellise.  "I know what I've agreed to."

Her speech was barely audible, a mere mutter, despite the fact that her captor stood across the chamber, past the smouldering embers of the fireplace and out on the cold balcony.  He would hear her.

The toothy skull that covered his head did not move as he responded. A thick voice echoed from the hollow bone.  "No.  You do not."

He turned from the broken landscape and came inside.  He was naked despite the chill, pale, and the dark hair that flowed from beneath the mask dribbled a slick oily substance.  The fluid smelled rotten and slithered around his body on its way down.

Ellise didn't look at him.  "Do not take me for a fool.  I am as old as you are. I know what I've sacrificed."

He took her wrist and turned her around to face him.  "So you know the answer, then?"

She pulled her arm back, a black stain marring the skin where he'd touched her.  Her eyes locked on the shadow alcoves of the mask, with her face set in angry determination.

He chuckled. "You don't."

Ellise clenched her fists.  "I know that you've released innocent souls in exchange for me.  That is all I need to know."

He stepped in close and put his face near her ear.  "You're not at all worried?  None can say what happens when angels die."

"We are taken to the bosom of the Father.  I am certain."

Slowly, he slid his arms around her, leaving dark smudges on her feather dress.  She didn't resist.  His body bent strangely, and his head tilted back to accommodate the bone skull.  She was surprised how tender his flesh was, mushy and un-muscled.  He held her still and whispered. "If that were the case, don't you think we would have killed ourselves?"

This gave her pause.  He could see a flicker of fear in her eyes.  It was intoxicating.

"No.  It's different.  We're not the same... we're..."

He tilted her back, luxuriating in her doubt.  Her body loosened, slid, and trickled away in his grip.  Her unfinished words bubbled on her lips.

"Then go sister.  Go and see."

She slipped, faded, and

Website is up!

So, I've finally got www.judemire.com up and running!

But big deal, right?  I mean, what does it do?  Does it do anything?  Does it know any tricks?

Okay, that's a fair question.  For the most part, it's a hub.  Hub's aren't so tricky.  There's not a lot of flash and dazzle, or even content, on the webpage itself.  It's not there for that.  Think of it as the glue that sticks all my online stuff together.  From here you can see what I'm up to everywhere else.  Everywhere else is where the action is.

Every Monday is an image inspired mini-story.  Either on my blog here or audio versions on YouTube.  Mini-stories are short scenes, fragments really, of stories that are pulled from some image I found online and got inspired by.  They vary wildly from genre to genre, or might not even be genre at all.  Funny, serious, action, creepy... They're all over the map and lots of fun to write.

Wednesday is my weekly photography experiment.  No idea where this is going to lead.  Again, pictures that inspire me and why.

I'm resuming my long neglected fantasy series, The Sundered Veil, as a weekly serial story.  It's a world of swords and sorcery and follows the progression of a reckless young warrior through his being disfigured and turning to a life of magic.  Every Thursday, expect strange worlds and weekly cliffhangers.

I'll be posting pics on my tumblr, tweeting story quotes, sharing interesting content from authors/friends I know, and blogging about anything I feel like.

I'll also be keeping everyone posted on the progress of my two main projects; writing a series of mythological super-hero stories for Griot Enterprises series, The Horsemen, and finishing up the last story in my horror anthology, Nest of Scars.

One thing the webpage will do is let you know what readings I'm planning on attending so you can come out and hear me in person if you're so inclined. 

I might even buy you a drink if you do.