Behind the Scenes of "Ginger & Klaus: Of Mice and Love"

 Hello, family, fans, and friends!

With the successful release of "Ginger & Klaus: A Brittle Liberty" back in July and the upcoming release of "Ginger & Klaus: The Turkey Trot Plot," I thought it would be fun to share some facts about the second and third books.  I believe that some of these are interesting, some are funny, and some are just plain weird.  Here we go!

I. Ginger & Klaus: Of Mice and Love

• The book's subtitle was nearly "The Elusive Valentine." I felt that was a little too magniloquent, so I spent some time thinking of an alternative subtitle.  At the time, my wife was reading "Of Mice and Men" by John Steinbeck.  I thought, "Well, my book is about mice and Ginger's love for one mouse in particular...." I decided to go with "Of Mice and Love," as the reference to such a famous work also felt right.  Plus, I knew that Ginger's love would not be reciprocated in the end, whereas Klaus's and Ingrid's love for each other is mutual.

• Originally, I planned for Molasses to fall in love with Agapa.  I changed my mind for two reasons: one, because I believed that the plot would become spread too thin; two, because I liked the idea of Agapa being more of a personification of love and the catalyst for others to fall in love, rather than being one who could find romantic love herself.

• Most of the stories I write are pretty well outlined in advance, but the beginning of chapter two--in which Ginger and Molasses lead the other Cookies of Theo in repairing a bridge--came to me spontaneously.  This was a major decision for me to execute, because I could either continue the micro-view of Ginger, Molasses, and Klaus, or I could expand into a macro-view of the other cookies.  My idea from the beginning has been to write seven books in this series, and I knew that sticking to the micro-view was not feasible.  We need to see how other cookies relate to Mr. Theo in the long run.  I hope to explore certain themes and storylines involving these other cookies in the future.  Are all of them truly Cookies of Theo? Are some among them impostors? Maybe there are some who think they are following Mr. Theo, but they end up turning away, toward their own selfish desires! I think including other cookies opens up many opportunities.

• I juggled the idea of having Agapa sacrifice herself in the almond orchard at the end of the book.  This did not sit right with me, as Agapa was a new character, she seems to be a solid companion for Molasses, and because I had an inkling of an idea that she would one day cause Ginger to fall in love with the right individual (spoilers, kind of, maybe).

• This book was much more challenging to write than "A Christmas Adventure," and not only due to its greater length.  In "A Christmas Adventure," Ginger goes on a quest to stop her brother.  The townspeople are at risk if she does not stop him.  She has a clear enemy and a clear goal, and the stakes are high.  In "Of Mice and Love," there is a little more nuance: the greatest enemy of the story is not Shol or Limerence, but Ginger's own unholy desires; the goal is to reach a location before sundown; only the lives of three mice are on the line.  I also had to convincingly show the growth of Ginger's affection for Klaus in just five chapters!

• King Shol was named thus for two reasons: "Shol" is a minimal pair with "Saul," the corrupt king of Israel immediately preceding David; and "Shol" sounds a lot like the Hebrew "sheol," which is used to refer to "death" or "the grave."

• Agapa was named thus because of the Greek work "agape," which means "love." I ended it with the letter "a" to give the word a more feminine slant.

• Limerence was named thus because of the word's definition in Collins Dictionary: "a state of mind resulting from romantic attraction, characterized by feelings of euphoria, the desire to have one's feelings reciprocated...." Of course, this is Ginger's great struggle in the book. https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/limerence#google_vignette

• In the first book, I had not given names or personalities to any cookies besides Ginger and Molasses (Reinhard the reindeer cookie also makes an appearance, but he was unnamed at the time).  Therefore, I originally portrayed the two cookies who help Molasses lift the window as "gingerbread men." I decided later that I wanted these two "generals" who had served Molasses to be brother and sister, and to have the names "Sugar" and "Clove." The idea was for them to be living examples of what Ginger and Molasses would have looked like had they never been redeemed by Mr. Theo.  Sugar and Clove are "shadow images" of Ginger and Molasses and warnings to them against walking down the wrong path.

• My original plan was to ramp up the action in chapter 4 by having an epic battle take place.  While Ginger, Klaus, Molasses, and Agapa were traveling, they were going to take a rest in a bare area and start a small campfire to keep warm.  Several of King Shol's mice followers were going to jump out from the grass or bushes and attack them.  Molasses was going to fly into a rage and start bashing mice left and right with his mace, and Ginger was going to remind him of his new nature and the dangers of his old life.  As I went into chapter four, however, it did not seem logical for King Shol to lure Klaus to a yard and also command his followers to kill Klaus on the road.  I figured that Shol would prefer Klaus to waste away or be made a spectacle for his insurrection.  Also, I thought it a better idea to highlight Ginger's shortcomings this time around as opposed to Molasses's flaws; having Molasses go berserk and be chided by Ginger would not help accomplish that goal.  Instead, I flipped my original idea on its head and had Molasses chide Ginger for falling in love with Klaus.  I also decided that it was better to revisit the sneaky Cupid cookie who had attacked Ginger at the end of chapter 1, thereby reinforcing this as a Valentine's Day story and giving the new villain a face and a name.

II. Ginger & Klaus: A Brittle Liberty

• The book was almost titled “A Brittle Independence,” but I thought the tongue twister of “A Brittle Liberty” was too much fun to pass up.  Also, the words “brittle” and “liberty” are almost anagrams!

• I had an inner debate as to whether Sugar or Clove would die at the end.  I felt that Clove was a bit more unhinged, and that he would be a more dangerous antagonist in the future if his sister were to be killed, so I decided that it would be best for Sugar to die.  I also have other ideas with Clove and how Molasses relates to him.

• In 2019, singer and songwriter Marty Sampson—former singer of Hillsong, a band I was once very much obsessed with—announced his apostasy on social media.  I was shocked, as he had been something of an idol to me for many years, and I even strove to match his singing prowess.  It is because of this man’s apostasy that I had the gingerbread man, Crumble, join Frostina in rebelling against Molasses and rejecting his leadership.  In book two, Crumble had shared a tale that he had learned to sing songs to Mr. Theo by listening to the birds on Mount Oniz.  In “A Brittle Liberty,” it is stated that Crumble taught songs of praise to his fellow cookies.  Molasses asks himself something along the lines of, “If someone like Crumble could fall, who is exempt from that danger?”

• Weeks before I had finished the book, I knew that Ginger and Klaus would not escape until the final chapter.  It was important for me to relay the message that things often don’t happen according to our timing or our plan.  There are even times in life when it appears that a door has opened—when our gumdrop button keeps the cell door from closing all the way, and we think that the coast is clear and that the time of waiting is over—and we “jump the gun” and dash out of our cell…only to find that there is more waiting to do.

• In my original outline of the book, Limerence was going to be killed at the end of chapter two.  Although having the story unfold this way would not have had an immense impact on the ending, I also wanted to plant seeds for future stories.  One of the ideas I wanted to tap into early on was, “Are all of the cookies on Mount Oniz truly obedient to Mr. Theo?” Spoiler alert: no.  There needed to be something that happened that would create a schism between some of the cookies and serve as the catalyst for some cookies to turn away from the faith.  I believed that Molasses making the unilateral decision to release Limerence was a good way to go about this.  I also have some significant plans for Limerence himself.

• Reinhard the reindeer cookie is named after a client of the company I work for.

• In the first draft of chapter one, Clove used a power screwdriver to drill a hole in Ginger’s arm.  This felt a bit off and a bit too violent, but I was going to keep it in until I came to the end of chapter four.  I thought that it would be perfect if the Colony Behind the Cabinets captured Clove and found Klaus’s knife on him, and that the knife was returned to Klaus at the end of the book.  I returned to chapter one and swapped the screwdriver for the knife.

Thank you for reading! Watch out for "Ginger & Klaus: The Turkey Trot Plot," coming out around Thanksgiving 2024!

Slower Than Molasses Update

Hello, fans and friends!

For a while, I had "Slower Than Molasses"-- the story taking place between books two and three of my "Ginger & Klaus" series--up on my blog, released in three parts over three months. I have since taken the story down and released it in book form on Kindle!

Until I can find a way to make it free, it is $1 on Amazon. Here is the link: https://a.co/d/01VMGXQj

February Flash Fiction: Rivlo and the Attack on Armus Village

Rivlo was too young to understand much of anything, but he understood fear.  At least, he had always thought he understood fear.  Now that the creatures had burst into town--their skin slick, their tails sharp, and their swords sharper--he realized that there were levels of fear, and he was terrified.  He could see them skulking about outside his hide-covered bedroom window, some of them forcing their way into homes and seeking out the inhabitants within, and others pursuing the retreating villagers until they were out of sight.  There were a couple of times when he saw a man or woman trip in their flight, and one of the ugly fiends came upon them and lifted a thirsty blade--but he refused to witness the outcome, shutting his eyes and clapping his hands over his ears.  He knew those people were dead now; there was no need to confirm it.  The attackers desired extermination, not friendship.

But why did the Armian people have to suffer? They had kept to themselves for the past one hundred years, at least, most of them working as patrolmen in the northern Shadow Hills, or as fishermen, or as farmers.  Rivlo's neighbors were all friendly, honest people.  Even the mayor, whom half the town seemed to hate and the other half seemed to love, was a nice man who had never had much interest in connecting Armus with the rest of the world.  This attack seemed so very random.  Random and sudden.  The valley beyond town was expansive and sprinkled with individual farms; if the fiends wanted land or property so badly, there was plenty to be had in every direction.  So why Armus Village, and why now? It was just one more thing Rivlo's young mind could not comprehend.

His father, mother, and younger sister were there in his bedroom with him.  They had dragged the kitchen table into the room (they were now hiding under it) and had used a second table to keep the door closed.  It would be of little use, Rivlo knew.  The blades of the enemies were held by strong arms and were capable of breaking down doors in just a few hits.  Even if they were somehow thwarted by the table, it was probable that they would produce some kind of fire-wreathed weapon to set the house ablaze.  He could already smell the smoke of other homes that had met such a fate.

He ignored the whispered demands of his parents to join them beneath the table, and he peered out his window at a tavern off to the right.  The sound of shouting came from within the building; it was a mixture of garbled voices, and he could not make out a single word.  There was a woman, or maybe it was just a girl, protesting and arguing and threatening.  The voices--belonging to the evil creatures, no doubt--retorted with must have been jeering and teasing.  He did not know what the girl was saying, but in her voice was a fiery courage that filled him with strength.  If he did not know any better, he would say that her voice was laced with magic, like one of those sorceresses he had heard about in the old stories.  Or maybe she was just that brave.

The loud bang at the front door knocked him free of his trance.  The beasts had reached his house at last.  In half a minute they would wreck through the living room, and a few seconds later they would be outside the bedroom door.  He looked across the room at his family, and the terror filled him again, a terror that should have driven him over the floorboards and into his mother's arms.  But he had gone from a trance to a stasis.  If he made even the slightest move, a floorboard could creak and alert the creatures to his location.  He felt ashamed.  If only he had possessed the courage of that girl in the tavern.  If only he could rush out into the living room and bark out orders for his foes to turn away and find someone else to bother.  But his fear was reaching his limit, and he knew he could do nothing.  He would just remain where he was, and he would be quiet, and he would not even breathe, and he would pray for his family to be spared from the toll of the numbered dead.

It was a series of bangs, now.  They were kicking and striking the door.  He was not a fighter.  His father was a good man but could wield nothing besides a pitchfork.  His mother was stout but not prepared to defend her family from a troop of deadly animals.  There would be no hope for them if the enemies made it inside.  Was this the last time he would see his family alive? Would his bloodline be ended in a matter of seconds? Had he already taken his final breath?

There was an explosion outside, and he risked making a turn to see what had happened.  It was the tavern.  Something had smashed into one corner of the building, spraying wood and bricks everywhere.  Time did not stand still the way people often described it, but what had once been a successful business almost instantly became a ruin.  As the dust settled, he could see a young woman--who had probably been standing inside the other half of the building--rushing with all possible speed over the pile of rubble.  He had seen her around town before but could not remember her name; she was the daughter of the odd woman whom everyone gossiped about, a fair girl with freckles and dirty-blonde hair.  She had made it to the end of the rubble pile when one of the fiends revealed himself not twenty feet behind her.  His head could be seen poking out above the dust and smoke, and his eyes were facing her back.  Then Rivlo saw the creature pull out a bow and nock an arrow.  The girl turned toward her foe, slowly.  She may have been the one speaking and arguing confidently earlier, but now there was a sorrow, a defeat in her eyes.  She knew what all the villagers had come to know: that there was no chance for mercy, that conversation was out of the question, and that death was the only possible outcome.

A young man no older than the girl suddenly dashed into view, his footfalls upon the grass so quiet that he remained hidden from all but the girl and Rivlo.  In half a second a bow was in his hands, and he aimed it not at the girl but at the creature.  Rivlo was not sure how the boy planned on taking down his target.  There was still a haze of dust and smoke, and there was the sound of townspeople screaming and the din of collapsing homes and the pat-pat of heavy boots swarming the ground nearby.  He would be amazed if even a trained soldier could focus in such chaos.  But before the fiend could fell the girl, the boy released an arrow between two leaning pieces of wall, through the dust, and into the head of his enemy.  The force of the strike knocked the creature to the side, causing its arrow to fire uselessly into a wall to the girl's left.

The group of fiends that had very likely been another kick or two from downing Rivlo's front door headed toward the commotion.  What they encountered were not two frightened teenagers, but two warriors prepared to defend their town.  The girl lifted a sword from a corpse and used it to slay two of the approaching enemies, and the boy dropped the third with another arrow.

It was a long time before Rivlo learned the names of the two warriors who had saved his life.  It was due to their efforts that he and his family were among the few survivors of the Attack on Armus Village.

Behind the Scenes: The Making of "Ginger & Klaus: A Christmas Adventure"

I thought it would be a fun exercise to share with my readers just what went into the making of my new novelette that I self-published on Amazon: "Ginger & Klaus: A Christmas Adventure." This brief article will detail how the story came together as well as other storylines or ideas I explored when coming up with the plot.  Needless to say there are significant spoilers ahead!

To make this even more fun, let's do this in bullet points instead of prose.  I'll begin with some questions I have either asked myself or wondered if readers pondered:

• Why a gingerbread woman and a mouse of all the possible combinations?
•  This actually came down to a matter of practicality.  The illustrator of the book, Jessica Hines, happens to work with me in a financial office, and we began discussing the idea of doing a story together in September of 2023.  The first question that came to me was, "What sorts of characters would kind of align with Jes's experience and interests?" She had been successful in publishing a couple of coloring books about beansprouts, and her characters were very cute.  So I knew that in the story we would be working on together, the characters needed to be cute, drawable characters.  I wanted the story to be ready by Christmas, and a gingerbread cookie was fitting for the season.  The idea of the cookie befriending a mouse came to me a moment later.  Don't ask me why!
• Why were Ginger and Molasses brother and sister rather than husband and wife? After all, aren't they supposed to evoke the image of "Adam and Eve"? 
• I did consider making them husband and wife, but because Eve is no more the "villain" than Adam in history, it would not have made sense for Molasses to be Ginger's husband. (And remember, Molasses is Ginger's main villain in the story.) I do not believe it would have felt "true" if Ginger were meant to represent Eve seeking to stop her wayward husband, Adam.  As I wrote the story, I only saw similarities of Ginger and Molasses to Adam and Eve insofar as they were the first of Mr. Theo's creations to have the "breath of life" and in that they succumbed to the temptation of the evil one.
• Why didn't Ginger have a sister instead of a brother, or why weren't their roles reversed? 
• This was an easy one for me.  In the novel that I am still working to get published, "The Hero of Farlenas: A House Divided," the elder brother is pitted against the younger brother.  The elder brother has more of the moral compass and the younger is wayward.  I didn't want the first "Ginger & Klaus" story to be "The Hero of Farlenas" with a new sisterly coating of paint.  Having two sisters would be a very similar story to my novel with two brothers.  And I knew it would be worthwhile for the lead character to have a female perspective on things, since "The Hero of Farlenas" is told solely from male perspectives.
• How did the characters get their names? 
• "Ginger" is a female name and seemed an obvious choice for a gingerbread woman, and "Klaus" rhymes with "mouse." When I told Jes that I was considering giving Ginger a brother and wasn't sure what his name would be, she said, "It would be funny if his name was Molasses! Because you use molasses when you make gingerbread cookies." I chose "Mr. Theo" because "theos" is "God" in Greek, and I chose "Tanas" as an anagram for "Satan." "Horace," "Ingrid," and "Arthur" got their names simply because I wanted the mice to feel as though they were of an older and more respectful or honorable generation.

Let's continue with some fun facts about the story:

• Originally, there was no plan for a battle to take place in chapter four.  My most basic outline for the story was that Ginger would look for her brother, find a mouse companion to help her in the search, and that she would find and confront Molasses.  There were two main reasons this changed.  Firstly, I am very sensitive to pacing and character development, and I felt that there would not be enough time to develop Klaus's character or his friendship with Ginger if I skipped straight from their meeting to the confrontation with Molasses.  Secondly, and this again is a practical reason: the chart on Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing site showed a printing discount for a longer book.  Since I am prone to writing longer stories, anyway, that gave me the excuse I needed to lengthen it.  
• The scene with the reindeer cookie and the letter came to me quite suddenly.  I knew that there needed to be a fourth chapter before the confrontation with Molasses, and I was beginning to think that "Ginger & Klaus" would be a series rather than a standalone title.  Also, I wanted to paint a picture of the fact that within every human being is sin, and having more cookies in the story with the "wicked rosemary scent" helped me paint that picture.
• I flirted with the idea that maybe Ginger would fail in her task of convincing Molasses to turn from his evil ways.  However, this was quickly abandoned for two reasons, and both had to do with J.R.R. Tolkien.  Firstly, I didn't want the end of Ginger's discussion with Molasses to conclude with a "the ring is mine" moment.  I envisioned Molasses taking his arm out of his satchel and casting the poisonous powder on the cookies, and I felt it would have been too similar to Frodo's claiming of the ring.  Secondly, J.R.R. was a firm believer in the "eucatastrophe," which was his word, to put it all too briefly, for a happy ending.  The goal of the story was to rescue Molasses and stop him from committing his evil deeds.  To have Ginger fail at that would have given the story an unhappy ending.  I also thought that kids might be drawn to this story, and I wanted to show them that good will win in the end, and that change is possible--but only through God.
• Finally, and perhaps most hilariously, I seriously considered having Klaus fight Molasses in the final chapter.  I thought that Molasses, upon finding that Ginger had survived the battle outside the house, would go berserk, and that Klaus would dash forward and tackle Molasses.  The reason I did not go with this was that chapter four already had physical action, and now it was time for the dialogue to be the action.  Molasses would not be won over by violence, but by hearing about his sinful condition and his need to be changed by Mr. Theo.  Furthermore, the idea of having Molasses be an ally rather than an enemy in future stories opened up the door to so many more possibilities.

Announcement: Novelette Published on Amazon...and Other News

Great news! I have self-published a short book on Amazon! Could this be the beginning of a new series?

Ginger & Klaus: A Christmas Adventure https://a.co/d/03IUj8A

Additionally, earlier this year, I completed a year-long edit of a novel called "The Hero of Farlenas: A House Divided." I have been sending it out to literary agents and am hoping to hear back soon.

I will try to post some occasional stories on here as they come to mind and as I find the time. Thank you to any readers who still check my site from time to time!

Short Fiction: The Corruption of Ilivor

For five hundred years he had served both as the unofficial regent and military strategist of Oltheil.  The roles had not been bequeathed to him by a former ruler or by Crel the Wizard; he had assumed the positions when no one else would.  His brothers had always been a little more timid, a little humbler, a little quieter—but he had never feared the need to be outspoken or to exercise authority when it was required.  Thus, he had been responsible for commissioning the construction of Oltheil as a city whose sole purpose was the protection of the pyrmum; he had demanded citywide fealty to the Greater Gods, down to the last man, and had charged Virrod with the daily lifting of songs of praise before the people; he had led mages into battle across the nearby plains and fields to ward off approaching rublins and imps.  Although he had always respected his brothers enough to request their approval of his decisions (and in the eyes of the citizens, the three men were co-leaders), eventually they had come to defer to his judgment, and very rarely had they ever dissented.  Possessing the support of the ones he loved had ever served as additional motivation to do what needed to be done.

But Virrod is gone, he thought, and it is likely that Xizsk and I are taking our last breaths.  He glanced at his brother as they stepped out into the harsh sunlight that blanketed Oltheil.  Many of the stone buildings that had once dwarfed the average man thrice over were reduced to piles of bricks.  Homes that had once housed families were presently private battlegrounds.  The grassy paths wending through the city, once mottled with multicolored flowers, were littered with the bloodied bodies of humans and scaldrons.  He dared not permit his eyes to linger long on any single individual, but his stomach turned when he caught a glimpse of a dead man who had recently fathered a child, of a fallen elderly woman who had served the community by handing out delectable meals, of a slain hunter who had recently passed from youth to adulthood.  All had been killed without discrimination, whether they had been fighting or fleeing.

The eternal punishment of the Gods awaited the fiends who had enacted such crimes against humanity, Ilivor knew, but he also believed that exceptionally wicked deeds should be met with justice in this life.  There was no great judicial court such as that in Svilgaard present to address the scaldrons and their misdeeds, but he was present, and if no one else was able to bring judgment upon the wicked, that was a role he must fill.  He tightened his fingers around his curved green-brown staff and climbed atop a broken pillar to examine the sprawling city.  Some of the citizens had managed to scurry away from the carnage, and of those who had remained behind to defend their homes, few remained alive.  There was no hope of their survival now.  It would be better to fall quickly at the hand of a friend than slowly at the hand of a scaldron.

“Is it time, brother?” Xizsk asked him with wild eyes.

“It is time,” he answered, keeping his countenance as emotionless as possible.

“All of them, Ilivor?”

He nodded.  “All of them.  Leave none alive.”

Xizsk released a long sigh before squinting, placing both hands on his own staff, and dashing several feet through the air in the blink of an eye; the next half-second, he was standing at the crest of his own broken pillar and summoning his power.  The air around the man turned grey-white, a manifestation of the purity of his motives mixed with the unavoidable stained will that had hounded humanity ever since the sin of Argetheil.  He had always secretly envied his brother’s general sense of innocence and purity of thought.  As he began to summon his own power, he was reminded that his motives had never been as clean—and even now, as the air around him turned white with streaks of black and purple, he knew that his heart was longing for vengeance over justice.

“I love you, dear brother,” he called out to Xizsk.

The man was unable to reply, for before he could unleash his spell, he warped over to the top of a building and just barely avoided a scaldron’s arrow.  It was then that Ilivor realized someone was barking orders; yes, it was Rulisce herself, the goddess fallen from grace, who was demanding that her scaldron adherents take down the wizard.  Her eyes met with Ilivor’s, but she did not tell the creatures to attack him.  It was a curious fact, but he did not have the time to dwell on it.  He sensed the power rising from within, filling his chest, his head, his fingers.  Xizsk should have completed his own spell but was far too occupied evading the barrage of arrows that, thankfully, only managed to find themselves buried in the grass or deflected by stone.  Ilivor took his eyes off his brother and allowed his magic to surge forward, out into what had been a beautiful and thriving city just hours before.  A blast of white and grey and blackish-purple passed through the remains of buildings harmlessly but tore through flesh like shears through wool.  Scaldrons and humans alike were killed instantly; if he could estimate an exact figure, it was perhaps eighty or ninety, humans being the minority.  He fell to one knee, exhausted and frustrated that his spell had not reached Rulisce or the ring of a dozen or so guards that surrounded her, but grateful that there were fewer scaldrons in the world.

Just then, Xizsk unleashed his own spell.  The blast swept across the land and killed ten, fifteen, maybe twenty scaldrons and three men.  But before the spell could continue, an arrow penetrated the wizard’s left shoulder and knocked him from the corner of the building on which he had been standing.  He plummeted to the grass nearby.  Ilivor tried to crawl the distance between himself and his dear friend, but his energy had not yet returned, and he could do nothing but clutch onto a shapeless piece of rubble for support.  He was forced to watch as the remaining scaldrons closed in on the poor wizard; thankfully, the man still had some power in reserve, for he slew more than a couple of the fiends with a small barrage of white-grey orbs.  Those who had avoided the second spell began to sprint toward their enemy, but they had not gotten far before a voice rang out across the battlefield.

“Leave him!” shouted Rulisce, who now sounded much nearer.  “He is mine.”

The scaldrons obeyed without hesitation, quitting their mad dash and parting to make way for the goddess.  She walked into view, her robes billowing behind her, the frayed cloth blacker than the darkest pitch.  There was no weapon in her hand, but Ilivor knew that she did not need one.  Xizsk lobbed a few projectiles her way; she sidestepped them with ease, her remaining divine power granting her greater speed than most mortals.  A few seconds more and Xizsk was spent, the pain from the arrow likely hampering his ability to use any magic of a pure nature.  He could, of course, tap into that pain and use it to fuel a darker magic—but was obedience to the Greater Gods not demanded even in the direst moments? What use was lifelong faithfulness if, in the end, one were to curse the Gods with his final act?

Soon Rulisce was standing over the wizard and looking down at him with some sense of amusement on her face.  “You fought bravely, Xizsk,” she told him, “but it was futile.  I will claim that which I seek, be it today, tomorrow, or a hundred years from now.  This is something you must know.  I have been empowered by Argetheil himself, one before whom even the almighty Crel could not stand.  With the gift I have been given, I will upend every stone until I find the keys that will unlock the door to the secret place where the Gods have cast him down.  You have long possessed one of those keys; now you will tell me where it is.”

Xizsk gritted his teeth, one hand touching his wounded shoulder.  Somehow, he laughed.  “It will be a great honor to deny you this important information, even in the face of my own mortality, that I might attain a better resurrection.  You may slay my body, but I will then be with my Fathers for all eternity.”

“That eternity will be briefer than you think,” Rulisce challenged him.  “For once Argetheil returns to this land, nothing will be safe—not even the very throne room of the Greater Gods.  He will assault and destroy everything that is precious to them.”

The wizard continued to laugh.  “Oh my, how you have been deceived.  Rulisce, your master has lied to you! Only the Gods are all-powerful.  Argetheil may have darkness in his heart, and with that darkness a most dreadful power, but he has no greater power than that which the Gods have allowed.  They are sovereign, and they would not decree that their child depose them.  You and your ilk may find victory from time to time, but at the end, it is the Gods and their faithful followers who will find true victory.”

She shook her head.  “Your faith has made you blind and naïve, Xizsk.”

“And yet the pyrma have eluded your grasp these many centuries.  If that is not evidence enough that you are on the losing side, Rulisce, then I know not what is.”

The woman released a short sigh.  “I have not the patience to deal with you.  Unfortunately, besides making you blind and naïve, your unwavering faithfulness has also made you obstinate.  Let us see if your brother is equally loyal.  I have no use for you, Xizsk; farewell.”

There was not a moment’s protest in the man’s eyes, not even when black needles materialized in the air at Rulisce’s fingertips and rushed into her opponent’s flesh.  The spark that had been Xizsk’s mortal life for many years was gone in an instant, and abruptly it was as though some very real portion of Ilivor’s heart was excised.  There was no animation in the body that had theretofore been his brother, no visible sign of the man he had been; but there was a magical residue clinging to the air, a testament to Xizsk’s great power.  It would linger there for some time, tangible only to arcanes whose minds could apprehend it.  Ilivor’s sorrow was weighty, and the only reason tears did not leave his eyes was that he knew his brother was in a place free from pain and trespass.  He hoped he would also be so hurried into the presence of the Three.

Rulisce, apparently unmoved by the death of such a reverent and influential man, left the body and traipsed over to Ilivor.  She was not actively using magic of any kind, but the immensity of her power became more evident with her every approaching step.  Also evident was her resolve—her resolve, he remembered, to obey a deceiver.  Yes, she was willing to die for that which she believed to be true, although it was a lie; and yet he felt that perhaps he was not willing to die for what he knew to be true.  How could her resolve surpass his own? How could he feel so cowardly within when he knew that the Gods were existent, sovereign, and righteous in all their ways? He gritted his teeth and managed to push himself up to meet the woman’s eyes.  He hoped his cowardice did not spell the doom of the world.

“One of your brothers is dead,” she told him casually.  “I can sense the aftereffects of the other.  He has fled with the pyrmum, has he not?”

Ilivor did not answer.  It was probably the bravest thing he had ever done.

“You are weak,” she said to him.  Once she had reached him, she squatted down and studied his prostrate body.  “You tapped into every last morsel of your power to slay some of my followers, and now you have neither the power nor the steadfastness to resist.  I have an idea of how you may be used for the glory of Argetheil, and it is a fate worse than death.  But I will give you one more opportunity to answer me ere I resort to such an act.”

He did not know what she meant by that, and he did not bother to think it through.  A tear finally rolled down his cheek.  Internally, he began to beg the Gods that his death might be neither painless nor prolonged.  Fear filled his heart to the brim.  He had lived a long and honorable life, for the most part, but he did not want it to end.  Not now, and not here.  Perhaps he could save more people over the long term if he gave Rulisce the information she desired; perhaps she would spare his life and, some years later, he could return to her in vengeance.  Yes, a momentary failure could later lead to a final victory.  He tried to summon the strength to speak, to betray Virrod and his people and the Gods who had redeemed him.

“Very well,” said Rulisce before a word could leave his lips.  “Then a puppet of Argetheil you will be.”

She raised her hands to the height of her shoulders, fingertips facing up, and closed her eyes.  The next moment, a sudden emotion impressed itself in Ilivor’s heart: anger.  How could the Gods, who were allegedly good and in control of all things, force their faithful followers to undergo persecution of this magnitude? Why did terrible things happen to innocent people? Why was it said that the Gods loved their creation when they no longer interacted with it or intervened in the moments that mattered? Why had they never spoken to him in all his years of devoted ministry?

His anger was followed by doubt.  Perhaps they never spoke to him or to their other followers because they had stepped away from their world after forming it (assuming that they were real in the first place; he had never actually seen them, after all).  What evidence was there that the power of him and his brethren had come to them except by their own ability? Why had they been so insistent that the Gods had been the source of their power? It was the Writ—the written Word, apparently delivered to the world through the Gods’ inspiration—that claimed everything came from divine hands.  What good reason was there to believe that the Writ was trustworthy? Had it not been written by mere mortals with their own beliefs, agendas, and flaws? Why should he believe that the Gods were true, and good, and love?

He had felt such anger and doubt in the early days of his faith, he remembered, but he had buried them long ago.  He had never taken the time to answer the difficult questions, and now they were resurfacing centuries later and shipwrecking his faith.  Half a millennium had been squandered in a vain pursuit; if he had allowed himself to see his questions as perfectly justified, perhaps he could have avoided devoting his life to Gods who had clearly never cared for him in the first place.

“And now it is complete,” Rulisce whispered, a small smile touching the edge of her lips.  She stood and beckoned him to rise, as well.  “I must ask again: where is Virrod going?”

He looked at her long and turned his head to the side.  It was strange—just a moment ago he had feared and despised her, but now he felt sympathetic to her cause.  He had spent his entire life thinking she had chosen the wrong path, but he realized that he had simply been uninformed.  She wanted Argetheil to return not so that he might destroy the world; she trusted in Argetheil’s promise to mend the world and its injustices.  She believed he could make flawless that which was flawed, correcting the Gods’ mistakes.  She wanted the divine to be present and visible, not concealed within the spiritual realm.  Her ambitions were good and pure.

“I sent him to Gozzk,” Ilivor answered at length.

“Gozzk?” She placed a hand on her hip.  “And what, pray, lies in that uncivilized country?”

“Nothing, Rulisce.  Xizsk and I commissioned Virrod to head to Gozkk because of its inherent peril; we thought that minotaurs and ogres might dissuade you and your allies from following.  I am sorry for my error.”

Her face remained unperturbed, but her eyes smiled.  “It is quite fine, my brother.  Virrod is a fool if he thinks he can find a haven for the pyrmum before I have caught up to him.  You have done well by revealing the truth to me.”

He bowed as low as he could, hoping to demonstrate the profundity of his penitence.  “I am at your service, dear sister.  But tell me: what now can I do to aid you? How can I be of service to Argetheil?”

“You can begin by helping me find Virrod,” she replied, already marching between the ranks of scaldrons while he trailed her.  “After that, we shall see.  But we are in the process of placing our most capable allies in positions of power across Marnon.  If you serve me well, we can discuss the country in which you might provide the greatest usefulness to the Ambassadors of Argetheil.” 

Flash Fiction: The Fall of Oltheil

          Will he answer our summons? Xizsk asked himself, his wrinkled hand trembling against his staff.  He must, yes? Or is this truly the end?

          The old wizard was braced against the grey wall of what was known as “The Meeting Room,” and across from him stood Ilivor and Virrod, peeking around the corner to behold the battle beyond.  Occasionally one of the two men would dart out into the open and, staff in hand, unleash a cone of ice or immobilizing dust toward any approaching enemies—but then he would quickly retreat again into the safety of the room, loath to join the thick of the fray.  Xizsk, on the other hand, remained stationary as though he were pasted to inside of the stone edifice.  He knew that history would call him a coward, and it would be a lie to say that fact did not bother him.  He and his two allies had served as co-regents over Oltheil for centuries, and the mages who had dwelled in the city had trusted them and clung to their every command.  The three wizards were so highly regarded because they were the progeny of Crel himself; it was believed that they had even inherited some of Crel’s godhood and were the closest any man or woman would come to the divine.  The entire point of the city of Oltheil was to protect that, one of the three prized objects through which the Gods had created the world.  But now that the object was in jeopardy, the city’s leaders were cowering within a fortified building rather than dying beside their loyal subjects.  It was pathetic; there was no other way to look at it.

“How did she amass such forces?” cried Virrod, his brown hair whipping in the wind that billowed through the tunnel.  “Lo! They cover the countryside like ants.  I did not know that so many scaldrons existed in all the world.”

“And yet here they are, before our very eyes,” answered Ilivor.  “Standing here in disbelief will accomplish nothing.  We must conjure a plan, for it appears that our lord Crel has either failed to receive our message or found more important matters to attend to.”

Xizsk breathed in and out, and in again, before summoning the courage to careen over to where his brothers were standing.  He hugged the stone wall and leaned over to glimpse the battlefield.  The image, albeit brief, was a promise of death.  The lean creatures were more plenteous than his brothers had stated.  The flash of skin and metal and blood flowing like rivulets was more than he could handle, and he felt his stomach turning.  Dark pulses threatened to drain the world of all color.

“Even Xizsk grows faint,” said Ilivor, his frown bracketed by his black, braided beard.  “The time is ripe for action.” He exchanged a long stare with Virrod before swiveling around and heading down the hallway.  Along the wall he dragged his fingertips, mumbling in the Weöstrif language as he did so.

“What is he doing?” inquired Xizsk as Virrod reached out to support him.  “He is not going to hand it over, is he?”

Virrod shook his head.  “Never.  Ilivor would never willingly aid in the resurrection of Argetheil.  He has something else in mind.”

The dark-haired wizard stopped at a part of the wall which, to the untrained eye, would appear to be nothing more than smooth stone.  The spell that he muttered was familiar to Xizsk; it allowed one to feel variances in the densities of objects and to pinpoint the weakness in a structure.  Ilivor pressed the false wall inward about a hand’s breadth and reached into the cavity.  What he pulled from within remained hidden from view, but Xizsk knew it well.  His heart burned within him—not anger toward his brother, but rage toward the fiends that desired to see the world plunged into chaos.  They were blind fools, the lot of them, led by the blindest of fools.

“They must not retrieve it!” he shouted, struggling within Virrod’s arms.  “Even if we are to lose our lives in its protection, they must not retrieve it.”

“They will not,” Ilivor answered, crossing the hallway and reuniting with his brothers.  He passed the object to Virrod and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “Kinsmen, my proposal is that Virrod take the pyrmum east, beyond Farlenas; it is a perilous route but the one least suspected, and it is unlikely that any would follow without much trouble.  The emblem will not lie hidden for long if it stays here.” He looked back and forth between them.  “Are we agreed?”

Xizsk nodded, but Virrod hesitated.  “But...why me, dear brother?” he asked.  “And what will be my destination?”

“You will head to Gozkk, for even she will pause at the thought of entering that minotaur-infested wasteland.  There you can regroup for a time.” Ilivor offered a tiny but comforting smile.  “And why you? Is it not clear that you are the strongest of our trio, and second in power only to Crel in this world of Marnon? You are capable of more than the two of us combined.  Perhaps the Gods will deal kindly with you in the east and lead you to answer our haunting question: how can the pyrmum be protected now that Oltheil has fallen?”

Virrod appeared concerned, thought Xizsk, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.  He pocketed the emblem within the folds of his robe and breathed out a long sigh.  “Very well.  But will you not come with me? Surely we can bypass the scaldrons and escape together.”

“There are too many,” Xizsk replied, “and already they draw near.  There is no escape—not for us all.”

“Our brother speaks truly,” said Ilivor.  “We have lingered in our safe hall long enough while our people have given their lives.  It is time that we fight, Xizsk and I.  But Virrod, you must flee.  Gods willing, we will wreak havoc enough to catch the eye of the scaldron army while you round their forces and head into the east.”

Tears sprang into Virrod’s eyes, and one fell onto Xizsk’s tattered grey robe.  “I have not known a day apart from you, brethren, and now this may be the last time I view your faces...until I see you again in eternity, that is.”

“We will await you in the throne room of the Three,” Ilivor assured him, “where we will never again experience fear, or pain, or sorrow.  Our long lives will seem naught more than the snap of a finger compared to the unending glory that awaits us.” He turned his head to Xizsk.  “Do you understand what must be done, my brothers?”

“We do,” they answered, both voices riddled with uncertainty.  But have we the strength to do it? wondered Xizsk.

“Very well.  Virrod, you head down the hall and exit the other way; I saw not a soul near the tunnel’s mouth.  Xizsk, with me.  Prepare to access the fullness of your power.”

The fullness of my power, thought Xizsk, marveling.  It is the very thing we have taught our many pupils never to use, for once all energy is expended, doom certainly follows.  If any scaldrons live after we release our spells, we will have no more strength to fight.  He felt tears welling up within his own eyes.  This is it; Crel will not answer our summons.  It is truly the end.

“I will do everything I can to keep safe the emblem of our Fathers,” said Virrod.  “Farewell, then, dear ones—until our next meeting.” He turned away from them and headed off down the curve of the tunnel, robe flailing in the strong cliffside wind, until he disappeared into the darkness.

Xizsk turned to Ilivor, and although his brother had appeared confident before, there was now in his countenance something that questioned the reality of their situation and balked at the likelihood of their mortality.  The same thoughts filled Xizsk’s mind, but he knew not what to say.  He stared intently at the dark-toned skin of Ilivor’s face, probably for the first time in nearly five hundred years, and possibly for the last time.  A barrage of fears assaulted him then: fear of the pain of death, fear of surviving but watching his kinsmen perish, fear that Virrod would be stopped and the order of the world undone.  The overwhelming dread kept his words behind his lips, but his mind was speaking loudly: he thanked Ilivor for his comradery and leadership; he lamented that five hundred years had felt far too brief; he pondered the joy soon to be felt once his soul was ferried into the company of the Three.  Ilivor had known him long enough to read his thoughts through his eyes as one reads a scroll.  The wizard nodded at him and, saying nothing, led him out into the light, out onto the battlefield where the scaldrons were striking down their perennial followers, out into the presence of the cloaked goddess who would more than likely claim their lives.