Of Bingats and Magicians

Well, for those of you who've been bugging me about it,  I'm sorry it's taken so long. I'm just prone to be (on occasion) very, very, very, very, very, very work-avoidant.

Yes, work-avoidant. We don't like to use the word lazy around here. It has far too many negative connotations.

Anyway, I figure I'm probably going to have to post a whole slew of... well, posts in the near future to make up for it. But, first, we need to work out something. Posts needs a synonym. Obviously, it is rather repetitive and annoying to talk about "posting posts" (never mind possibly offensive to certain members of my kin). But the word "post" has no real synonyms. Sure, there's article, but it just doesn't fit in the situation of a blog.

So, from now on, we will use the word bingat. We post new bingats. That's pronounced "BING-AT". It's derived from the Pig Latin "Ingatbay" which means "a post".

Now that we've got that settled, in this bingat I'm going to give you a chapter of something I've already written, namely because I feel like I have to write a post before I go watch the Nostalgia Critic (more on him later) or Buffy. So here, ladies and gents, is the first chapter of Samuel Faar.

Yeah, I know I've already posted a link to this in my first post. But this is for all you lazy people. Besides, I'll probably be taking Sam Faar down off of inkpop after I finish it. Call me paranoid.

And, obviously, I can't post it all up here. Because then someone could steal it. But I can show you some. Again, any kind of feedback is majorly appreciated (not to mention demanded upon pain of death). So....

Chapter 1: In Which I Sneak Out to a Movie and Get Caught by Daemons

I jumped the fence and hit the ground running for whatever my life was worth. It’s pretty amazing what adrenaline can do to you when it kicks in. I was athletic enough, sure, but I had never run this fast in my life. Unfortunately, the crazy old witch behind me was just as fast.

I was being chased down a back alley in the little city of Mordred, Illinois, by an old lady. Sad, I know. But this lady wasn’t like your typical nice old grandma – she was decked out in Goth gear from head to toe. If it was black and could be worn, this lady had it on. I mean, even her teeth were black – though that might have been less of a fashion statement than the rest. 


Normally you just cross the street to avoid passing people like her. Normally they don’t start screaming or brandishing knives at you. Normally sixty-year-old women don’t run like track stars, and even when they do they don’t normally chase you. So I guess you could say this was the point in my life when everything stopped being normal.

Granted, it was late to be walking around the city – eleven o’ clock – but I had just gotten out of a movie with my friends that my mom technically hadn’t forbidden me from seeing. When I asked her about it, she had given me an earful about how violent it was supposed to be and how much language it had. The usual. But the word no had never actually come out of her mouth, so I took her input as more of a suggestion. Of course, I had made sure to sneak out of the house just in case she did say no if I asked her again, but still. My friends had already taken off – they’re all rich enough to afford their own cars. Me, I have to go the old fashioned way – good ole Converse. Mom would’ve noticed a car coming and going from our apartment, anyway. That’s just the kind of person she is.

But really, this is too far into the story to start if you want the whole picture. You’re supposed to begin at the beginning. If you really want the whole thing, you have to start about two weeks ago when our new history teacher, Mr. Dunmer, first came to Mordred. No, wait. I’m still forgetting something…

Oh, yeah. My name’s Samuel Faar. Everyone just calls me Sam, though. Nice to meet you. Now, where was I? Oh, right. Mr. Dunmer. 

Our old history teacher, Mrs. Batts, had been a crazy old hag. I mean, literally crazy. She had put my friend Troy in detention for smiling at his girlfriend once. PDA, she called it. So, as you can probably guess, no one was exactly sad to see her go. People who had Mr. Dunmer the period before us had spent most of lunch telling us how awesome he was – apparently he didn’t assign homework, didn’t dress like an old dude, and was actually pretty funny. Being the eternal skeptic, I was expecting him to fall short of the hype. 

The first impression I got of Mr. Dunmer was that he was pretty cool for an old guy – he walked into class the very first day in dark blue Converse high-tops with faded jeans and an old tweed jacket. He had a kind of scruffy short brown beard, which he rubbed whenever he talked. His hair was mused as well, but his eyes were very sharp behind his casual dress.

Most new teachers start with the whole “My name is Mr./Mrs. X and I will be teaching subject Y. Now, would everyone please stand up one at a time and tell me your name and something interesting about yourself so I can get to know you.” Mr. Dunmer was different. He sat down on top of the mahogany teacher’s desk at the front of the room and looked the class over quietly, scanning each face in turn. There was a kind of awkward silence – the kind that only happens when the kids aren’t exactly sure how strict a teacher is, so they wait for the bravest ones to test him to his limit before acting up. I was sitting at the back of the class, staring out the window at the beautiful day outside. Really, I thought, it was a crime to keep kids like us locked up inside all day to study things we really didn’t want to know anything about…

“History is a complicated subject to teach,” Mr. Dunmer began. “Namely because we are never sure how anything truly occurred. History is written by the victors, and the victors are always biased. The losers are biased too, but their manuscripts get burned more often than the winners’.” No one except the really attentive students – the nerds, in layman’s terms – were listening to him now. He was just giving some pre-prepared speech about how honored he was to be able to teach the young minds of the next generation or some-such garbage. I tuned out and started thinking about what I was going to do after school.

“But I bet you’ve heard all that before,” Mr. Dunmer said with a slight smile, noticing the class’s loss of interest in his speech. I have to say Mr. Dunmer had one of those cool sounding voices that sent chills down your spine whenever you heard him talking. “The kids in fourth period were telling me about your last teacher, Mrs…”

“Batts,” one of the smart kids in the front offered.

“Crazy as one,” another of the nerds made a dumb joke. No one laughed, not even Mr. Dunmer. That was good – I can’t stand teachers who pretended that any joke a student offered up was funny.

“But she wasn’t very difficult,” Leah – one of the few smart kids I actually talked to – piped up.

“For you,” my friend Troy muttered. “For us people of normal intelligence, she was a nightmare.”

Mr. Dunmer smiled at this. “I think this is where I’m supposed to insert my teacher’s speech about application to studies versus intelligence. Copy and paste the last one you heard and put it here.”

A couple of kids laughed at that. As they did so, Mr. Dunmer reached back behind his desk and drew out a full-sized, gleaming, honest-to-goodness sword. Well, ok, I didn’t really know what a full-sized sword looks like, but if I had to guess, it would look something like that. I have to say, the best way to get someone’s attention is to show them something that’s shiny and sharp. Whether you have ADD or not, sharp shiny things attract attention like magnets. Or roadside bombs. Or teachers waving sharp shiny things.

“We’ll be studying ancient empires this semester,” he told us, “starting with Rome. This blade is a replica of one that the Roman Legion would have used. Now, some of you might think that studying history is pointless or a waste of time,” he threw a glance right at me, as if he’d been able to hear my thoughts earlier, “but it’s one of the most important areas we can study. Anyone who does not learn from the mistakes of history is doomed to repeat them.”

He went on into a full lecture about the Roman army and its exploits, which I had to admit was actually pretty interesting. Everyone likes stories about old battles. He used the sword like a pointer for most of the time, and made a few jokes that actually made me laugh. That’s a pretty rare talent for a teacher. By the time the bell rang, I realized that I was actually enjoying myself. Mr. Dunmer’s only assignment was to come back to class tomorrow.

Unfortunately, my mother ruined my plans for the evening by calling me the second the final bell rang.

“Sam, are you done with school?”

“No, mom. I’m answering your call in the middle of class.”

“Very funny, young man. I need you back at home.”

“But I was gunna go to the mall with –”

“I don’t want to hear it. You come straight home.”

“But I –”

“You heard me.”

For a few moments, I really considered going to the mall anyway. In the end I decided against it – just in case I needed my mother’s good favor to do something in the near future – and waved good-bye to my friends as I started the walk home.

My apartment wasn’t very far from the school – half a mile at the most. We lived on the third floor of the apartment – me, my mom, and my stepfather, Jackson. Jackson and I share a mutual hatred of one another. I hate him because he’s a creepy pervert who’s about a hundred pounds overweight and drinks beer more often than water. He hates me because I’m another mouth to feed. I’m not sure what my mom sees in him, other than the fact that he pays the bills occasionally. I wasn’t planning on visiting after I went off to college, though.

When I walked in the door, Jackson was reclining back in his personal chair with the TV on. I was surprised to see that he was watching the news, but he also had a giant dark brown beer stain on his tank top – the only piece of clothing he wore besides his boxers. I figured he was probably drunk – but then again, that might have been from last week. Jackson “worked” as an overseer for a construction company – meaning he called the guys who were supposed to be working once in the morning and evening to ask them if they were on schedule. The rest of the time, he just sat his fat butt in his chair and ate chips and drank beer.

He looked up and told me, “Shut up, kid. I’m trying to listen to this.”

That was his greeting to me every day. It didn’t matter if I was making any noise or not. I noticed, however, that mom was also watching the news from the kitchen with a worried look on her face. I glanced at the headline – “Gruesome Murder Spree Continues – Police Say No Leads”. I tossed my bag down in the kitchen and turned to my mom.

“Why do I have to be here?” I snapped at her. “I can barely breathe through the fumes.” I gestured to the form of Jackson.

“These attacks are getting more and more frequent,” my mom answered in her worried-about-everything tone. Her eyes never left the television, which was showing footage of a gruesome murder scene. “I think you’ll be safer here.”

I groaned. “Mom, I’m more likely to get killed by Jackson than by some random murderer in broad daylight. And he would have to get up from his chair to do that!”

“I heard that, you little snot-wipe!” Jackson called back. My mother gave me a look that clearly said, ‘don’t antagonize him.’ I sighed and picked up my book bag again.

“I’ll be in my room if you need me,” I muttered.

Mom’s always been a worrier like that. Once, a kid down the street went missing for a week. Everyone said it was a kidnapping, but it turned out that the kid had just run away from home because his parents had taken away his Game Boy. Even so, Mom kept me inside for nearly a month.

Of course, these murders were much more serious – nearly twenty-five people had gotten killed in the past three weeks. The police didn’t have any leads, and the murderer had no preferred method – some people had had their throats slit, some ended up with a bullet in the head, some were poisoned, some riddled with knife wounds. The only theory the police had was that it was the work of some new cult because at one of the crime scenes someone had drawn a pentagram in the victim’s blood. It was pure speculation, of course – anyone could have drawn a pentagram to create a false lead. But, as serious as this might be getting, it’s no reason to put your life totally on hold.

I chucked my stuff on my bed and turned my attention to my computer – the only item in my room that wasn’t more that forty years old. My bed, in one corner, was a rickety old twin that I was almost too tall for. In another corner was a bookshelf filled with books I hadn’t – and didn’t want to – read. An ancient TV sat atop my dresser – it had been broken for a few years. Even when it had worked, it had only been black and white. My walls were bare, my floor littered with my clothes. The only bright spot in the entire place was the monitor on my desk and the little black box beside it.

I had saved for nearly five years to buy that computer. I had assembled it myself from the best parts money could buy. Jackson had no idea I had it – he never came to my room, and I had smuggled it in piece by piece. I plugged my iPod – the only other piece of modern equipment I owned, if you can still count first generation nano as ‘modern’ – into my speakers and turned them up loud, then settled into my computer chair. 

I didn’t know why, but I wanted to know more about Mr. Dunmer. There was just something weird about him – something in my gut told me he wasn’t an ordinary teacher. Of course, I could have just asked him about himself, but getting chummy with teachers was definitely not high on my to-do list. So I did the next best thing – Google.

Of course, a second after I typed “Mr. Dunmer” into the search box and hit enter, I realized that there was only a one in a billion chance I would come across the Mr. Dunmer I was looking for. I had no idea what his first name was. I searched the school’s website, but they didn’t have it in the listed faculty. They must not have had time to update it yet, I decided. I began to loose interest and turned my attention to saving the world from terrorists using only my keyboard and mouse. Normal people call that a video game.

The next two weeks can be described in one word – boring. I went to school, went home, went to sleep, and then repeated the pattern for fourteen long days. In that time, Mr. Dunmer was the only person with an interesting class – he brought in more ancient Roman artifacts, staged a mock battle on the front lawn with wooden swords and spears, and didn’t assign us any homework. Everyone labeled him as one of the ‘cool’ teachers. On the day my life changed forever, though, Mr. Dunmer wasn’t in class.

“He’s not here today,” one of the guys from our group, Aaron, warned us. “But man…” He gave us a bright grin. “We got one heck of a sub.”

His girlfriend, Miranda, hit him pretty hard for that, so I assumed the sub was a girl. My assumptions were correct – as we walked into history that day, we were greeted by “one heck of a sub.”

She didn’t look like she was that much older than us, really – nineteen, maybe. I figured she was working with the hands-on learning project at the local college. I hadn’t known they worked with our school, but since when does the staff tell us anything? She was pretty tall for a girl even in flats, with straight, layered blond hair and sharp eyes like Mr. Dunmer’s. And, as Troy was quick to point out, she had more curves than most supermodels.

She quickly crippled any hopes we had had for a free period by writing her name – Ms. McGregor – and an assignment under it. She turned back to us and said, in a beautiful British accent, “Start working. This assignment is due first thing tomorrow.”

Max – a jock who sat in the back with us – raised his hand. “Where’s Mr. D?” he asked without waiting to be called on. The kids had been quick to assign the nickname to Mr. Dunmer, and he hadn’t protested.

“He had to step out for a little while this morning. He’ll be back tomorrow, no doubt. Now, start working.”

She took a seat behind Mr. Dunmer’s desk and leaned back, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her pea coat. She was watching the clock just as wistfully as most of the kids in the class. Almost no one brought his or her book to history – Mr. Dunmer never made us use them. The time passed with agonizing slowness until I received a note from Troy.

Hey, it said. You free tonight? We’re all going to see Hill of Blood.

Mom wasn’t too enthusiastic when I asked her about it a few weeks ago, I replied. Plus, she’s got me under house arrest until that psycho who killed all those people is behind bars. I was about to pass it back to him, but then added, What time?

Troy grinned at me as he read it. 8:30. We can give you a ride, if you need one.

Naw, I’ll walk. Mom would probably notice a car coming and going from my place. We don’t get much traffic and she’s, ah... she’s weird like that.

As Troy was trying to pass the note back to me, Ms. McGregor appeared from nowhere and intercepted it. I hadn’t even noticed her getting up from her desk. She took the paper and looked it over, and I noticed that she had very pretty eyes – a kind of grayish blue that seemed to swirl as she read. I wondered again how much older than us she could really be – I had turned eighteen last month – and how she had managed to land a job as a sub here, of all places. It would have made more sense for the hands-on program to work with elementary schools, not places where the students would be almost as old as the substitutes.

“Mr. Faar,” Ms. McGregor addressed me, “you realize that I am technically supposed to inform your parents of this?” She waved the piece of paper under my nose as if I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Now, everyone has talents. Troy, he’s great at football. Already got signed on to be a quarterback at a big college. And Leah, she’s won every science fair since she was old enough to pronounce the words “quantum physics” and “nuclear”. Even my mom is a brilliant cook. Me? My talent is saying just the right thing to piss people off, especially people in authority.

“Give me a break,” I countered. “You, what, just turned nineteen? Just ‘cause you’re a teacher doesn’t mean you can boss us around.”

Ms. McGregor gritted her teeth, but didn’t counter my comment about age. “The fact that I am a teacher gives me the right to boss you around,” she snarled. Ticked off as I was, I had to admit that I liked the accent. “And you had better be happy that I’m not going to report this, because I have better things to do with my time than look up and call your mother to tell her you’re sneaking out to a film.” 

She locked eyes with me for a few seconds, and the clouds of grey seemed to swirl faster as she did so. I countered the gaze, folding my arms across my chest. We were broken from the contest by the ring of the bell, signaling the end of class. I brushed past her, catching the scent of lilac in her hair as I did so, and disappeared into the hall.

---

I’ve snuck out of our little apartment more than once. When your mom worries about everything with a fear that borders pretty close on paranoia, you have to develop methods to work around her. The one that’s never failed me yet is to eat supper early, then tell my mother I’m going to be studying for the rest of the evening for some test or another. I turn up my music and put it on repeat, then crawl out the window in my room. The uneven bricks outside make perfect handholds for me to climb down to Lester the Janitor’s tiny balcony a floor below us. He’s cool and lets me go through his apartment to get out – he still remembers what it’s like to be a kid, unlike some other adults I could mention. I return the same way I go. As of yet, my mother has never been any the wiser.

It’s about half a mile to the movie theater we always go to. The only good thing about not having a car is that it keeps you in shape. Our apartment is in the city district, so I’ve learned the quickest ways to get anywhere by trial and error, using the crazy network of alleyways to get where I need to go.

The movie, I remember, wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either. Just a hack-em-up action movie with no real plot. Despite Troy’s promise that “everyone” was going, it was just me, Leah, Troy, and his girlfriend, Jane. I wondered if the whole thing was a set-up – Jane was always trying to play matchmaker with me and Leah. Now, don’t get me wrong – Leah isn’t ugly. In fact, she’s kinda cute in the glasses and smart person way. She’s the most brilliant person I know. I’ve just never been attracted to her that way. We’ve been friends for so long that it would be like dating a sister. Jane, for some odd reason, just can’t get that picture.

We parted ways after the movie – Jane wanted us to go to a party at some guy’s house, but Leah didn’t like parties. I would have gone if it hadn’t been at Ed’s house – just about every time he hosted a party, half the kids there got busted by the cops for underage drinking. So I made my way back to my apartment complex through the alleyways. 

I’d walked through the alleys late at night before. They’re really not all they’re cracked up to be – sure, you run across a few hobos muttering to themselves from time to time, but the hobos are harmless. The most dangerous things back there are the dumpsters that haven’t been emptied for years. Usually.

I was about half-way home when the crazy old woman attacked me.

I was walking down a dark alley created by the space between two office buildings. The moon was the only light that shone there, but it was full tonight – more than bright enough to navigate by. I was passing a dumpster when this absolutely ancient old hag materialized out of the shadows right next to me. She was dressed like a modern day Goth would – torn black clothing, more piercings than you could count. The long, wispy locks of greasy hair that she still possessed had been dyed black as well. I made to step around her, but she caught my shoulder with one bony hand.

Her grip was impossibly strong for someone of her age. If my heart had been beating fast with surprise before this, it was now desperately trying to break free of my chest. The woman turned her head to one side as I tried – with no success – to pull away from her. She smiled a wide toothy grin at me – or at least, it would have been toothy if she had had all her teeth. As it was, there were more gaps than actual teeth, and the ones that were still there were black and rotting.

“You’ll make a nice collection to my trophies, won’t you, pretty?” she murmured in a creepy voice, and raised her right hand. In it, she clutched a silver knife.

I went into total panic mode. My knee lashed up and caught her a blow in the stomach, and I heard the wind rush out of her lungs with a woosh. That one moment was enough to loosen her grip enough for me to slip away and take off down the alleyway at a hundred miles an hour. I swear, I had never moved that fast in my life. But, as I turned my head, I saw her following right behind me, shrieking dementedly.

I hate to admit, no noble last thoughts ran through my mind. I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes – maybe that would happen later – and I didn’t suddenly start having deep theological questions. Honestly, I wasn’t thinking much further than, I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I faked a right and ran left at a cross section in the alleys – the whole city of Mordred was built like a maze. The route I had chosen curved around to the right and became… 

A dead end. The alley was blocked by a chain-link fence.

Without stopping to think, I hopped up on a dumpster and made a flying leap for the fence. I caught on at the top of it, hastily scrambling over and jumping down. I landed hard on my left foot, but the adrenaline running through my blood was enough to make me forget the impact pretty quickly. I had to get back to a main road, I knew that. But which way would lead me out of the alleys? I selected a path on the left at random, checking to see if I had lost the crazy old lady at the fence.

She was about three feet behind me.

Putting on an extra burst of speed, I skidded around another corner, grabbing trash bags, metal cans – anything I could get my hands on – and flinging them behind me, hoping to slow her down some. This was insane. I was running for my life from a grandma with a knife. This didn’t happen in real life. It couldn’t happen –

I hadn’t completed the thought before the old woman tackled me like a football player. I fell to the ground in a heap, but didn’t stop trying to struggle free. I lashed out with my foot, landing a good kick in her face. I saw a few rotted teeth fall out as she recoiled, and I tried to pull myself out of her grasp – but she was too strong. She lifted the knife high into the air and plunged it downward toward my heart. I caught her arm with both my hands and struggled to keep the point from inching closer and closer to my chest. The old woman possessed impossible strength, though. The blade came closer, and closer…

“Solaris!” a loud voice behind me roared, and suddenly I was blinded by an incredible flash of white light. The woman screeched in pain and reeled away from me. All I could think to do was rub my eyes. The whole world was a mix of black and red spots.

“Go back to the pit you came from, daemon!” the voice came again, and I heard a wet thunk. The woman gave one final shriek, which was cut off by another wet, gruesome sound. I continued to rub my eyes, trying to restore my vision. It was coming back very, very slowly – I could make out general shapes now. I could see someone standing over what I assumed was the body of the old woman – her head was now missing, though. Another body walked into my line of sight and knelt down to stay on my level.

“Shiathra, Samuel,” a soft voice I recognized – but couldn’t place – said to me. Somehow, I knew the word meant ‘be at peace’. “You will forget all of this ever happened. You tripped on your way back home from the movie and twisted your ankle. Because of that, you cannot climb back into your room. Your mother will catch you coming back in.”

The other shape chuckled with a man’s voice. “You really don’t like it when people break the rules, do you, Claire?”

“It’s better for him this way. His mother was only trying to protect him, anyway.”

“A lot of good it did me,” I muttered as I kept rubbing my eyes. Both the figures immediately whipped their attention back to me as I staggered to my feet.

“Is the blinding spell still working on him?” the man’s voice asked.

“It shouldn’t matter,” the woman replied. “I can see his eyes. That’s supposed to be enough for the Glamour to work.”

My mind still wasn’t working quite right. “Blinding spell? Glamour? What the heck are you people talking about?” Finally, my memory snapped back into its proper place. “Mr. Dunmer, is that you?”

“Impossible,” the girl whispered. I recognized the accent now – British. It was Ms. McGregor. “That’s just not possible.”

“Are you sure you did the glamour correctly?” Mr. Dunmer asked her. 

“Again, what the heck are you talking about?” My sight was starting to make out details again. I brushed a strand of my longish dark hair out of my eyes as I looked at Ms. McGregor – Claire, Mr. Dunmer had called her. “What the heck happened back there? Why was that old freak – holy crap!”

I took a step back from the place where the woman’s body had once been. The form was no longer human – the skin was red and gnarled, and spines twisted out of it from various places along its arms and legs. The blood leaking from its neck was black, and the head was that of a monster – four yellowing fangs protruded from its jaws, and black ram’s horns spiraled out of either side of its heads. The eye sockets were totally empty, as if whatever had originally filled them had been gouged out a long time ago.

“Impossible,” Claire repeated. “You can see it?”

“What do you mean?” I looked at her like she was crazy. “It’s right there! What the heck is that thing? Where did it come from? What happened to that crazy old lady? What the heck is going on?”

“But he’s at least eighteen,” Claire whispered as if I wasn’t there. “There’s no way… It’s just not possible…”

“What are you talking about?” I cried, but Mr. Dunmer cut me off.

“Later,” he said, his voice turning deadly serious. “We should leave here as soon as possible. There may be more about.”

“More what?”

“Daemons,” Mr. Dunmer replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “What else?”

That was when I knew I was really in trouble.

James Takes a Sick Day

Well, guys, I'm sick. And it's the worst kind of sick too, because I'm too tired to be awake whenever my eyes are open, and then too awake to go to sleep whenever they're closed. As a result, my brain is currently functioning somewhere in the realm of the ethereal - that is to say, I have extremely profound thoughts that I cannot string together in a comprehensive pattern to save my life.

So, since I can't really write an interesting blog post today (without exerting near-fatal levels of concentration) I decided I'd just post up some of my work for y'all to read. This is the beginning of the back story for one of the characters in the fantasy series that I plan to be my crowning work... assuming I get all the groundwork done before I die. The thing about creating great fantasy is that you have to create an equally great world. So, anyway, here you go... Tell me your thoughts when/if you finish, even if it's just something like "I really enjoyed this!" or "I want more!" or "THAT WAS HORRIBLE!!!" or "Why am I here again? I was looking for that other company..."

The First Story of Taiel Half-Elven

“Many stories have been told throughout the ages,” the tenor of the old man’s voice rang out across the seated, silent crowd. The fires in the Great Hall were burning brightly, staving off the icy cold that accompanied Midwinter’s Night. It was the one night that the Hall was open to the common citizens – men, women, and children had come from all over the city of Telborn to hear this man speak. Of course, the nobility had retained their seats at the head tables, but dozens of smaller wooden slabs had been brought in to provide a place for the commoners to put their food.

Even though food was scarce on the streets of Telborn at this time of year, very few had come to the Great Hall seeking a meal. The Church of the One passed out bread for the two weeks of Midwinter, after all, and the Chruch’s dining halls were not nearly so crowded. The people here were gathered to hear the bard, Ellith – the living legend who had traveled with and, some claimed, even instructed the First Prophet during the War of the Demon. He was a very old man now, though – his back was arched at nearly a ninety-degree angle, and he leaned most of his weight against an ancient wooden staff. Even so, his voice was still powerful enough to travel throughout the entire hall without difficulty.

“Many men have endeavored to recount deeds of old as they truly happened,” Ellith continued. “Many have sought out truth and found it – far more have sought out truth and found only myth.”

If any of the commoners in the Great Hall had heard the Bard speak before, they would have known that this was the way that Ellith began every one of his stories. Only two of the men present had been blessed enough to have listened to Ellith before, however, and both of them were nobles.

“The words I speak, however, are truth,” Ellith’s sightless eyes stared out past the crowd, as if seeing some great work of art invisible to those who could still view the world around them. “Tonight, I tell you a tale of honor, betrayal, cunning, and deceit. Tonight, I tell you the story of a great friend of mine – Taiel Half-Elven.”

A general intake of breath circled through the hall. Tales of the elves, here? In the Great Hall of Castle Telborn, at the very heart of the Commonwealth? There was nowhere in the city where one could say the word ‘Elf’ without an accompanying curse and spit. Many of men in the hall – commoners and nobles alike – quickly made religious signs to ward off evil. No one dared stop the Bard, however, so Ellith simply scoffed at them.

“Fool and bigots,” he growled across the hall. “It is appropriate that we discuss Taiel here, tonight, for it was on Midwinter’s Night seventeen seasons past that he first made a name for himself on the street.” The Bard looked up toward the ceiling, drawing a deep breath. “In fact, it was a night very much like this one…”

“Snow, snow, snow,” Michael growled, taking an angry swig from his mug of ale. “Does it never end? What was the One thinking, inventing something so stupid as winter?”

“I wouldn’t complain if I was you,” his friend Amos replied with a half smile. “If it weren’t for winter, there’d be no Midwinter. And if there weren’t no Midwinter, ale wouldn’t go for a half-copper a pint once a year.”

Michael grunted. “If it weren’t for winter, we wouldn’t spend half our time dragging dead drunks out of gutters like the guard is supposed to do.” He spat off the pub-house porch into the snow that was clustered thick and heavy on the street. “And the same goes for Midwinter. How many do you think ‘ll freeze to death tonight ‘cause they can’t make it home, ‘eh?”

“I’d reckon not a single one,” Amos replied evenly. “The drunks who freeze to death ain’t got nowhere to go home to – that’s why they die out one the streets.”

“Even so, it just ain’t right,” Michael sighed. “I mean, we’re Gilded, for the god’s sake. We shouldn’t be doing the work that those street-wipers should be.”

“Gold’s a good man,” his friend offered. “You don’t get to be a really influential gang by letting the corpses of drunks rot on your streets, after all.” Amos smiled at his younger companion. Though Michael drank and swore like a full-grown man, he had barely seen his sixteenth summer. The boy had sworn his allegiance to Gold and become a member of the Gilded only a few months ago. Amos could remember his first few months in the gang – a seemingly monotonous blur of days spent running errands for widows, shepherding orphans out of places that were unsafe to sleep, and, as Michael constantly griped about, disposing of the corpses of drunks who had collapsed in the cold and frozen to death.

Quality of life in Telborn depended completely on which gang you had sworn fealty to. The simple fact of life on the streets was that the King’s Guards, who were supposed to keep peace and order in the city, were the worst kind of gang – they stole from everyone, beat anyone who tried to stop them, and never protected anyone who was supposed to be under their protection. Not outside the castle walls, anyway. Amos had heard rumors that things were completely different in Castle City – the street runner’s name for the part of Telborn that was fenced in by the white-marble walls of Castle Telborn and populated by the rich nobility.

Some people claimed that, in Castle City, the guards were nice and civil and you didn’t have to steal just to keep food on the table. Amos wasn’t sure whether or not he actually believed them, but figured it didn’t really matter, as there was no chance he would ever make it into Castle City’s walls.

What he was sure of was that he had a home in the best possible part of Telborn. In number of actual gang members, Gold’s Gilded – or the Gilded, as they were usually called – was not the biggest. They did not have the greatest weapons, nor did they have the most convenient placing in the city to intercept rich merchants or nobles on their way to market. Never the less, the Gilded was the most influential gang in all Telborn – a position Amos credited completely to Gold. The Streetlord was a shrewd man – he had very few enemies, and a great number of friends. He made sure that the people who lived and worked on his turf were happy and cared for, and as a result every man who lived in Gold Town was ready and willing to take an arrow for him. Gold Town was at least twice as big as the next largest gang’s turf – but, even so, Gold accepted only the most talented men and women into active service for the Gilded.

The people loved Gold because he looked out for them. Junior gang member spent most of their time helping the poor who could not fend for themselves and doing what the King’s Guard was supposed to do. Only a select few actually pulled off heists for Gold – but the Gilded never stole from anyone but the rich. It wasn’t a well known fact, but Amos knew that Gold never kept a penny his gang made, not even to buy bread. Of course, his inner circle made sure that the Streetlord never went hungry, but Amos still admired the man’s kindness and humility. What was even more amazing to Amos was that Gold was a very young man – barely twenty-five seasons old, if even that. He had founded the Gilded nearly ten winters ago.

“Hey, old man, you listening to me?” Michael interrupted Amos from his thoughts. The older man shook himself, swiping some white snow out of his thick red beard.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“I think there’s a kid over there,” Michael pointed one gloved hand out toward a nearby alley. There was a shadow huddled in the darkness, out of the light of the pub-house’s torches.

“So there is,” Amos nodded, noticing the size of the figure. “Trying to hide, too. Probably hasn’t been in Gold Town very long.”

“There’ve been a lot of ‘em moving over from Red’s alleys,” Michael muttered. “Best tell him to get inside before he freezes to death, huh?”

“I’ll do it,” Amos said, “since you’re so afraid of snow.”

“Oh, stuff it, old man.”

Amos trotted down the steps to the pub, kicking his way though the knee-deep snow in the road. He approached the shadow of the shadow slowly, his hands extended in a peaceful gesture.

“Hey, there,” he said in a friendly voice as he reached the mouth of the alley. He could see the child a little more clearly now – he was thin as a rail, little more than skin and bone, dressed in nothing more than tattered rags. It was a common enough sight on Telborn’s streets. But, Amos thought, this child was slightly different – he was too angular, his cheek bones too high. His hair was a black mop that had probably never been cut with anything other than a knife, plastered to the top of his head by dirt and filth. “Aren’t you cold?” Amos asked him. “Would you like to come in near the fire, get warm?”

The boy’s brilliant blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What, so you can sell me to the Traders? No thanks.”

Amos shook his head. “This is Gold Town, kid. We don’t allow those slaving dirt bags on our turf.”

The boy looked him over once more, and Amos was shocked by just how intelligent the boy’s eyes really were. One thing Amos had learned on the streets was that you could always judge just how intelligent someone really was by a certain spark they had in their eye. It wasn’t very common in street runners and orphans.

“You don’t look like one of Red’s Legion,” the boy muttered. “You said there’s a fire in there? How much does it cost?”

Amos was taken aback. “Cost? What, has Red started charging people for being near a fire now?”

The boy just looked at him.

Amos whistled. “God’s head, kid. We don’t do stuff like that over here, especially not during Midwinter. Come on, you’re looking blue. We can’t have you catching the Ice and loosing any of your limbs, now can we?”

The boy grunted, but cautiously followed Amos back across the street and onto the pub-house steps. Amos waved Michael over and pushed the door to the taproom open, a relieving blast of heat rolling over them. The boy followed the two gang member inside with the utmost caution, warily investigating the bar for some sign of a trap. It was well past midnight by this point – the taproom that had earlier been filled to the breaking point had finally thinned out. The men who had drunk too much to even make it out of the door were slumped in puddles of their own ale and vomit, but all the other chairs in the taproom were empty. The boy quickly took up a vigil close to the fireplace.

“Oi, Melanie!” Amos called to the serving girl, who was busy polishing glasses behind the bar. “Get me a pint of hot cider for my little friend here.”

“I don’t have any money,” the boy said, taking a seat next to the fire.

“You don’t need any. It’s on me.” Amos didn’t know what it was about this boy, but something struck him as not quite normal. It wasn’t a bad thing – he just thought that there was something more to this boy than most of the orphans he saw every day.

“So, you got a name, kid?” Michael asked the boy.

He nodded solemnly as the serving girl handed him a mug of steaming-hot cider. “Taiel.”

“Taiel?” Amos repeated, scratching his head. “That’s an interesting name. Don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”

“Probably not,” Taiel replied with a shrug. “I’m not in the habit of giving it out.”

Michael chuckled. “We’ve got a smart-mouth here. Where’d you come from, Red’s place?”

Taiel nodded. “It took me a couple tries to get past the guards, but I made it,” he said.

“Guards?” Amos repeated. “You mean the King’s Guards?”

Taiel smirked. “Are you kidding? I could run circles around them at noon. No, I’m talking about Red’s Legion. They don’t want anyone leaving their turf anymore. Things are getting bad for them – riots, fighting in the gang. I figured I needed to get out before I ended up buried under one of the burning buildings.”

Michael looked over at Amos. “I didn’t know anything about this.”

“Neither did I,” Amos shook his head. “Why is Red having trouble all of a sudden? I mean, I knew it was going to happen to him sooner or later, but rebellions don’t usually pop up out of nowhere.”

Taiel smirked. “Oh, Red isn’t having any problems anymore. It’s his gang that’s fighting to hang on.”

Amos blinked, not understanding. “Red’s gang…?”

“Red’s dead,” Taiel said, rummaging under his rags and drawing out a long, thin knife. Amos had never seen anything quite like it – it was about half as long as a man’s arm, forged of a silver metal that reflected blue light in the fire. The hilt was wrapped with black cloth, the cross-guard fashioned from simple iron. The blade looked like it was only a little thicker than a piece of parchment, but the weapon still looked strong.

Amos had never seen anything like it – but he’d heard stories.

“God’s head,” he swore. “That’s Red’s Cutter.”

“No,” Taiel shook his head. “It’s Taiel’s Cutter now. I took it from him, then killed him with it.”

Michael shook his head. “You’re telling stories, kid.”

Taiel raised one eyebrow at him. “Tell me, how in the world would I have come by this if I didn’t take it directly from Red? You both should know about him. He never leaves his ‘palace’ – if you can really call that brothel a palace – and he never leaves this behind him. It’s his icon – it’d be like your Gold appearing without that little coin he’s always flipping.”

“He’s right,” Amos could hardly believe that a child of this age was capable of besting a man who had earned his place as a Streetlord in a thousand fights, but the blade was near irrefutable proof. “If you did kill Red, than you’ve done that entire part of the city a favor. He was a tyrant.”

Taiel shrugged. “He insulted my mother. I don’t put up with people who insult my mother.”

Michael laughed out loud. “How old are you, kid? Eleven summers? Twelve?”

“Ten,” Taiel replied. “I learned to look older than I am a long time ago. It keeps you safe.” He ignored the looks of surprise he received from both men. “Listen, I want to talk to your leader. I want to see Gold.”

Michael looked over at Amos. “I don’t know how that’s gunna work, Taiel. Very, very few people get to see the Streetlord.”

“I just killed the second most powerful Streetlord in this entire city,” Taiel looked him with annoyance. “Very, very few people have done that.”

“He’s right,” Amos said. “Gold will want to see this kid.”

“Thank you,” Taiel sighed, then stood up. As he did so, a piece of his hair came untucked from under his ear. Amos hadn’t noticed how the boy had artfully arranged his hair so that they hid the tips of his ears, but as soon as he could actually see them he understood why.

Michael swore and jumped out of his chair, his hand going to the knife at his belt. Before he could draw it, however, the little boy was behind him, clinging to his back with one arm around the bigger man’s neck and the other pointing the thin dagger at Michael’s neck. Amos wasn’t able to react at all – the image of the ears that drew up straight into dagger points had literally stunned him.

Some men will say that it was sheer luck that saved Michael’s life. Others would say that it was the plan of the One. Regardless of who or what orchestrated the event, a voice rang out across the almost-empty taproom.

“Peace, little elf-child! If you truly wish to see me, it would be unwise to begin your actions here in my town with the murder of one of the members of my gang.”

A young man, cloaked in a dark green robe had stepped into the pub, shaking snow from his boots. He had the yellowest hair of anyone Amos had ever seen, with sharp green eyes and a pointy nose. He wore a short sword at his hip, but his hands were nowhere near the hilt. His right hand was occupied with a gold coin, which he was constantly spinning through his fingers.

“Are you Gold?” Taiel asked.

“I am. Unfortunately, I seem to have missed your name.”

“Taiel,” the boy replied. “Taiel, Killer of the Streetlord.”

Gold smiled at him, though not unkindly. “Methinks that title is far too long for a boy of your size. What about Taiel Thin-Knife? Or Taiel Back-Clinger?”

Taiel scowled and let go of Michael, who stumbled away, swearing profusely.

“A title is useless if it does not garner respect,” the little elf growled.

Gold squatted down to the boy’s level. “When you are this short, child, I very much doubt that any title you bear will garner respect. Now, tell me, where did you get that dagger?”

Taiel took a step forward, raising his chin. “I took it from the Streetlord, Red, and killed him with it.”

“Did you really?” Gold smiled at him. “That’s quite impressive for someone your age. Why have you come to my town, then? Are you running away from Red’s gang?”

Taiel shook his head. “I wanted to join your gang.”

Both of Gold’s eyebrows shot up. “Why would you want to join us, little elf-child?”

“Because you knew my mother,” Taiel replied. “She told me you were a good man.”

“Your mother…” Gold looked to boy over again, then drew in a breath. “By the One. You’re Amithyl’s child.”

Taiel nodded.

“Then you are not Taiel of the Elves. You are Taiel Half-Elven.” Gold drew in a deep breath. “It is good you came to me, little one. There are very few, even among those who no longer pay any attention to the Church of the One, who do not bear ill-will toward you simply because of your blood. Unfortunately, anyone who wants to join my gang must prove himself –”

Taiel spun the knife he held expertly through the air, catching it easily on the flat of the blade and presenting it, hilt first, to Gold. “A Midwinter’s gift,” he said with a half-grin. “And, I think, proof of my abilities.”

Gold laughed and took the blade from him. “So much pride from one so little,” he chided. “Very well. I may be able to find a thing or two for you to do –” he sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “Right after you are given a proper bath. Filth breeds sickness, you know. I think Amos can show you where that can be done.” Gold looked up at Amos. “Tell anyone who questions you that he is under my protection, and should be treated with the same respect that you would show any other member of the Gilded. Anyone who lifts a hand to harm him because of his blood will be answerable to my wrath – am I understood?”

Amos nodded. “Yes, sir. If I may ask, though, sir, why…?”

“Why am I here?” Gold shrugged. “The same reason I go anywhere. The wind guides me.”

Without another word, the Streetlord turned on his heel and left the pub. None of them knew what the little half-elven boy would grow up to be. None of them knew of the plans that the One setting into motion even as they trudged back out into the snow. None of them knew that the coming of the Second Prophet was nearly at hand.