The goal is to eventually self publish the work, make millions of dollars, and retire young (or feed my family for a few months), so any help reaching this goal would be fantastic. In addition to the Avin Ores' story there are hundreds of other stories waiting to be written/finished, so I plan to continue to work on those here and there throughout the rest of the year as well. I'm especially excited for the Starflight Mystery and Babbage to get started.
In the grand tradition of Ex Nihilo I leave you with a snippet from a story I've begun working on temporarily entitled "Wall of Sound".
We were the last to arrive, our
gentle hum drowned out by the great cacophony of sounds rising and falling from
the individual fires of the camp. Drums
from all over the countryside, never having played together before, kept the
same riotous beat; bagpipes, the pride of tiny hamlets, and the threadbare
strings of violinist matched melodies to create a single organic sound that
ebbed and flowed as one player stopped to rest and another went to take their
place. As we wound our way deeper into
the camp the tune was at first mirthful, then ecstatic, and now turning
mournful.
Most had arrived days before from
the villages and cities close-by, while we of the Spring-Song Abbott were the
notes-come-lately owing to the fact that we had traveled the farthest. The early revelry was fading away as those
soulful notes sung or played by more mature soldiers began to dominate as the
eve of battle loomed and the soul turned to introspection.
We found our place near the center
of the camp; close to the Regent Lord as befit the honor given to our
trade. The lowest of us took to the care
of unloading our packs and setting our tents in the flickering firelight of the
camps around us, we would again be eating cold rations as we had been all these
days marching southward.
Maestro motioned for me to follow him to the
great pavilion arrayed in the dead center of the camp, each panel a brilliant
color that flowed easily into the next like a seamless composition. The inside was as bright as day, the light a
soft white beaming from a great ball at the height of the pavilion. The vivid colors outside paled in comparison
to the colors the eye surveyed inside.
Right lords, high elders, and powerful maestros were gilded in reds as
dark as clay, blues the hue of the sky, yellows like melted buttercups, browns
the color of tree bark, and whites as pure as snow.
Most wore their instruments, finely
crafted lyres intricately carved, drums sturdy and stout, goat horns spiraling
in impossible ways, and of course the Lord Conductor and his peerless cavalier
made of the darkest cherry wood, to look into its grain was to look into the
abyss. The Maestro and I carried no
instruments, save for the small flute I’d carried since childhood; our voices were
our contribution to this great host. We
stopped to listen to the decadent play of the herald’s songs, each one
delicately weaving the virtue of their lord or master into the greater song
that was the Regent Lord’s.
Bullwark Bullworthy saw us out of
the corner of his eye, which was more than we wanted him to see of us.
“The healers from
Spring-Song!” His voice a boom that
overpowered all others and a bass that shook the very earth they stood
upon. Bullworthy pulled Maestro into a
great hug, which I was fortunate to avoid, thanks to my lowly status.
“How many,” Bullworthy asked. He held Maestro to his sizable chest with
round muscular arms that seemed for too long for such a wide chested and short
man. He peered at Maestro with blue eyes
over rosy cheeks and a course black beard.
“Thirty.”
“Aye! Thirty!
We’ll have no need of them of course! Let me show you.” Without waiting for leave to do so,
Bullworthy held Maestro tight and walked him to the north end of the
pavilion. There a model of the
surrounding land had been formed down to the last detail and upon a great rise
was placed the flag of the Regent Lord.
“We’ll take the heights here, the
Regent Lord in the center, while myself will lead a portion of the left…
percussion of course.”
“Of course.” Maestro looked the terrain over; taking in
far more than a man like Bullyworthy would give him credit for. I too surveyed the coming battlefield, noting
the roll and baffles that were unique to that piece of land.
“Do you suspect they will use the
Orff Gambit,” Maestro asked.
The Bull’s response was
predictable. “They haven’t the ensemble,
let alone the voices to even attempt the Orff.
No they’ll use the Schubert for certain.”
“The opinion of a percussionist is
as insightful as the ….” Interjected a lithe young woman standing across from
them with cascading golden curls, pale white but smooth porcelain-like skin,
and dark green eyes like two emeralds embedded in coal.
“Minerva Volfsoong,” Bullworthy
managed to say through gnashed teeth.
“I’m surprised my name even lodged
itself inside that mind of yours and that you’ve resisted the urge to droll in
my presence.”
“I’d sooner cut out my tongue than
salivate at the presence of a harpy such as yourself.” With that he released Maestro, who had
remained in Bullworthy’s tight grip the whole altercation, and went in the
opposite direction of Minerva Volfsoong.
For her part, the woman gave
Bullworthy’s passage only the slightest sign of interest, but her eyes watched
playfully as he stormed away. “Delicious,”
she said lowly, perhaps hoping none heard her, but more than likely not caring
if they did.
“You worry about the Orff’s Gambit
Maestro Nutone? In this case the brute
was correct; they haven’t the resources pull off such an audacious move. But I sense you already know that and see the
same that I see.” Her translucent white
hand pointed towards a small ravine that ran along the right side of the hill
the Lord Conductor intended to make his stand upon. “The ravine here is protected from the
acoustics, the perfect avenue of attack.”
“Indeed it is.” The Lord Conductor, dressed in ivory white
shirt, vest, pants, and even ascot, was a vision of refinement. Not a hair was out of place either upon his
slicked-back jet black hair or upon his immaculate mustache. Behind him stood his equally famous bodyman,
the Cymbalist of Venna, (translate into Spanish Music is movement or some such);
a large man, devoid of all hair, and as stern as a Choir Mother.
“The field is the parchment upon
which we write the battle’s song, the battlefield is never perfect but we make
the best use of it that we can. The King
commissioned this composition and we will play our roles… …despite the
flaws.” The Lord Conductor turned his
dark brown eyes on me, a smile touching them.
“Isn’t that right brother?”
“Of course, my lord.”
Before I realized, my brother had
closed the gap between us and swept me up into a powerful hug. “Blood first, brother. Blood always first.”
“Of course, brother.” This elicited a hearty laugh from my brother,
six years my elder. Releasing me from
his embrace, he kept his arm around me and led me away from the others.
“How is your time at the Abby?”
“Well.”
“And your flute? Do you still have it?”
“I do.”
“I see. And did they clip your tongue besides the top
of your head,” My brother ruffled the
hair around my tonsure. “So that I can
expect only simple answers from my younger brother?”
“No. I…”
“Think your brother your better and
seek to stay in your lowly place before his radiance… yes, I get that a
lot.” My brother looked down at his
feet, an old habit that came out whenever he was troubled or uncomfortable –
which was rare.
“Well, my lord, you are the Lord
Conductor, most high soloist and defender of the realm, master of the cavalier
and other titles, ad nausium. Few know
that you’re afraid of heights, ate worms on more than one occasion, and
generally were a troublemaker of, what did Fenley call it?”
“A trouble maker of the highest
order.”
“Another title to add to your
impressive array.” We both stopped to
remember our father’s batman and our teacher, gone now ten years.
