The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 5

Here’s chapter 5 of THE WAY INTO CHAOS, on sale now. If you missed the earlier installments:

Tejohn

The weight of the creature astonished him. It slammed against the side to the cart with a sound Tejohn was sure signaled the death of them all, but the wood held.

Tejohn’s shoulder, however, did not. Great Way, the whole city must have heard it pop. The creature’s momentum dragged him down until the rail gouged deep into his dislocated armpit and the whole cart dipped like a rowboat about to capsize.

The driver must have anticipated that, because the cart didn’t turn over. Tejohn felt the others fall heavily onto his back, pinning him to the rail for a moment, until the cart rocked back the other way and they fell away from him. The pain was intense. Manageable, but intense.

The beast had hold of his bracer with its right hand, then reached for a higher grip with its left, hooking its claws into his flesh below the elbow. It was climbing his arm toward the prince, its jaws gaping.

Tejohn didn’t think, didn’t pretend he had time to strategize, didn’t waste his time on regret or resentment. He did his duty. He straightened his legs, sliding his torso over the rail. It wouldn’t take much. They were already overbalanced and the monster’s terrible weight would easily pull him over the edge. Fire and Fury, but his arm felt like it might tear right off. At least hitting the paving stones would be a quick death.

Tejohn would never see his children again.

There was a dizzying moment when he felt the full weight of both bodies drag him over the edge. His injured arm jerked, nearly shaking the beast free, but that didn’t matter, because it was already too late, he was going over–

Hands clasped onto him, pinning him to the wooden rail. Lar planted his feet against the rim of the cart, taking hold of Tejohn’s other hand. The Freewell boy slid down onto his legs.

“No!” Tejohn cried out. “No, don’t—”

But other hands were grabbing him, and someone–probably the Freewell girl–cried out “Col!” as though the boy was about to fall, too. The side of the cart dipped again; the driver cried out from the strain of keeping it upright.

The Freewell boy leaned over the rail with one of the scholar’s spikes in his hand. The creature pulled itself up again, its gaping fangs about to bite off Tejohn’s fingers, but the boy stabbed the point of the dart into the bottom joint of the monster’s thumb.

It lost its grip. With its other hand, it caught hold of a spoke as it fell. The wheel spun and the wood snapped. The creature plummeted away from the cart with an agonized roar.

The driver finally managed to tilt the cart back to fully horizontal, and they all flopped onto the floor and benches, one atop the other. Tejohn tried to keep his feet, but the prince still had hold of his good hand and they went down together. “Is everyone still here?” Lar shouted. “Did anyone fall out?”

“Pagesh isn’t here,” Timush said sulkily. Jagia threw her arms around Timush’s neck.

Tejohn gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out as the others bumped and jostled him. His forearm may have been bloody but it was his dislocated shoulder that was truly painful. What had seemed manageable in the face of imminent death now seemed to triple in power. He rolled away from the others, laying his face against rough wood. At least his shoulder was off the floor, and no one would bump him as they tried to crawl out from under him.

“Doctor!” Lar called. “Look to Tyr Treygar.”

Doctor Warpoole urged Ciriam out of the way, then she knelt beside Tejohn. She had the same flat, chilly expression she always wore. “I’m not much of a healer. The First Gift is the most complex, and unless your injuries are life-threatening, it would be safer to find a true medical scholar or a sleepstone.”

“You don’t need magic to yank my shoulder into the socket,” Tejohn said.

Doctor Warpoole looked nonplussed, but Lar came up behind Tejohn and took hold of his shoulders. “Col, take his wrist.” Lar’s voice was very close behind Tejohn’s ear, and it made him uncomfortable. “Don’t fret, my tyr. I may not have learned healing magic, but I’ve certainly done this before.”

The Freewell boy took hold of Tejohn’s bracer. The old soldier nearly snapped at him to let go, but the prince was so close and the tyr was nearly helpless with pain. “Don’t worry, my tyr,” Freewell said. “This will feel like a kiss from a beautiful girl.” He pulled.

Tejohn’s shoulder slid back into the socket; a wild rush of pain ran through him, then subsided. Tejohn cried out but he managed not to curse or swear, so it wasn’t too embarrassing. His shoulder joint felt as though it no longer fit together, but that was to be expected. With his good hand, he grabbed the Freewell boy’s wrist. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s get Lar away from here.”

“Yes,” Tejohn grabbed the rail and pulled himself into a sitting position. “Driver, set a course to the northeast. We need to reach Fort Samsit before dark.”

“No,” the Freewell girl said flatly. She looked at Tejohn strangely, as though he’d just sprouted horns. “We have to rescue the princess.”

Song only knew what the girl was talking about; Lar didn’t have a sister. What princess?

“Fire and Fury,” Lar said. “She’s right.”

“She’s a hostage,” the girl continued, “and she’s the only thing keeping the Alliance from crossing the Straim in force.”

The Straim. She was talking about the prince’s betrothed, the little Indregai girl. She’s a terror.

If the Indregai Alliance marched on the empire in force, the first place they would strike would be East Ford, where Tejohn had sent his wife and children. The thought of Teberr, his youngest, being devoured by one of the Indregai serpents made his skin crawl.

But the next words he said were, “We can’t risk it. We have to get the prince to safety.”

Lar leaned over the edge of the cart, looking down at the city streets. Tejohn did the same. Everything was blurry to him, but he could see moving colors that had to be fleeing commoners and the bounding, purple-furred monsters chasing them from building to building. The beasts crashed through windows and doors, falling onto young and old alike. The city was full of terrified screams.

“Lar,” the Freewell girl said, “Not even Peradaini spears can fight enemies on the inside and outside at once.

“Caz is right,” Lar said. “Driver, change course toward Eastgate. She’s in a high-peaked house on the eastern square with two chimneys in front.”

Tejohn suddenly felt terribly weary. The cart was already overfull, and they had to get free of Peradain now or lose the chance forever. “My prince, you must withdraw. The princess has her own people; let them be responsible for her.”

“She is betrothed to me,” Lar said as the driver angled the cart eastward. “I am one of her people, and she is one of mine.”

Back toward the palace, Tejohn could see several dark smudges against the sky that looked like columns of smoke. There were no scholars to suppress the fires; they had more pressing things to do.

The cart flew low and close enough to the city wall that Tejohn could just make out the soldiers stationed along the top. None carried spears or bows—had the clerk in the Scholars’ Tower failed to get her message out? The beasts hadn’t made it this far yet, but the streets were in a tumult. Citizens milled about, some fleeing with sacks full of possessions, others loading oxcarts with clothes and other minor treasures, others pleading for news. A crowd of thirty men and women marched toward the palace with hammers, billhooks, hatchets, and other makeshift weapons. They didn’t know what was happening, but they were going to confront the threat.

Of course, the gates had been closed for the Festival. Only foot traffic was allowed through the Little Gate, and that, too, would soon be shut.

Tejohn’s throat became tight. What were they doing? He wanted to shout at them to drop everything, grab their children, and run.

He shut his eyes and fought back a rising wave of rage and fury. Tejohn had not wanted to parade his wife and children in front of Co and the other Evening People as though his life was just another mime for them to enjoy, so he’d sent them east. But if he had not?

They would have been down in the courtyard with the rest when the portal opened. Fire and Fury, he would have lost another family, and this time, he would have seen it happen. It was simple luck that had saved their lives.

“There it is!” Lar shouted, pointing to a building on the other side of the cart.

Tejohn struggled to his feet. The pain of moving was intense and getting worse. He needed a sling.

“Are you sure this is correct?” Doctor Warpoole asked. “Everything looks so different from up here.”

“I can’t land on that,” the driver said. Then he added, as a nervous afterthought, “My prince.”

Tejohn craned his neck to look at the house. It had been constructed in the high mountain style of the southern Indregai people so the princess would feel at home, but the driver was correct. There was no flat place to set down, even if the clay tiles could support their weight. “We can’t set down in the street,” Tejohn said. “The people would mob us.”

“No matter,” Lar said. He gestured for the tether rope at the front of the cart, and the clerk uncoiled it for him automatically, as though he’d given her a command. “Just get us low enough.”

The last Italga prince, dangling on a line high above the city? No. Absolutely no.

“I’ll go first,” the Freewell boy said.

“Then me,” the Bendertuk put in.

Bittler Witt, crouching quietly in the corner, reluctantly began to stand but Lar waved him back. That boy couldn’t climb down a rope, let alone climb up again. “I will go first,” the prince said. “She’s my betrothed. Col and Tim can come with me, but Bitt and the scholars will stay with the cart.”

He dropped the rope over the side. Tejohn didn’t like this at all. “My prince, you mustn’t—”

“I hope you aren’t offering to go in my place,” Lar said with a glance at Tejohn’s shoulder. The prince’s tone was sharp.

“Of course not, my prince,” Tejohn said, changing tactics quickly. “But we don’t need to lower anyone down, just the rope. Let her grasp it and we will pull her up.”

The Freewell girl leaned over the rail and shouted, “Get a ladder and send the princess up to the roof! Quickly!” The woman she was shouting at, a guard in a snow-white Alliance uniform, looked startled, then ran into the high-peaked building.

The prince nodded at Tejohn. “You make sense, my tyr. I’m just worried that they will send their entire entourage.”

The white-clad woman ran back out of the house, this time with several other guards. They tilted their heads up to stare at the cart, but there was no ladder in sight.

“The roof!” the Freewell girl shouted. “Get the princess on the roof!”

Several others began to shout the same thing. The Indregai guards milled around and looked confused. People poked their heads out of the windows, looking up at the cart as it floated down toward the building. Tejohn recognized their body language and expressions: they looked like villagers gossiping about the local madmen.

One of the monsters charged into view, racing around the side of the building with the speed of a grass lion on the attack. Everyone in the cart cried out in fear and despair. In the street, there were new screams of terror. They crowds surged toward the Little Gate as the Alliance guards threw themselves against the monster.

It was no good; the creature knocked them aside like empty cups, then ran among them, biting each of them, one after another.

A second monster charged out of another alley toward the Little Gate, and a third burst into the gate house.

“We’re too late!” the driver said, his eyes wild with fear. “We’re too late!” He started to raise the cart into the air.

Lar threw his leg over the rail. “Lower us to the roof! Now!”

The Freewell girl snatched four spikes out of Doctor Warpoole’s quiver and handed one to Tejohn. “I don’t think I have what it takes to bully him,” she said.

Bullying? Clearly, the girl didn’t understand what it meant to command. Tejohn took the dart in his good hand and held the point a few handwidths from the driver’s belly. “What is your name?”

The calm in Tejohn’s voice seemed to capture his attention. “Wimnel Farrabell, my tyr.”

Both men watched the prince move below the cart and out of sight, his quiver full of darts jangling. The Freewell boy climbed on after him. Tejohn’s guts were bound as tightly as a criminal bound for the gibbet but he kept his voice calm. “Farrabell, eh? The Farrabells were Sixth Festival, as I recall. Tyrs in the west?”

“It was the west then, my tyr, but it’s all Waterlands now. My people were nobles, chieftains, and generals until the Battle of the Fish Pens. Stripped of our rank, my tyr, but always loyal.”

Tejohn knew the story. “Loyal but not brave,” Tejohn said. The Bendertuk boy went over the rail onto the rope. “With a good name to secure a safe, cushy job for you.”

The driver took a deep, shaky breath. “I will do my duty, my tyr. I will.”

“Then teach this girl how to operate these levers,” Tejohn said, “I want someone to know how to fly the prince to safety if I have to ram this spike into your heart.”

Read Chapter 6.

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 4

Here’s chapter4 for THE WAY INTO CHAOS, on sale now. If you missed the earlier installments:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Cazia

Without any warning, a creature burst through the portal, bounding onto the stone dais and sniffing the air. It was as large as a mountain bear, but its frame was almost human. Its long arms and legs both ended in monstrous hands, and it was covered with pale purple fur.

It roared at them, displaying the fangs of a grass lion.

Cazia glanced up at Treygar, absurdly hopeful that she would see him smiling as though this was the most normal thing in the world, or maybe a prank they played on the young folk every Festival, but he was gaping in stunned surprise like everyone else.

Someone screamed. The beast glanced around the dais, roared again, and launched itself onto a scholar. The man fell back as the creature sank its fangs into his arm, then tore it from his shoulder.

Panic erupted in the courtyard. Bear men began pouring through the portal like water from a leaking bucket. Guards in civilian clothes charged forward in a line, swinging their bracers at the creatures’ heads.

But the monsters knocked them flat like they were rag dolls. Men and women screamed as the creatures bit into them. More beasts bounded over the line, landing directly in plumes of fire erupting from the scholars’ hands.

The creatures fell back from the wall of flames, letting the scholars advance. Could the scholars push them back through the portal? If only I could be down there with them, defending the king and queen.

Then one of the beasts lifted a guard over its head and threw him into the jets of fire. He struck two scholars, knocking them completely off the dais. Beasts charged through the gap and swarmed the scholars from all sides, tearing them apart with their teeth and claws. Goose bumps ran up and down Cazia’s whole body and she suddenly felt lightheaded.

Servants, merchants, performers, all of them mobbed the gates or jammed the entrances to the palace in panicked mobs. Screams came from everywhere.

The king stood between the queen and the creatures, swinging his heavy chair in a powerful downward stroke. At the same moment, a jet of bright fire shot from the queen’s hands, so focused that it cut one of the creatures in half. The long spears of the so-called athletes in the yard suddenly thrust through the confusion, stabbing into the monsters surrounding the king and queen. A scholar, wounded but still alive, created a huge stone block–bigger than any Cazia had ever seen–between the royal couple and the beasts.

It didn’t matter. One of the bear men, though punctured with three long spears, knocked the king aside with a swipe of its claw. He fell into the surging mass of creatures. The queen stepped backward, fell off the dais and landed on her neck.

“MOTHER!” Lar screamed. Cazia saw the shock and anguish on his face. For a moment, the pain was so clear in his expression that he looked as if he had been murdered, too.

Treygar grabbed hold of him to stop him running out of the garden into the melee.

Cazia realized she had been frozen in place, watching the chaos and brutality as though it was just a mime. The king had vanished. The queen lay still in the dirt. The creatures bounded from the dais into the yard with the speed and grace of grass lions, running down those too slow to have escaped. Cazia had to do something. Anything. She was in danger. Her friends were in danger.

“My prince,” Treygar shouted, “we must retreat!”

“I can help!” Lar shouted back.

“We can help!” Colchua said.

“NO!” Cazia shocked herself by the force behind her response.

“My prince, we are overrun! You must withdraw!”

Timush and Pagesh grabbed Lar’s arms as though they were about to drag him away. Cazia heard scuffling on the stone below the railing and began the motions for a flame spell of her own. Out of habit, her hand motions helped bring out the correct clarity of thought, the colors, the swell of emotion the spell required.

One of the beasts reached the top of the railing, pulling itself up and roaring. Cazia finished just in time, feeling the flame rush from the space between her hands into the creature’s open mouth.

Treygar spun, moving much faster than she would have thought possible for such an old man, and slammed his bracer down on the creature’s head.

The beast’s gray blood splattered over them both. These creatures are full of magic. I can feel it. For one absurd moment, Cazia was overwhelmed with dismay over her ruined dress, then she glanced over the rail. The creature was still plummeting to the paving stone below, but two more were climbing up.

She turned back to the others but didn’t have to say anything. Her brother seemed to read her mind. He and Timush grabbed the ends of a stone bench and lifted.

Treygar grabbed the prince’s arm again. “No!” Lar said. “I can’t abandon everyone!” Colchua and Timush dropped the bench over the railing. Painful yelps and heavy crashes followed soon after.

“Lar!” Cazia shouted at him. “Stoneface is right! Do what he says or you’re going to get us all killed!”

Treygar pointed at Pagesh. “You’re in charge of the little girl! Let’s move!”

Pagesh scooped up Jagia, who immediately burst out crying. The courtyard was filled with screams, prayers, and monstrous roaring. Treygar began to run eastward through the garden, heading toward the promenade and the graveyard menagerie. Did he plan to go into the palace and escape through the Sunrise Gate?

“Stop!” Cazia called. “We can’t go that way; they’re already inside the palace. We have to go there.” She pointed toward the Scholars’ Tower, pulling Lar and the others after her.

Treygar didn’t argue. He pushed forward, letting the young people run ahead. Col and Timush led the way, sprinting toward the tower door. Lar ran just behind them, with Treygar close on his heels. Pagesh was a strong runner, but not when she had a hysterical child to carry. Treygar glanced back at her, clearly worried, but he didn’t pause to help. Cazia ran last, regretting her decision to wear this big, beautiful dress and ignoring her hat when it blew off her head.

I am running for my life inside the Palace of Song and Morning.

This was happening. It was happening right now. Cazia almost stopped to look around; she’d just seen the king and queen murdered, and she might be next. This was a moment for histories, songs, and plays, and she was actually living it. She felt strangely detached and incredulous.

The servant girl who had tried to dump dirty water onto her feet—an Enemy—ran by them, her eyes wild with terror.

“Don’t you shut that door!” Col shouted. A weedy-looking scholar was pushing the heavy door to the Scholars’ Tower closed. His eyes bulged in terror, and for a moment it seemed he wouldn’t obey. Treygar shouted at him, and he hesitated long enough for Colchua to throw his shoulder into it and fling the door wide.

“To the top!” Treygar yelled. Good. He’d already figured out why Cazia had chosen the tower. A pair of frightened old scholars demanded someone Explain Everything Immediately, but Timush shoved them aside. They all ran for the stairs.

“Bar that door!” Cazia yelled back at them. Doctor Whitestalk’s desk was empty. “Shutter the windows!”

“Wait!” Pagesh shoved Jagia into Cazia’s arms. Her eyes were wild and a little sad. “I’m going to find Zilly.” She sprinted out of the tower, shouting, “Bar the door behind me!”

One of the old men slammed the door and threw the bolt. Lar, Col, and the other boys had already vanished up the stairs. No one but her and Jagia had seen Pagesh go. Zilly? It took a moment for Cazia to remember that was the name of her maid.

Jagia’s face was uncomfortably close to her own: the girl had stopped crying, but she looked pale and stunned.

Cazia set her down. “Can you run?” She nodded. “Go! I’ll be right behind you.”

“My prince!” a voice farther up the stairs shouted. “What can we do to help?”

The girls caught up with the others in the administration chamber, and Cazia was the last to push inside. The speaker was Doctor Warpoole, the Scholar Administrator for the entire empire. She was more of a functionary than a spellcaster, but she had been formidable in her younger years. Cazia didn’t much like the woman but she hoped to be her someday, or at least serve the empire in her place.

Two other young women sat at desks beside her, styluses in hand. They looked utterly stunned. Cazia knew their names–Ciriam Eelhook, Barla Shook–but she had never spoken to them. They were Enemies, and right now, they were terrified.

Lar looked at Cazia blankly. Great Way, he’d just seen his parents die.

“The Evening People did not come through the portal,” Treygar said. “We’ve been invaded by some kind of monster. The king and queen were lost within moments. The palace is overrun and the prince must be flown out of the city at once!”

Doctor Warpoole spun on her heel and yanked on a braided cord beside her desk. “That will summon the cart. What else can I do?”

“Can you shut the portal?” Cazia blurted out.

“Alas, child, I don’t think I can.”

Cazia yanked a quiver of iron darts off the wall and tossed it to the prince. He caught it and, as if shocked out of a trance, slung it over his shoulder. Cazia took down a second quiver, then a third.

“Those are relics,” Barla said, “Tyr Cimfulin Italga used them in the Clearing of Shadow Hall.”

Cazia had heard that story, hadn’t she? Something about a scholar soldier and a swarm of giant spiders. “Lar and I are his descendants,” she said. It occurred to her that she had campaigned for one of these clerk positions last fall, but Shook had been chosen instead. “Let’s say we inherited them.” She slung the quivers over her shoulder.

Treygar started pushing Lar toward the stairs. “Uncover your mirror, doctor. Tell the commanders stationed outside the city to arm themselves. Then—”

There was a loud boom from the bottom of the tower. The creatures were trying to batter their way in.

“Go!’ the administrator yelled. “Barla, send an alert to Beddalin Hole and have them spread the word. Ciriam, you’re with me.”

Treygar had already herded the prince up the stairs, with Colchua shoving Timush and Bittler after. Cazia had been left in charge of the little girl again.

Barla and Ciriam exchanged looks. One had been ordered to flee with the prince and one had been ordered to stay behind, but the shocked expressions on their faces were identical.

Cazia pushed Jagia up the stairs; Ciriam and Doctor Warpoole followed. Cazia heard the cloth being yanked off the mirror behind her, but she did not look back. She did not want to see Doctor Shook’s expression again.

Cazia and Jagia ran upward, passing one empty floor after another, not daring to pause long enough to do more than glance through the narrow tower windows at the chaos below. The rest of the tower seemed empty; everyone had gone down for the Festival.

There was a sound of shattering wood from below, followed by roars of flame and screams. Ciriam shrieked, “Hurry! Hurry!”

The muscles in Cazia’s legs burned, but the thunder of heavy footsteps below urged her onward. Jagia started to flag as they came near the practice room; Cazia was tempted to scoop the girl up, but she knew that would be slower still.

There was another scream from below, a woman’s this time, and much nearer. Doctor Warpoole, who was bringing up the rear, barked, “Don’t look back!” and Cazia knew she wasn’t talking to her.

The last few flights of stairs were made of wood and the noise of their stamping was oppressive and alarming. They might as well have goaded the bear-things to chase them. “Almost there,” Cazia said to Jagia. “Keep going.” For some reason, offering encouragement to the little girl made her feel stronger. It gave her hope.

She heard Treygar shout from the effort of throwing open the heavy trap door. It slammed against the roof with a boom that echoed through the entire tower. The grunts and roars and heavy treads on the stairs below grew louder and louder. Treygar ran out of the top of the stairs into the gray daylight, and the Prince stumbled out behind him, wheezing and clutching his sides. Col, Timush, Bittler, then Jagia and Cazia and the two scholars all spilled onto the slab roof. Bitt fell to his knees, wheezing and pale. Cazia and Col raced around to the far end of the trap door and lifted it.

“Not yet!” Doctor Warpoole yelled. She started a spell Cazia had never seen before: her gestures were elaborate and unusually constrained. What was she doing? Then she pushed her palms outward as she exhaled, and a plume of green mist billowed down through the trap.

The wooden stairs dissolved like snow thrown into a boiling pot. One of the beasts leaped upward into the daylight, fanged jaws gaping. The moment it entered the mist, the fur and flesh of its face boiled off its skull. Its bloody bones fell into the gap made by the missing stairs and it disappeared down into the tower.

Doctor Warpoole nodded at Cazia and Col, but her brother was the only one to shoulder the heavy door into place. Cazia could only stare in shock.

That was not one of the Thirteen Gifts. Doctor Warpoole, the scholar administrator for the entire Peradaini empire, had just cast a wizard’s spell.

The trap slammed into place and Timush threw the bolt home. Then he grabbed Cazia’s elbow. His black hair was matted with sweat. “Where’s Pagesh?”

There was a floating cart fifteen feet from the edge of the tower. It wasn’t large–a six-person design, at best, but the single black disk above it was huge. It would be fast, and it would fly high.

However, the driver looked at them with blank, terrified eyes. Tyr Treygar shouted orders for the man to pull into the dock to let them aboard, but he didn’t respond. The driver seemed to be frozen in shock.

Timush’s huge, dark eyes were just as wild and sad as Pagesh’s had been before she ran out of the tower. “Out there. She—”

“WHAT?” He yanked her arm painfully, spinning her around. “You left her behind? How could you leave her behind!” His face was right beside hers as he screamed, and she could see the patch of pimples on his forehead.

“Pagesh abandoned us!” Jagia shouted. “She left us all alone!”

She left to save Zilly, Cazia almost said. She chose to risk everything to save her rather than flee to safety with you. But she couldn’t say that to Timu. Everything was already too awful. Cazia yanked her arm out of his grip. “Jagia loved Pagesh as much as you did. Maybe you two should look after each other.”

“Oh, this will not do,” Doctor Warpoole said. She stepped up to Cazia and lifted both quivers over her head as though taking a sharp knife from a child. She gave one to Ciriam and, as she slung the other over her shoulder, drew out a long, nasty-looking spike.

The driver may have been terrified out of his wits, but he knew better than to defy a scholar with a quiver full of darts. He angled the cart so that it floated toward the tower deck.

Cazia ran around the perimeter of the tower, looking down the sides. Three beasts were climbing the pink stone wall. “Clerk!”

After receiving a nod from Doctor Warpoole, Ciriam ran to Cazia’s spot on the western end of the tower. “Ciriam, right?” Cazia asked, immediately remembering that she should call her Doctor Eelhook. Too late now. “That one is highest. Start with it.”

The clerk looked dumbfounded. Cazia slapped the outside of the quiver the scholar had just taken from her, and the woman jolted into action. She drew a dart and, leaning queasily over the crenellation, shot it down the side of the tower.

It went wide, skipping off the pale pink stone. Ciriam drew another, did the spell again–more shakily this time–and shot a spike over the beast’s shoulder.

Cazia plucked a dart from the quiver at the girl’s hip and shot it down the side of the wall, letting her frustration and anger lurk behind the carefully built mental state required for the spell. It struck the beast’s shoulder, sinking into its torso so deeply that it vanished.

The creature roared, and for a moment, she thought it wouldn’t fall. When it did, Cazia turned to the clerk and held out her hand.

Ciriam was about Pagesh’s age and height, but where Pagesh was tanned and strong from endless days spent outside in fields, the clerk was pale and squint-eyed, with weak, bony hands. She didn’t even know how to aim a dart spell properly.

But she wasn’t about to give up that quiver.

“Let’s go!” Treygar called. He ushered the prince onto the cart first, of course, then let Bittler, Timush, Jagia, and Col climb on. Doctor Warpoole waved at Ciriam and Cazia, and they sprinted toward the cart.

Cazia took the opportunity to pluck three more darts from Ciriam’s quiver.

As they climbed into the cart, the driver screwed up his concentration and forced it upward. They swung up and out, all of them packed in elbow to knee. Timush crouched in the front corner with Jagia in his lap, both gripping the rails with white knuckles. Bittler and Col were jammed into the back, almost falling onto the driver. The doctor shrugged, squeezing Cazia into the corner; apparently, she didn’t like to be crowded. Old Stoneface gave Doctor Warpoole a dark look as she settled in; clearly, he would have preferred to have someone else in her place.

The wheels of the cart passed over the crenellation just as the first of the beasts reached the top of the tower. Doctor Warpoole drew a dart from her quiver and began her spell, her hands moving faster than any spellcaster Cazia had ever seen. Ciriam followed her example, but Cazia was behind them and couldn’t help.

The beast bounded to the edge of the tower, then leaped at them. Doctor Warpoole’s spike struck the beast on the crown of its head, gouging its scalp but otherwise bouncing off. The clerk didn’t lead the beast enough and her shot passed uselessly behind it.

The monster seemed almost is if it could fly, clawed hands reaching out, fanged jaws gaping. Cazia thought the whole world fell silent, although she knew the beast must have been roaring, and the people around her must have been screaming. She had no time to cast a spell of her own and no space to make the gestures.

The beast—with its bristling fur, impossible size, and nearly human face—was going to make it into the cart with them.

Stoneface shoved the prince aside and swept his arm backhanded at the beast’s outstretched claws. He managed to batter its hands aside, preventing the monster from getting a grip on the rail, but it caught hold of his forearm instead.

The beast slammed against the side of the cart with a crash so loud, Cazia was sure the planks would shatter, then the whole thing tipped to the side.

There were screams and cries of anguish all around her–Cazia might have screamed herself, she wasn’t sure. Everyone fell toward the lowered rail of the wagon, and it was only Timush’s quick hands that kept Jagia in the cart.

Doctor Warpoole knelt low, keeping her center of balance below the rail. She held Ciriam down with her, but Cazia’s weight nearly sent them both over the edge.

Treygar fell flat on his stomach on the edge of the railing, clearly being dragged down by the tremendous weight of the beast. The only one still standing was the driver, and that was because he had been tied into place. His face was twisted in concentration as he tried to right the cart and gain altitude.

Cazia couldn’t see the beast below the level of the cart, but she heard it roar. She pulled her dart from her sleeve. She didn’t think she had time to cast a full spell before the creature climbed over the rail, but she knew what to do with the sharp end of a spike.

Lar and Col reached for Stoneface to drag him back into the cart, but the old man lunged upward to throw himself over the rail.

Read Chapter 5.

So. Many. Things. To. Do.

Lots going on here. I’m going to do a brief recap to share news and try to catch up.

1) If you’ve been waiting for my rpg game tie-in novel to be released, the publisher is selling it on their website right now. KING KHAN. If you buy the paper version, you get the digital version gratis.

2) Not an hour ago I put my wife on a bus to the airport. She’s spending three weeks back east to attend a family wedding, make some tough decisions about her late father’s artwork, and generally get some time with her siblings. There was a lot to do to get her ready and out the door, but now I’m a single parent again, so things family/house obligations are not exactly going to shrink.

3) If you missed the announcement yesterday, my Kickstarter passed the $30,000/ 300% of goal. Which is a lot of whoa and thank you and I hardly know what to do with myself.

4) If you haven’t backed but are thinking about it, one of the stretch goals is based on new backers that show up starting this week. I’ve been talking about growing my audience for a long time, so new readers are welcome

5) As a followup to number 4, my son has made some pixel art to demonstrate the progress of the stretch goals, but I need to fix it up and post it before we actually reach the goals. Time is flying by

6) I owe a ton of responses to emails and things. I’m sorry. I’ll catch up as quickly as possible.

Now, back to working on my stuff.

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 3

Here’s the third chapter of THE WAY INTO CHAOS, on sale now. If you missed the earlier installments:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Tejohn

Lar’s valet had laid out three suits for the prince to choose from. While Tejohn stood against the wall and waited, they discussed each at length. Eventually, the prince combined two, choosing a bright red linen coat with a green-and-yellow-checked shirt. Tejohn wouldn’t have dressed a clown in those colors, but the prince could do as he liked. He always seemed comfortable with his choices, even when he made them sober. The queen wouldn’t like it, but she had asked him to make sure the prince arrived sober, not fashionable.

Eventually, they made their way into the main courtyard. Controlled chaos was a kindly way of describing the work being done there, and the king and queen were in the thick of it.

“My prince! There you are!” Kolbi Arriya raced up the stairs and clutched at the prince’s sleeve. She was the king’s shield bearer, which had once been an honorable position for a talented and well-born young warrior, but in these luxurious imperial times had become a counselor and royal secretary.

She scowled at the prince’s clothes, then at Tejohn. Kolbi herself wore the Italga gray and red, although her clothes were rumpled and soaked through with rain, sweat, or a combination of both. She would not be joining the royal family at the dais looking like that. “You know where to go, my prince? Be sure to let Sincl know if you want to sing first, last, or somewhere in between. He will accommodate you.” She rushed breathlessly toward the food tables without waiting for a response.

Lar laughed, then stopped at the top of the stairs and looked out over the throngs of people. The king covered his face with his hand and turned away in irritation at something one of the chief servants was telling him; the queen stepped in smoothly to resolve the problem. Lar seemed to find the whole thing amusing. “Twenty-three years between Festivals. Do you think my bride will do as well?”

Lar was betrothed to the daughter of the head chieftain of the Indregai Alliance. The girl lived inside the Morning City and was as much a hostage as the Freewell children. When she came of age, they would marry, forging a peace with the people of Indrega and allowing some troops stationed in East Ford to be relocated to the turbulent west.

Tejohn could not help but notice that the prince had asked if his bride would organize the Festival as well as his parents, as though he himself couldn’t be bothered. “I have not met her, my prince.”

“She’s a terror. Only twelve years old and already thinks she’s sitting on the throne.”

Tejohn nodded politely. Typically, no foreigners would be allowed inside the walls of Peradain at all. She and her retainers would be locked up for the next ten days in her big, comfortable house with a watchful guard all around. She would not get within five hundred feet of the Evening People until her marriage was consummated and she’d proven herself loyal to the empire. If that was even possible.

Tejohn gestured toward the royal dais. “Perhaps we should take our place.”

“Not up there,” Lar said, then began moving through the crowd toward the yard below. “I want to wait in the pen with the other singers.”

“My prince—”

“Not now, my tyr!” Lar was unexpectedly fervent. Almost fierce. “This…production my parents are putting on may please the Evening People and it may please the merchants and generals and scholars and…and everyone. But I am here as a singer. I will sing my song–which is not a bawd, I assure you–and then I will find a jar of wine and do as little as possible for ten days.”

Tejohn studied Lar’s expression. For this, he finally shows some spine? “My prince—”

“After my song, I will no longer need a chaperone and you can go where you please, but right now, you will come with me to the singers’ pens. I’ll wait there, just as you once did.”

They crossed the courtyard and entered the winter garden at the north end of the yard. Singers and musicians, most of them looking ill-rested and underfed, lounged on benches or sat beside the evergreen shrubs. It was obvious none recognized the prince, because none thought to jump up and offer him their seat. Lar didn’t seem to notice; he moved to the wall overlooking the courtyard and dais.

Sincl found them by the rail and solicitously arranged for the prince to sing the last song of the day, at his request. One of the musicians began to nervously pluck at his lap harp, and Sincl rushed toward him to give the man a sharp kick. Tejohn was glad to see his back; the performance master was a jittery, sweating, nervous wreck.

Down in the courtyard, the tents had been erected long ago, and most of the commotion now centered around the food tables. Servants arranged identical delicacies on each of the six tables: sourcakes, onion soups, pickled compote, leaf rolls, wet rice, and more. The Evening People did not eat animal flesh, so for the rest of the Festival, there wouldn’t be a roasted chicken breast, boiled snake, or stuffed lamb’s heart to be had for any amount of gold anywhere in the Morning City.

Palace guards came through the garden, searching the singers for weapons. Their commander was named Kellin and he was an old friend of Tejohn’s. They were of an age, often playing cards or sparring in the gym. He seemed on the verge of asking a question, if only he could think of a way to say it.

Tejohn knew what the question would be and he didn’t think he could bear to hear it. “I’m here as the prince’s guard,” he said abruptly. “I have no song to sing.”

Kellin nodded, looking a bit disappointed. Never a man for frivolous words—or serious ones—he clapped Tejohn’s shoulder, bowed to the prince, and moved on. When his men had finished, they moved on to the actors in the next garden.

“Col!” Lar called happily. The prince’s friends swarm around them. The Freewell girl was there, and so was her older brother; Bittler had indeed brought him, but he hadn’t convinced them to wash. Still, someone who didn’t know them would have though them respectable.

Lar and the Freewell boy embraced as though they hadn’t seen each other in months. Tejohn hated to admit it, but Colchua Freewell did look more like a prince than Lar Italga: his face was broad and handsome, his smile bold. “We couldn’t let you make a fool of yourself without us to jeer from the crowd!” Colchua said.

“Thanks, Col,” The prince answered. “I can always rely on you.”

“Nervous?” The Bendertuk boy asked, grinning.

Lar nodded yes while he said, “Absolutely not. Why should I be?”

They laughed and talked about inconsequential things as a shadow passed slowly over them. A flying cart circled above the palace. It settled down on top of the Scholars’ Tower and, judging by a flurry of movement Tejohn could barely see, discharged a few men before floating away again.

The Freewell girl broke away from the group and stood beside Tejohn at the garden rail. The dais where the king and queen would stand was below them in the courtyard. It wasn’t proper for singers, actors, mimes, and clowns to stand on higher ground than the royal family, but the portal would open down there, in the usual place, so the rightful order had to be upended. Merchant families, palace servants, notable scholars, and honored guests lounged on balconies, or leaned out windows, or sat on the edges of roofs or promenades.

But there were no tyrs in attendance. Not the loyal ones, not the treacherous ones, none of them.

“Those men down there are palace guards, aren’t they?”

The Freewell girl pointed to a line of men standing fifteen feet behind the thrones. Each held a tall pole with a different colored streamer attached. “Those are athletes,” Tejohn answered, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. There weren’t supposed to be any guards or soldiers in the yard when the portal opened, but of course, Kellin also had a duty to protect the king and queen. “They’ll be competing in the games.”

“I recognize them.” If that was true, she had sharp vision, and that made him even more suspicious. It wasn’t rational, but few important things were. “They aren’t carrying weapons, though, are they?”

“The Evening People can sense weapons, so no, the athletes are unarmed.”

“Then why… Oh! They’re each holding a pole and streamer, and I’ll bet there’s a sharp metal point at the bottom, right? A spear point?”

Tejohn wondered if she was trying to goading him somehow. “The metal tip allows the pole to be set into the ground. They are not weapons.”

“Right,” she answered. “And those skull-crackers you’re wearing on your wrists are just jewelry.”

There was a sudden flash of light, and a sound like far-off lightning. Tejohn jolted upright, startled. The portal was opening, and soon the Evening People would appear.

The servants who were not supposed to be in the courtyard rushed into the palace. Everyone else hurried to take up their positions, even the king and queen. The scholars, “athletes,” and servants accompanying the royal family–and even the scholars were considered royal bodyguards, although Tejohn was careful not to show his opinion on that–assumed postures appropriate for welcoming respected guests. In the garden, the singers, actors, and other wastrels pressed against the rail, crowding around the prince and his entourage for a proper view.

The flash of light returned, and the disc appeared. It hovered in the air on its edge like one of Twofin’s hoops, and the surface was like a pool of water with bright sunlight reflecting from it. At first, it looked larger than Tejohn remembered, almost as wide as two men lying heel to crown, but no, it was the same.

The Freewell girl shifted position, and he realized she was in a perfect position to fire an iron dart at one of the Evening People as they came through. Tejohn tensed, ready to slam his metal bracer onto her collarbone if she drew something from her sleeve or began to cast a spell, but her hands never left the railing.

He looked back down at the dais. Nothing happened. Tejohn realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled. Had it taken so long for Co, the leader of the Evening People, to step through the last time? He wondered if he misremembered the events of that day, now a generation gone.

Then there was a terrible sound, like an animal roar mixed with a man’s scream. Before it faded, monsters charged through the portal onto the dais.

Read Chapter 4.

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 2

Here’s chapter two of THE WAY INTO CHAOS, on sale now.

Chapter 1 can be read here.

Cazia

“Enough!” Doctor Twofin shouted. He rushed at Cazia, and the furious expression on his face froze her with terror. The sharpness of his voice had already disrupted her spell gestures, but he clasped her hands to be sure. “My dear, you don’t need to protect the prince from his own weapons master and bodyguard. Never cast at this man again! Do you understand?” The old teacher’s voice became high and shrill.

Doctor Twofin had the authority to bar Cazia from the Scholars’ Tower, and he would do it, too. The idea made her sick. She looked down at her feet and said, in a carefully miserable tone, “I understand. I’m sorry, Tyr Treygar.”

Old Stoneface Treygar stood without replying. He gave her a look full of cool hatred, but she was used to that. Of all the Enemies in the palace, he was one of the most obnoxious.

Lar tried to roll to his feet but got tangled in his robe. He fell to his knees, prompting Jagia, Pagesh, and Bittler to laugh. For once, Cazia wasn’t in the mood to join in. “Caz, you’re not supposed to kill him after he’s assassinated me,” Lar said. “Mother and Father couldn’t have questioned him then. Am I correct, Tyr Treygar?”

Stoneface didn’t answer, so Doctor Twofin answered for him. “That’s correct! Have you been neglecting your other studies to come here, my prince? If you have, I’ll bar you from the library and the practice room.”

Lar was startled. “You can’t bar me from parts of my own palace. I’m the prince!”

Doctor Twofin was highborn, the sixth son of some minor Fifth-Festival mountain tyr, and he was less intimidated by royalty than most. “You just try me.”

Lar stepped back and raised his hands to placate the old tutor, laughing. “I promise! No threats needed.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cazia saw Stoneface scowl. He probably thought Lar should stand up to his teacher–or threaten him–but he played those games. Cazia turned away to slip out of her robe, but she kept Treygar in her peripheral vision. She’d had a lot of practice keeping an eye on Enemies without seeming to.

Doctor Twofin wagged his finger at them. He was forever wagging that finger. “You have practiced enough for one day already. Remember, do not practice your magic—”

Lar finished the sentence with him. “–unless we are in this room with you. We’ve heard it a thousand times, doctor.”

“You’ll hear it a thousand more, my prince. I won’t have you going hollow under my tutelage. Think of the consequences!”

Cazia thought of the consequences every day: Lar would never become king. Twofin would lose his head. Cazia would lose her fingers like Doctor Whitestalk, if she was lucky, and she almost certainly wouldn’t be. And there was always the damage that hollowed scholars might do.

The prince’s thoughts were on other subjects. He turned to Treygar. “Tell me, my tyr: Is that how you slew Doctor Rexler?”

Stoneface looked directly at Cazia, so she had to turn her back–just for a moment–as she hung her quiver of darts on a peg. Apparently, this Doctor Rexler had something to do with her…or with her father. Treygar said, “Your mother the queen has asked me to accompany you to the Festival today, my prince.”

“I hardly think I need a bodyguard to meet the Evening People. From the stories everyone tells, they never offer more than a cutting remark.”

“That’s true,” Treygar said, “nonetheless…”

“Nevertheless, she wants me to be sober.”

“She does, my prince. Is it true that you plan to sing a comedy?”

“Yes!” Lar exclaimed, as though he’d been asked this question a hundred times. “But it is not a bawd, I promise you. There are no mighty warriors, no wizards, and no overenthusiastic lovers, Song knows.”

Pagesh spoke up from the bench against the wall. “The Evening People don’t care for comedies, do they? I thought they liked sad songs.”

Everyone glanced at Stoneface, and Cazia noted how uncomfortable that made him. Interesting. “It’s true,” Doctor Twofin said. “The more they appreciate our performances, the more powerful the spell they give us. The nail-driving Gift they offered after the Tenth Festival was seen as a rebuke for that event’s emphasis on slapstick and farce.”

A flush of annoyance ran through Cazia. “And yet, look what we’ve made of it.” She gestured toward the darts and hoops on the wall. They’d spent the whole lesson on that spell–well, on the somewhat-altered spell humans had created from it. It wasn’t as useful as the other Gifts, but it was the most fun. How could people call it a rebuke?

“Quite,” the doctor said in his high, unsteady voice, as though she was missing the point. “However, the stone-breaking spell after the eleventh has made copper and iron commonplace within the empire. Not fifty years ago, the only soldiers with iron cuirasses were generals. Am I correct, Tyr Treygar? Now every soldier but archers wear them.”

“Every soldier but archers and fleet squads,” Treygar droned. “And skirmishers. Also, the iron has been largely replace by Sweeps steel now. But you’re correct, doctor. It made a huge difference at Coldwater Falls.” He shrugged. “According to the reports.”

Doctor Twofin seemed proud of Treygar’s approval for some reason Cazia couldn’t fathom. She’d never even heard of Coldwater Falls before.

“I don’t understand,” Jagia said, looking up at their faces one after another. “I thought the Evening People gave us gifts.”

Pagesh took the little girl’s braid and tickled the bottom of her chin with the end. Pagesh smiled at her; the older girl was always kind and even-tempered, but she only smiled for Jagia. “We just call them that, little one. Gifts. But in truth, it’s more like a speck you toss into a mummer’s wooden bowl after a song. A cheap coin to show your appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Bittler said. He turned his watery gaze on each of them, hoping someone would take his side. “It’s more of a trade, isn’t it? We put on a Festival of art and athletics for them, and they teach us a new spell.”

Pagesh dropped Jagia’s braid and gave Bitt an even look. “It’s only a trade if both sides get to negotiate.”

“She’s right,” Lar said. “As usual.” Pagesh bowed her head to the prince. He smirked and nodded back. “For the next ten days, we will make every effort to please the Evening People so that they will grant us whatever reward they see fit.”

“But why?” Jagia asked. “Why do they come here at all?”

It was a question Cazia had never thought to ask. She turned to the doctor, waiting for his answer.

“Well, erm, you see…” Doctor Twofin looked a bit flustered. “The Evening People are a proud people–and potent, too–but they have their limitations. Er…” The old scholar looked as if he was dancing around a sensitive subject.

“Magic is physical,” Old Stoneface said, and Cazia thought he had never been more worthy of that nickname than when those words were coming from him. “Break rocks, start fires, suppress fires–all of that is a way of magically pitting your will against the mundane world. But a spell can not make you fall in love. Magic can not make a person weep for the enemy he has slain. It can not change a person’s mind, or convince them to take up spears for their homeland, or fill their heads with dreams of glory and wealth in distant lands. Songs, plays, even athletic games, can do all this. To the Evening People, this is a magic in itself. One they have no talent for.”

“Quite,” Doctor Twofin said a little nervously.

Treygar stared intently down at Jagia as though they were the only two people in the room. No honorary title or fancy clothes would ever hide the fact that he was a commoner at heart. “That is everything I know about it, Miss.”

“Doesn’t that make you a kind of scholar, too?” the little girl asked. “Your song was a kind of magic to them, so that should make you a scholar to the Evening People, right?”

A tense silence filled the room. Only a nine-year-old girl—and the royal niece—would dare to broach the subject of Stoneface’s horrible song. The old soldier did not betray any loss of temper. He just solemnly shook his head.

“Oh. Well, thank you for answering my question,” Jagia answered politely.

“I am pleased to offer whatever I knowledge I possess to the prince’s cousin.”

Hmph. Cazia was the prince’s cousin, too, but she hadn’t gotten any lessons from the old bully. But then, Jagia’s father had never tried to seize the crown.

Bitt opened his mouth as though he wanted to continue debating the point, but closed it again. Either he was especially unwell this morning or he knew the argument was a lost cause. Little Jagia reached over and took his trembling hand gently in hers, and they smiled at each other.

Lar hung his robe on a hook. “Tell me, my tyr, do you think the Evening People would be impressed if I wore the battle helm and spiked shield father gave me?”

Stoneface’s answer was wary and unpleasant. “Shield and helm won’t protect you from the Evening People’s disapproval.”

Cazia didn’t like that punch line, so she supplied another. “And no armor in the world would protect you from your mother’s.”

Even Doctor Twofin laughed at that, but not Stoneface. When Cazia noticed the look he gave her, she felt a little sick. The queen had always been distant but respectful to her; while Treygar wouldn’t personally rush to the throne room to tattle on her, he would probably make sure she heard about the joke somehow.

Cazia bit her lip. No matter how careful she was about the way she spoke in the palace, she was never careful enough.

“I must return to my rooms so Quallis can change my clothes,” Lar said. “Do you mean to accompany me, Tyr Treygar?”

Stoneface’s tone was icy. “I do, my prince.”

“Excellent. If a jar of wine should get too near me, you may throw yourself upon it.”

“Colchua would do that for you,” Pagesh said from the bench. “And kill the jar, too.”

But no one laughed. Stoneface had squelched their mood.

Lar lightly touched Cazia’s shoulder. “Caz, thank you for practicing with me today. Please take Pagesh to her rooms and help her find a dress for the Festival that doesn’t have grass stains on it. Bittler, find Col and Timu. They’re probably dueling in the gym and they’re likely to need a dunking before they dress up. And try to eat something.”

Bittler laid a half-starved hand over his belly and nodded.

Treygar opened the practice room door and followed the prince to the stairs.

As the door swung closed, Cazia felt a chill run down her back. Old Stoneface might have been the prince’s bodyguard and weapons instructor, but he was the king’s man. It was no secret that Lar’s parents were afraid that he might play a prank during the Festival. The Evening People were easily offended, and the Festival itself was a sort of mummery that the entire city of Peradain put on to please them. And Lar… He still had a boy’s impulse to call out hypocrisy when he saw it.

She loved him. Not that she wanted to hold his hand or feel his kiss, no. She was a fifteen-year-old girl, and she had reached the age where she noticed the way many of the palace guards looked in their crisp uniforms. She couldn’t help but notice them.

However, as the daughter of Tyr Freewell, if she got too near, the guards were more likely to spit on the ground between them than offer her a kind word. It simply wasn’t safe to do more than glance at them from afar. Servant girls with debt tattoos on their wrists were more free to talk and laugh with boys than she was.

No, she loved Lar the way she would love a second older brother, a friend, and her prince. She’d been brought to the Palace of Song and Morning as a baby and had grown up alongside him. All of his circle, with the exception of little Jagia, were the children of traitors, and the only truly safe place for them was beside the prince. She loved him because he was her better, yet he treated her with kindness and protected her from the worst of the bullying. Someday, when their fathers’ generation had left The Way, her older brother Colchua would be the new Tyr Freewell, and she would be running things inside the Scholars’ Tower. King Lar Italga would have no subject anywhere in the empire more loyal than her.

Today, she couldn’t help but worry. Would his parents prevent him from singing this song he’d prepared in secret? King Ellifer was a decent sort—for a king—so she didn’t believe he would kill his own son. Not like the Italgas of years ago. Still, the stakes were so high. Maybe he would have Lar locked away?

And who better to arrest the prince than his own bodyguard?

No. Cazia couldn’t leave the prince alone with the Stoneface. Not today. She laid her hand on the hidden latch.

Pagesh noticed and recognized immediately what she planned to do. The older girl stood. “Well, it’s time we got ready,” she said, then spilled a quiver of iron spikes onto the wooden floor.

The terrible noise made Doctor Twofin cry out and rush toward her. At the same moment, Cazia pulled on the latch, opening the secret panel, and slipped inside, taking care not to snag her skirts.

The panel closed behind her, blocking out all light. She found the ladder just where it was supposed to be, then started down.

It wasn’t a true ladder–the builders of the Scholars’ Tower had inserted this secret passage along the stairs, and it had apparently been easier to gouge deep foot- and handholds in the stone than attach a real ladder.

She made her way down with confidence, even though it had been months since she’d last used it. When she’d been Jagia’s age, she used to come here just to sit in the dark, away from the petty cruelties of the kitchen staff or the snide challenges of the palace guard. There were few hiding places from her Enemies, and no one even seemed to know it was here.

But when she was thirteen, she’d almost gotten caught slipping out of the lower hatch, and now only used it when she had to.

After descending a while, she came to the stairs. The passage was so narrow, she couldn’t turn around easily, but she knew the way. The secret stairs matched the broader public stairs on the other side of the wall, and eventually…

She heard Lar’s voice just on the other side of the wall. Perfect. She stopped to listen and, standing silent in the darkness, she couldn’t help but smile. She loved spying on people. Loved it. The only thing that made her feel more powerful was casting spells.

“Tyr Treygar, I wish you could be kinder to my friends.”

Treygar’s answer was noncommittal. “Yes, my prince.”

Cazia descended quietly to keep up with them. She heard Lar sigh. “I would command you to smile at them once in a while, but I fear it would shatter your stony face.”

“I am not as fragile as that, my prince.”

She heard their footsteps stop, so she did, too.

“My Tyr Treygar,” the prince said. He genuinely sounded annoyed. “I have lived with these people my entire life, and not one of them was alive when Tyr Freewell and his allies moved against my father. This new generation has been treated with respect by my royal parents and with kindness by me. Whatever crimes the Witts, the Simblins, the Bendertuks, and the Freewells have committed, my friends are blameless. I would prefer you treat them so.”

“I do, my prince.”

“You do? It seems to me that you are short with them at every opportunity.”

“My prince, if I thought them guilty of crimes like the ones their fathers committed, I would have already struck through their necks, dropped their heads into their families’ holdfasts, and dumped their bodies into the Sweeps for the alligaunts.”

Cazia wasn’t grinning anymore, but she was still glad to be there, spying on her best friend and the bully who tutored him at weapons. I know you better than you know me.

“These words do not please me,” Lar said. A king would have said that with anger or would have made it feel like a threat, but Lar sounded sad and helpless. She couldn’t help but feel a familiar twinge of sorrow for him; he was too good a person to have to deal with bullies like Treygar and the world they’d made.

Treygar said, “I have sworn my service to your royal parents: they have my life, my honor, and my duty. So do you, my prince. However, my thoughts and what little wisdom Fury has granted me remain my own. Your cousins might make fine palace playmates, but their families–their names–will call to them. They live here as hostages, not guests. They will not forget that, even if you have. When the time comes for them to choose, you may be sure of their loyalty, but my duty requires me to be watchful.”

“I have not forgotten why they are here. I won’t allow myself to forget.”

“Then remember also that, if I had not slain Doctor Rexler and broken the guard at Pinch Hall, you would not have ventured onto The Great Way, with all its featherbeds and jars of wine, and Colchua Freewell would be prince now.”

For some reason, Lar laughed. “Col would make a much better prince–and king–than I ever will.”

Shocked, Cazia stayed perfectly still while the footsteps receded down the stairs. Did the prince really think her brother would make a better king? Sadness suddenly filled her so full that tears welled in her eyes. Lar should never say such things aloud, especially not to a killer like Tyr Treygar.

Fire and Fury, Lar needed a bodyguard to protect him from himself.

Cazia went down the stair more slowly, not wanting to hear any more and all too aware of what would happen to her if she emerged from the passage with tears on her face. Pagesh, Bittler, and Jagia’s footsteps passed and faded. At the bottom of the stair, she slipped through another panel into a disused map room.

It was empty. Perfect. She crept out from behind the shelf of scrolls and walked quietly toward the propped-open door at the entrance. She peered through.

Doctor Whitestalk, sitting at a desk near a window, glanced at her without interest. The scholar had a sparrow laid out before her and she cut it open to expose its innards. Cazia watched her pick something out of the body–a tiny organ, obviously–with her thumb and index fingers. Those were the only fingers she had left. She’d gone hollow years ago when she was barely older than Cazia herself, but without her fingers, she could no longer cast spells. All she could do was consult with other scholars, when she felt moved to talk.

According to rumor, she’d been a medical scholar before she’d become a wizard and she had used her healing magic to create terrible things. No one would specify what those things had looked like, but Cazia’s imagination ran wild.

A young woman in a pale robe approached Doctor Whitestalk, her posture deferential. Although Doctor Twofin had never explained why, scholars who had gone hollow had a special insight into spells and spellcasting, which they shared with the tower on rare occasions. It was enough to keep them off the gallows, whatever their crimes.

Instead of responding to the young woman’s question, Doctor Whitestalk lifted the bird’s organ to her mouth and touched it to her tongue. Her expression was flat, devoid of any human emotion. Her cheeks were streaked with tears.

I won’t have you going hollow under my tutelage. Think of the consequences!

Shuddering, Cazia stepped through the doorway, only to have someone seize hold of her ear. It was Doctor Winterhill.

“What have I told you,” he said in his dull, blubbery voice, “about creeping about in my map room? I won’t have you smudging my work, you little sneak!”

“The prince gave me permission,” Cazia said, trying to act as though having her ear nearly pulled off the side of her head wasn’t painful at all.

“Bad enough you are permitted in the tower at all,” Winterhill insisted. “No Freewell in all of Kal-Maddum has permission to study the imperial maps. Now get out before I have Twofin ban you.”

He shoved her toward the yard. The other scholars sat glowering at her, so she lowered her head and hurried after Pagesh and the others. Even inside the Scholars’ Tower she had Enemies. For now.

Bittler had already left the girls and headed toward the gym. Cazia watched as he hunched his shoulders and took a circuitous route to avoid a cluster of palace guards.

For all the good it did him. One of the guards threw a pebble at him. They all laughed as Bitt winced and clutched at his upper arm.

They weren’t supposed to be doing that anymore but there was little anyone could do to stop them. If Bitt complained about the guard–or if Cazia complained about Doctor Winterhill–they would simply lie about what happened, and their superiors would never take the word of a traitor’s child over one of their own. They had all learned that lesson while they were young. As the prince, Lar should have had the authority to put a stop to it, but somehow he didn’t. No one seemed to take him seriously; Cazia still wasn’t sure why.

Things would be awful for a month afterwards–they would find wet linen in their beds, scorching amounts of salt in their food, and grubs in their rooms. It wasn’t worth striking back.

The truth was, the Palace of Song and Morning was very large, but the only safe spaces within it for her were inside the circle of her friends with Lar, or in the practice room with Doctor Twofin. Even her tiny chambers were Enemy territory.

In her room, the fire had been lit and a bowl of bread and salt cheese set beside her bed. The maid–never “her” maid, not considering how often the girl searched through her things for Song knows what–had laid out Cazia’s new green dress with beautiful white swirls at the sleeves and hem. While Cazia washed and changed, the maid returned and laid out a white scarf and a string of tiny blue gems to tie back her hair.

Since trade had opened up through East Ford again, blue had become the current thing, but Cazia thought it would be too showy for a hostage, even though the stones had been a gift from the prince himself. So it was green and white for her, with a white hat made of stiffened linen to protect her face from the rain. The gems she wore hidden underneath. It didn’t matter to her that no one else would see them. In fact, it made her enjoy them more.

It was still early when she hurried to Pagesh’s room. As expected, Pagesh and Jagia were frantic to be ready for the start of the Festival. Jagia was all in red and gold–a beautiful combination that made Cazia want to change immediately. Pagesh emerged from her bedchamber in a red-on-white dress embroidered with rose petals that was so unlike her usual mud-stained robes that Cazia actually gasped.

“You both look beautiful,” Cazia said.

Pagesh made a face. “Girl clothes. They always bring out the marriage proposals.”

At nineteen, Pagesh had been fending off suitors for years. She was Tyr Simblin’s only acknowledged child, and King Ellifer wanted Simblin’s heir to marry someone loyal to the empire. Pagesh herself wanted to spend her days in the garden—she had little interest in anything else—but the queen had made it clear that she would soon be returning to the Simblin holdfast, and that she would be bringing a husband along.

Cazia honestly felt sorry for her. Only a year before, Cazia had asked the queen for permission to stay at the palace when Colchua returned to the family holdings. She planned to devote her life to studying in the Scholars’ Tower, and the Enemies who worked there would have no choice but to accept her. She would make them.

It had been a risky thing to say, she learned later. Queens were trained as scholars–in limited ways, but still–and Cazia’s lineage put her in line for the throne behind Lar, Jagia, her own brother, and Ellifer’s brother and sister.

However, Queen Amlian had understood she wasn’t interested in sitting on a throne. She was learning to read, to set things on fire, and to hit targets with her darts. At the end of this Festival, there would be a new Gift to play with; whatever it was, Cazia wanted to be part of it. If the Italgas could give her that, they would have her utmost loyalty even before Lar was crowned.

Pagesh said goodbye to her maid with a kiss and they hurried into the hall. Bittler, Timush, and Colchua were already waiting for them. All three looked handsome in the king’s gray and red. Even Bittler, almost.

Col made a fuss over their dresses in his half-mocking way, although of course he was gentlest with little Jagia. To Pagesh, Timush said quietly, “You look wonderful, but I think I prefer you in those muddy field clothes.” She did not smile nor did she look at him. She only stared silently at the floor. For his part, Timu accepted her silence as a kind of distance between them that he did not know how to cross.

On their way to the courtyard, one of the servants contrived to tip over a bucket of dirty water as they passed, but Cazia had been watching for it and hopped out of the way.

“Oh, excuse me, miss!” the girl said, unable to disguise the sneer at the corner of her mouth. “And you in such lovely clothes.”

Cazia and Pagesh both glared at her with enough hatred to kindle a flame, and the girl retreated down the hall.

Enemies everywhere.

As they rounded the next corner, Col started joking about the Evening People and Lar’s song. Like everyone around them, they’d talked all their lives about putting on a show or doing some sort of crazy mime at their first Festival, but nothing had ever come of it.

Except with Lar. The only one who knew anything about this song of his was Col, and he wouldn’t say a word.

Their bootheels scuffed the pink stone as they hurried through the empty halls.

Read Chapter 3 now.

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 1

Here’s the first chapter of THE WAY INTO CHAOS, on sale now.

Tejohn

Without his armor, Tyr Tejohn Treygar thought he must have looked like a man disgraced. It was ridiculous, of course; by Festival custom and royal decree, everyone went without armor today, even the guards at the gates. Still, he felt odd as he strode into the morning chill onto the promenade of the Palace of Song and Morning in the soft, slipper-like shoes Laoni had bought for him. His steps were so quiet, he felt like a sneak thief.

The queen wanted to speak to him. Again. Tejohn had not been and would not be officially summoned to the throne for an audience, but she was not a woman who would ever let anything rest. What’s more, he would never hide from her—not ever.

However, if he happened to be away from his chambers in the early parts of the day, he could hardly be blamed if her servants didn’t think to look for him on the lonely northern end of the promenade.

She found him anyway, of course.

“My Tyr Treygar,” she said as she approached, her attendants arrayed behind her like a wedge formation. “You must be chilly out here in just your shirt and waistcoat.”

He bowed. “I’m not accustomed to normal civilian clothes, my queen, let alone Festival clothes. But I’m sure I will be more comfortable when the sun has been up a while.”

She glanced at the gray sky with disapproval. It had drizzled overnight and would begin again soon. “Morning in the Morning City. Great Way, but I am looking forward to summer.” She stepped to the wall beside him and stared off into the distance, just as he had been. Her own waistcoat was made of deep red cloth woven with golden threads. Not the latest fashion, as he understood it, but still beautiful. During the Festival, even the queen wore pockets. “It will be nice to have a few days of sunshine. The mountains are so lovely in the morning, when we can see them.”

The Southern Barrier–which was north of the city but bore that name because there was another range even farther away–was sometimes visible in the morning mists. At least, that’s what Tejohn had been told. His vision was too short to see the thatched roofs of the city beyond the walls. Not that such things mattered to him.

The queen looked sideways at him, a sly smile on her face. Queen Amlian Italga wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she was intelligent, clever (not the same thing, as Tejohn had learned long ago) and relentless. When she wanted something, she didn’t give up until it was hers. The king may have been a bit of a fool in some ways, but he’d passed over the most beautiful women in the empire to choose her for his second queen. It was the wisest decision he’d ever made.

Which meant there was little peace for those who did not give her what she wanted.

“Have you thought about my proposal, Tejohn?”

He bowed again. It was always good to bow when you were about to disappoint royalty. “I’ve thought about little else, but I can not do it.” She scowled but did not interrupt. “I’m not being obstinate, my queen. I have worked many hours on this, but it is beyond me.”

The queen crooked her mouth as if she were addressing an obstinate child, never mind that Tejohn was three years her elder. “Beyond you? I think we both know that isn’t true.” With a lazy flick of her wrist, she gestured toward the sky cart flying westward over the city, streamers trailing behind.

Tejohn studied it as though her gesture had been a command. It was a large square wooden cart with spoked wheels. Mounted above it were the two obsidian-black disks that lifted it free of the ground.

The metal underarmor had been removed, of course, as had the rows of shields along the sides. The cask holders, designed to drop lit oil into holdfasts and other enemy camps, now bore nothing but colorful streamers. It, too, had been stripped of its armor, and it looked as odd as he must have.

Martial displays were forbidden during the Festival. The Evening People didn’t believe in conquest.

Tejohn sighed. The Gift that created the carts–and the tremendous advantage they gave the empire in the fighting on the frontiers–existed because of him and the song he’d written. And no one would let him forget it.

“I was a young man then,” Tejohn said softly, “and fresh to my grief. Now I’m old. I have a wife and children again. My home is a happy one.”

The queen sniffed. “Well, that would certainly not make a very moving song.” Tejohn was tempted to disagree, but of course he didn’t. “And you aren’t that old. The Evening People will be here for ten days. Are you sure you couldn’t write a sequel? Or just perform the same song again?”

It had been years since the corpses of Tejohn’s first wife and son had flashed through his memory, but they came to him then–and with them came the familiar urgency to take up his spear and start killing. “I could never revisit that pain, and you should not ask it of me.”

If his rebuke offended her, the queen did not show it. She squeezed his hand briefly, then stepped back. “You must feel this very deeply to speak to me that way. Tejohn, my friend, please accept my apology. Song knows you’ve always been good to Ellifer and me, and to Lar, too–not that he deserves it. We have other singers and playwrights; the king and I will have to be satisfied that our legacy will include some lesser form of new magic. Will Laoni and the little ones be joining us?”

“Laoni has taken Teberr and the twins to East Ford, to visit her cousins. They’re still so small…”

The queen wasn’t fooled by that, but she let it pass. “I should go. There’s so much to do. Tejohn, after the Evening People return to their home, the city will be bustling for a month at least, and we expect the scholars will have a new Gift to argue over…. I believe I have some messages to send to East Ford. Would you be willing to deliver them for me? And wait a month for the responses? Lar is full-grown now; I’m sure he can practice in the gym without you for a while.”

If only he would. But there was no need to say it. Tejohn and the queen both wanted the prince to redirect his energies toward his martial training and away from his…other pursuits. “Thank you, my queen,” Tejohn said. “It would please me greatly. Thank you.”

Queen Amlian smiled and turned away. “Just be sure Lar is in his place today and that he’s sober. He’s not planning to sing a bawdy song, is he? It seems I heard a rumor to that effect.”

“If so, I will do my best to dissuade him.” Tejohn took his leave. A chill drizzle had begun to fall, and he returned to his room first, to put on the long black coat his wife had made for him. The whole city would be wearing bright reds and yellows–even blues, for those wealthy enough–but for the man who wrote “River Overrunning,” Laoni thought it best to wear something somber.

After that, he put on the polished bronze bracers. He wasn’t permitted to carry a spear or shield today, but the weight of the metal on his forearms was reassuring.

Tejohn had just refused the queen. She could have punished him in a hundred ways, including taking away his honorary title, but she had shown him kindness instead. She understood. Grateful am I to be permitted to travel The Way.

At the end of the last Festival, the leader of the Evening People had stared at Tejohn with those terrible golden eyes as though he’d wanted to take Tejohn’s soul home with him. As if he hadn’t already taken too much. We will meet again, Co had said. Tejohn had dreaded it ever since.

Tejohn hurried through the palace. It didn’t matter. If Co hoped to feast on another piece of Tejohn’s grief, he would be disappointed by the simple, decent life the soldier had created for himself over the past twenty-three years. And Tejohn was prepared to hide his pleasure at that disappointment very carefully.

It was time for Lar’s lesson in the dueling gym, but of course he wasn’t there. An allowance could be made because of the Festival, but the truth was that Lar often made excuses to be absent from Tejohn’s sword and spear lessons. In fact, he’d skipped so many over the winter that it was just about time to bring it to the king’s attention. Again.

Colchua Freewell was there, of course, along with the Bendertuk boy, Timush. Nothing Tejohn had done could discourage them from sneaking into the gym, and eventually, Lar had convinced his father to grant them full access. The first day that Tejohn had been forced to teach the use of weapons to a Freewell and a Bendertuk had almost brought him to the brink of treason, but he had done his duty.

They stopped their exercises to bow to him formally, to show the respect every student owed their teacher. He kept his expression carefully neutral, nodded in return and walked out.

Tejohn went crossed the tiny southern gate yard to the south tower. When Lar wasn’t in the dueling gym, he was either still abed–and drunk–or he was playing at magic at the top of the Scholars’ Tower.

Not that the yard was really a yard any more. There was so much foot traffic in the palace that no grass could grow in the yard except in ugly patches, and it had so bothered old King Ghrund that he’d ordered it covered over with scholar-created pink granite. Everywhere Tejohn turned his head he saw the same blurry pink color, broken only by the darkness of windows, barrows, and people.

Inside the Scholars’ Tower, Tejohn’s left knee ached by the time he was halfway up the stairs: too many battles, too many years on the road, too much sparring. Not that the medical scholars seemed interested in relieving him of the pain. Someday soon, the twins would be old enough to join him in the gym, and Tejohn could send them on missions like this. It was one of the privileges of parenthood to make your children run errands for you.

Until then, he laid his hand on the mottled pink and black stone blocks—he could only see the detail when he was this close—and trudged upward.

On the last flight of stairs, he could hear Lar and his friends inside, playing with spells they already knew by heart.

Tejohn knocked loudly. There was another pair of loud impacts inside the room, then the sound of desultory cheering. After a short while, the prince called, “Enter!”

Tejohn did. Prince Lar stood at the center of the room. He was wearing his spellcasting robe, which was rough white cloth with a set of odd symbols down one side. Beside him stood Cazia Freewell. She was a talented scholar, having already learned just about every spell the tutors were willing to teach her by the age of fifteen. She was also sly, secretive, and too often in the library. Her elder brother Colchua might have been reckless and proud, but Tejohn thought this sneak had been born to treachery.

Little Jagia Italga, the king’s nine-year-old niece, was also wearing her robe, but she stood well back against the wall. Possibly she had not learned this spell–or any spells. She was still so young.

“My Tyr Treygar,” the prince said, pushing his long black hair out of his face. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your cuirass. You look…almost human. In size, I mean.”

The Freewell girl turned away to hide her laughter, but Pagesh Simblin and Bittler Witt laughed openly. In all likelihood, they had been the ones offering the halfhearted cheering. Neither had the interest or inclination for magic, and the Witt boy was hopeless in the gym, doing little more than complain about pains in his belly. Pains no scholar could relieve.

And Tejohn didn’t know what to make of the Simblin girl–well, she should surely be called a woman now, since she was older than the prince. However she had no interest in magic, marriage, or anything at all that he knew of.

Not that Doctor Twofin hadn’t tried to teach them all, per the prince’s wishes and the king’s indulgence. He was a better tutor than Tejohn had ever been; the weapons master had humiliated himself by asking the old scholar for advice on more than one occasion. But a teacher can do as little with an unwilling student as a blacksmith can do with a fired clay pot.

Out of habit, Tejohn confirmed that Doctor Twofin’s cheeks were dry. Of course they were. The old tutor was the only scholar Tejohn could bring himself to trust, even partially.

“I’m sorry, my Tyr Treygar,” Lar said immediately. He wore a mischievous smile that had been charming when he was twelve, but on a man of seventeen made Tejohn want to knock him to the floor. “My jest was not intentional.”

The prince was a bad liar. “My prince, you are late for your lesson in the gym.”

“Do you see?” Lar asked. He gestured toward the wall. A dozen cloth-covered hoops had been pinned to a wooden wall with iron darts nearly a foot long. This was the prince’s favorite spell. “I like to think little Caz and I are becoming genuinely dangerous.” He turned to the Freewell girl. “Don’t you agree?”

She beamed up at him. “We’re at least at the level of a nuisance.”.

“Oh, I’ve been a nuisance for years,” Lar answered, and the young people laughed again. They always laughed, even when the jokes weren’t funny. Tejohn wished he had some of that easy charm, but he didn’t have the knack.

He glanced back at the wall of targets. The ribbons tied into the loop at the back end of each dart were brightly colored, almost as though they’d been made for the Festival. Those darts the prince—and other scholars—used were heavier than arrows and, depending on the skill and sanity of the spellcaster, deadlier than anything that could be shot from a bow. But there was one advantage that an arrow had that no scholar’s dart ever would: they were shot by soldiers.

“See?” The prince gestured toward the pinned hoops. “Why should I practice dueling in the gym when—”

Tejohn suddenly rushed at him, springing across the distance between them in a few long strides. Lar was startled, then raised his hands to begin a fire spell.

Of course, the prince didn’t have time. Tejohn slammed a shoulder into him, upending him onto the wooden floor and kneeling atop him. Then he seized the young man’s scrawny neck.

An iron dart flew between them, striking hard into the wooden floor. Tejohn spun toward the source, and saw the Freewell girl glaring at him, preparing another spell.

Read Chapter 2 now.

The State of the Kickstarter Address

Well, you can see how the Kickstarter stands right here:

As I type this on Thursday night (I plan to schedule this for Fri morning, when I should be out of the house working on my chapters), the project is at 280% of goal. First of all: Wow. Second of all: thank you.

A lot of people, when they run a Kickstarter campaign, send a month flooding their social media asking for help. I’m not doing that. I am putting these little widgets in each of my posts, because what if an infrequent visitor comes to one of my spaces and doesn’t know about the project? But I think it would be kinda crass to press people for money when I’ve already vaulted over the bar with so much clearance.

So I’m not going to push. I will keep mentioning it, and I do plan to write about my experiences with it when it all blows over. Also, as I write this, my project is listed as one of the six entries under “Popular” on Kickstarter’s Discover/Publishing page, which can’t be a bad thing.

I’ll also mention that the hardbacks I’m offering are a one-time thing. I won’t be doing more after the Kickstarter ends; that wouldn’t be fair to the backers who paid for them.

So the state is busy, still, and frustrating as I try to do new things for the first time.

Also, frankly, pretty wonderful, so thanks.

Oops, almost forgot: I am revising the beginning of THE WAY INTO CHAOS so I can post those chapters on my blog, hopefully next week. The really weird thing is that they’re pretty solid. I know this isn’t my first pass through them, but I’m usually harshly critical of my work. Not this time. I like them and I hope you guys feel the same.

The Great Way Book Trailer (such as it is)

Part of the homeschool project surrounding the writing of my epic fantasy trilogy was that my son would make (with a very little bit of help from me) a book trailer with his Legos and the music software on his computer.

He’s a clever kid. My only input was to explain what happened in the books that he should animate and to ask him to reshoot things that were out of focus.

I think the music is especially nice. Check it out.

Stepping back from the internet for a day

As I mentioned on Twitter, last night my Kickstarter passed 200% of goal. This morning it’s at 213%.

I’m waiting to hear back on some emails I sent, but in the mean time I’m going to take a day away from the internet to work on the actual book. I know, right? Crazy! A writer who’s writing.

Enjoy your Saturday.

Kickstarter Stretch Goals

So… yeah. Yesterday was crazy. In case you were off the internet, here’s the short version: I launched a Kickstarter and it got funded in less than eight hours.

Onward: At the moment, I’m contemplating stretch goals. Actually, I’m soliciting advice from the project backers. Do people want high-end cover art? An audiobook? Co-op placement (or the online equivalent) on Amazon.com to drive sales? A fourth novel?

The answers are interesting (even though no one has yet suggested “electrolysis for the author’s back” which is… okay. For now). If you’re a backer who doesn’t read those “Project Update” emails (or someone who is not a backer but would like to be) Check it out.

Harry Connolly

novelist

a blessing of monsters

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 5

Tejohn

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 4

Cazia

So. Many. Things. To. Do.

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 3

Tejohn

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 2

Cazia

The Way Into Chaos, Chapter 1

Tejohn

The State of the Kickstarter Address

The Great Way Book Trailer (such as it is)

Stepping back from the internet for a day

Kickstarter Stretch Goals

Tejohn

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Cazia

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Cazia

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