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I would really appreciate you nominating A Sense of Murder for best fantasy novel so Selene Press & I could both earn our first-ever Dragon nomination together!

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It’s free to nominate and vote for the Dragon Awards. When you submit your nominations, you can sign up to receive a ballot for the voting in August.

Please go to the Dragon Award Nominations page and make your nominations soon… and thank you for helping out!

If you still haven’t read A Sense of Murder, maybe I can do something about that. If you’re a BookSirens reader, I’m still accepting review requests over there. If you really, honestly, truly can’t afford $4.99 for the eBook, let me know and I will see about adding you as a reviewer so you can say nice things like these folks:

“This started good and kept getting better.”

“A fun riveting romp. Great world building, strong characters, and a intriguing mystery.”

“… the best book I’ve read this year.”

“Do yourself a favor and give it a read.”

Duty demands truth. Survival demands secrecy.

In a far-flung corner of the worlds-spanning Empire, Ser Kellan tor Iaestus is sworn to keep the peace in the rugged Outlands. Armed with a revolver from a forgotten war and a hidden Talent to see truth, he is an agent of justice and peace in a wild land… so long as he keeps his talent hidden, lest he be pressed into the service of the Empire.

When Prospero, an Imperial Magus, arrives in the Outlands hunting for a magical truth-teller, Kellan is assigned as his guide. Certain he can keep his Talent concealed and maintain his freedom, Kellan escorts the magus on his journey. All goes well until a string of seemingly unrelated murders exposes demons, dark powers, and a warlock weaving cruel designs in the shadows. As Kellan and Prospero investigate, they follow a thread that leads from the Outlands to the city of Victar de Reya, links whores and politicians, and takes them from fine restaurants to piratical celebrations.

Saddled with a suspicious young seer and facing demons clawing at them from the Unreal, the two must work together to unravel the warlock’s conspiracy before he kills again. But can Kellan locate the killer without exposing his own power, and surrendering the independence he’s fought so hard to protect?

Duty demands truth. Survival demands secrecy. Kellan can’t have it both ways… and time is running out.

Mostly from shaking hands and giving hugs, but still…

There’s a lot to unpack from this year. For the first time, I was primarily there for , not myself. On top of that, I split time between LibertyCon and the Chattanooga Homeschool Expo, which was going on in the same space at the same time.

Why? Priorities. The Boy’s Adventure Books line from Rac Press is doing well, and it has the chance to do SO. MUCH. BETTER. Connecting with homeschool organizations this weekend was a hugs part of my focus. It went tremendously well, and I’m looking forward to following up with all the people I got to meet there in the weeks to come.

In fact, priorities was the theme of the whole con for me. I only had so much time this weekend, and an amazing plate of things I wanted to do. I didn’t get all of them done, but that’s life. (Someone did send me an email calling me a jerk, which is one of the nicest things that anyone has ever done for me. I definitely need to tell you that story later, because it still makes me grin. :)

On the drive home, as I was thinking about the con and talking over the weekend’s events with Shari, I realized that isn’t just a trite saying. It is life. I may ramble on about “top three priorities” and “the purpose of an organization is what it does” in another post. For now, know that a few years ago, I came back from LC with a new set of priorities; ones that led to me becoming a professional writer. I’m coming back this year with some adjustments, ones that I hope will help me become a more successful writer.

Top of the list: I deleted a bunch of social media apps off my phone this morning. I promised myself that I would do that I soon as I got home from the conference. Time wasters, all of them. Over the past year, I found myself “relaxing” at the end of the day by doom-scrolling memes and media. That’s time when I could be reading real books, either for entertainment or education. So those apps get the heave-ho and I get that time back to be human.

Don’t worry, I am still going to maintain a presence on a wide variety platforms. It’s just that many of them are going to become (effectively) write-only, with two exceptions. I’m moving my primary interactions over to Substack and X.

If you want to keep up with me, subscribe to my newsletter; and if you want to chat with me about Life, the Universe, and Everything—especially the silly things—then follow me on X.

There’s a few other things that I’ll talk about over the next few weeks. Those pesky “top three priorities”, like I said. I want to focus more on my overall goals: my writing, my health, and helping to build up others (or, when needed, kicking certain people in the teeth). Not necessarily always in that order, mind you…

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That’s enough mental meanderings for a Monday morning, though. Have some late memes to start your week.

“I don’t care if you are a god. I’m off the clock.”

The human on the stool next to me shifted a bit. Maybe I’d annoyed him with my response. Maybe he was just making himself more comfortable. I’m a dwarf, so I don’t always get their body language. Always fidgeting and yammering.

“Mr. Thorn.” His smile seemed genuine, if small. “I am a god, and I am willing to pay.”

“Willing is one thing—”

Three gold squares clattered onto the bar in front of me. I scooped them up before they came to a complete rest. Money from lunatics spends just as well as any other kind; and I have bills to pay, after all. The kind that charge interest in kneecaps.

“Word of caution.” I made the coins disappear. “The city of Doors is no place to be throwing money around, mister—”

He took the hint. “Drihotas. I should be more discreet?”

“Unless you’re the god of getting mugged as soon as you leave, yeah.”

“Ah. No, I’m not.” He looked like he was thinking. “I don’t think that would be a godly thing, actually.”

While he mulled that over, I held up two fingers for the bartender. He nodded and filled one of the double-size flagons he kept around for dwarves, orcs, twin-faced, and other humanoids who take their drinking seriously.

“Those three coins got you my attention until the end of the next drink.”

The poor fellow looked confused. “My apologies. I thought gold was valuable to you?”

“It is. It lets me buy beer. Which will be here any moment. I recommend speaking quickly. I drink fast.”

He blinked a few times, then grew quiet. Not the usual human type of quiet, either; this was samhach, or something close to it. It’s a dwarven thing, hard to express in human terms. It’s when you become so focused on your surroundings that you stop moving and simply exist in your surrounding space. I’ve met a few human hunters who understood samhach, even if they couldn’t explain it fully. It wasn’t something I expected from the pale-haired, beardless twist of a human sitting across from me, though. I settled into my own stillness along with him. The late afternoon bustle in the tavern seems to slow around us.

“What are you looking for, Drie?”

Part of my normal routine. Anyone who insisted on some stuffy form of proper address was likely not going to get along with me or my partner. Best to get that out of the way immediately.

If he took offense at the diminutive, he hid it well. “Why do you presume I am looking for something?”

I reached over and grabbed my tankard, now full. It had appeared next to me at some point, just as it should have. Part of samhach: seeing the world as it was.

“That’s what people pay me for. It’s what I do.” I slugged back some ale. Warm, but human drinks were like that. Each to their own. I wiped a bit of foam off my beard and met his eyes. “Again. What are you looking for?”

“A dead woman.” His eyes were pale blue with flecks of gray.

“Did you kill her?”

“No. Would it matter if I did?”

“Yeah. If you did, you’d be hiring me to beat the light out of you right here with a slab of the bar. What’s your connection to the woman? Wife? Daughter? Maid?”

“I hear her screaming.”

He delivered that so matter-of-factly that I had to stop and run through his words to make sure I’d heard what I thought I heard. “Do you mean you heard her screams when she died?”

“No. She’s dead, and I hear her screaming.”

“How—”

“God.”

“So you said.” You’d think that would make my skin crawl, but I’ve been places and seen things. Spontaneous haunting was odd, but not the strangest thing I’ve ever encountered. “I’m going to need more information than that. A name, for instance.”

“I will have it for you this evening. Gather your partner and meet me at the Terraces before sunset.” He slipped off the stool, breaking samhach. “I will have what you need by then.” He must have seen something in my face. “You have a question?”

I couldn’t help it. “I thought you were a god. Why do you need to go find information?”

“Truthfully? I’m still getting the hang of what it means to be a god, Mr. Thorn. I’ve only been one since this morning.”

He was out the door in a moment. Just as he disappeared into the street, it occurred to me that I’d not mentioned anything about my partner. If he knew enough to come looking for me, though, he knew enough to know I didn’t work alone. I shook my head and waved to get the bartender’s attention while I thought about how in the seven hells I was going to explain this all to Rose.

Find out more about Thorn, Rose, and Drie get up to in “Paladins for Hire”, part of Brave Knights and Heroic Courage — available now from Bayonet Books!

The Small Child Interaction Protocol (SCIP)

SCIP begins with one of two interrogatives (”Mama?” or “Dada?”), originating from the Child and directed at a Parent. In theory, the particular interrogative is chosen to establish the communication channel with a particular Parent. In practice, however, the opening interrogatives are issued in broadcast mode, and the Child is generally happy to connect with whichever Parent happens to answer up first.

If neither Parent is able to answer a connection request immediately, the Child will pause momentarily, and then begin issuing a repeated stream of interrogatives (”Mama? Mama? Mama?”). As far as I can determine, there is no rate limiting mechanism employed by the Child when entering into this state. There is in fact some evidence that the Child will typically employ a negative exponential backoff if there is no ACK to any of the first half-dozen connection requests.

Upon receiving the interrogative, a parent is required to ACK the interrogative. The actual form of the ACK is apparently very flexible. “Yes”, “Uh-huh”, “Hold on”, “Wait a second”, and even “Who are you?” are all acceptable responses from the Parent. The actual text of the response may be interpreted by a more advanced Child implementation and used to set communication protocol parameters; however, this is not required, and for most Children, the actual presence of the ACK is enough to finalize the establishment of the communication channel.

A conforming Child implementation will acknowledge the ACK from the Parent by issuing another interrogative. This may seem redundant, but experience has shown that many Parent implementations will ACK an initial query without bringing any actual processing resources online to deal with the communication stream. This actually makes sense, as any given Child instance may close down communications when a priority interrupt (ex., remembering a cookie, a sibling Child instance moving, a particularly interesting dust particle, etc.) occurs within 0.0001 ultra-micro-picoseconds of the initial ACK. Thus, the Parent avoids a potentially unnecessary context switch by waiting for the second interrogative.

A Child will indicate to the Parent that it has avoided a priority interrupt and is fully ready to communicate by issuing a second interrogative. The format of this interrogative will indicate if the data to follow is a simple statement (and not requiring a reply from the Parent) or a query for information from the Parent. At this point, the Parent will context switch, bring processing resources online, and prepare to receive data from the Child.

Example Interactions

C: “Mama?”

P: “Yes, dear.”

C: “Can I tell you something?”

P: “Go ahead...”

C: “I liked swimming on vacation!”

P: “That’s nice, honey.”

C: “Mama?”

(pause)

C: “Mama? Mama? Mama?”

P: “Yes, yes. What?”

C: “Can I ask you a question?”

P: “What is it?”

C: “Um... I forgot.”

C: “Dada?”

P: “Yes’m?”

C: “Can I ask you a question?”

P: “Sure.”

C: “Do dogs have dreams?”

P: “...”

C: “Mama?”

P: “Um-hm?”

C: “Can I tell you something?”

P: “Go ahead...”

C: “Well...” [INFO DUMP FOLLOWS]

Related Protocols

Unfortunately, as Eldest Daughter spent the majority of the trip both ways drawing while listening to her new iPod, the chances to study the Young Teenager Interaction Protocol (YTIP) were minimal. Keep in mind, though, that YTIP is simply a subset of The Surly Teenager Interaction Protocol (STIP). If you are familiar with the main-channel and back-channel communication mediums for STIP (i.e., random vocalizations coupled with arbitrary eye rolls and an almost palpable disdain for anyone over the age of 25 or younger than they are), then you’re pretty much set as far as understanding YTIP goes.

Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today
Oh how I wish he’d go away.

-- William Hughes Mearns

This bit of doggerel - or a variation of it - was the basis for “The Yehudi Principle”, a short story by Fredrick Brown. It’s a cautionary tale, a sort of warning that tells you: You may think you know what’s going on, and you may even think you can use that knowledge to shape the world. But the real world is stranger than you realize, and sooner or later, you’re going to have to face the fact that Yehudi exists. He’s the man who wasn’t there... and he’s not going away anytime soon.

Back when I was in high school, I had a job working at a local library. It was a dream job for a bibliophile, even if it didn’t pay nearly as well as flipping burgers at McDonald’s. I came out of those years with a love for odd books. While I was working there, though, there were a couple of books that really caught my attention. A Yiddish dictionary. The Foxfire series of books, documenting the ways and means of live in the back woods. Books on calculus, science, languages, religion, philosophy... and The Dictionary of Imaginary Places.

The Dictionary was a collection of things that weren’t there, and which weren’t going to go away any time soon. It details a thousand fanciful places from imagination and mythology: the land of Oz, Middle Earth, Prospero’s island, Utopia, and more. As extensive as it is, the Dictionary was a finite resource, and left out some of those places that caught the imaginations of others. Many of those abandoned imaginings can now be found on the internet, as part of Wikipedia or a user-generated series of articles in an online Dictionary.

The Dictionary isn’t the be-all and end-all of if you’re interested in the imaginary, though. You can browse through Barlowe’s Guide to Fantasy if you’re interested in a more personal view of the critters that make up the fantasy realm. There, you can find details about Peter S. Beagle’s unicorns or Stephen R. Donaldson’s cavewights. If SF is more to your liking, you can spend time leafing through Barlowe’s Guide to Extraterrestrials to discover information about Niven’s Puppeteers or Herbert’s Guild Steersman; or you can spend time at Jeff Russel’s Starship Dimensions web site to get an idea of just how big a Star Wars mythos Rancor is when compared to, oh, your average wet-behind-the-ears Jedi knight.

A less detailed, but more expansive book in the same category as the Dictionary is the Encyclopedia of Things That Never Were. As the title suggests, this volume covers a greater breadth of imagination. While the Dictionary restricts itself to imaginary, in the Encyclopedia, anything that never existed is fair game: people, places, weapons, ships, monsters, and more.

There we go. Six - no, seven - collections of things that were not there, never were there, and will probably never be there. Things that never were, and yet, like Yehudi, things that aren’t going away anytime soon.

If you’re one of my readers, I appreciate you more than I can say. I am tremendously grateful that you decided to give my book a chance. I am going to take this opportunity to ask you for one more favor, though. It’s a little one, I promise!

If you’ve read A Sense of Murder, please leave an Amazon review. Even something as short as one sentence makes a huge impact. For a new book, this is the single biggest thing you can do to help an author succeed.

Why are reviews so important? Amazon’s algorithm uses review count and velocity to decide who sees the book. The first 15 reviews are worth more than the next 100. Without them, even people who would love the book might never find it.

And hey, I’m not Abnayel. I’m not asking you to lie, or even skate around the truth. Leave your honest opinion, please! I want to know what you actually thought. Okay? Okay. Now, let’s get on to some memes!

I would love to leave a review!

There is a maxim among military personnel: “No plan survives contact with the enemy.” Among authors, there is similar saying: “No book launch plan survives contact with Amazon.”

In my case, Amazon published the paperback version of A Sense of Murder a bit early. Yay! However, they also ended up taking DOWN the KDP version and, erm. Canceling all the preorders for the ebook.

Not yay?

As of today, the ebook is back up on Amazon. While your pre-order may have been canceled, you can now snag the ebook or paperback on Amazon!

For those of you who had your pre-orders canceled: Hang on to your emails! I am talking about this with my publisher. We are trying to work up something special for y’all to thank you for putting up with the Amazon headaches.

“Forgive me if I don’t trust you,” I said flatly.

“Ah.” The fiend’s eyes widened. “I see. That’s the issue, isn’t it? Did your pet magus accuse you of consorting with your betters?”

“Yes. No!”

The hellspawn smirked. “You were entirely truthful with him, of course.”

“I told him that I am not the one who summoned you,” I said hotly. “That is the truth.”

“Part of it, at least.” The hellish creature shook its head in mock sadness. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? That I’m the only one being honest with you?”

That caught me completely off guard. Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of empathy in his words? “What in—what are you talking about?”

“Honesty. Truth.” Abnayel shrugged. “It doesn’t matter which side you’re on, they’re both in short supply. Do you think the Empire is full of sweet old ladies, holding hands and singing hymns? No. They operate the greatest war machine that the worlds have ever seen. They can’t afford luxuries like honesty. Not even with their allies.”

“I—”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You are.” My hands opened and closed of their own volition. I forced them open and breathed through my nose once, twice, three times before continuing. “You serve the Accuser. The Father of Lies.”

“Wrong.” That single word stopped me in my tracks. It echoed with bone-weary exhaustion. “I am a slave to Him. What? Do you think I have a choice in the matter of my existence? Ha!”

“You chose to rebel.”

The hellspawn’s lips pulled back in a sneer. “I did. I admit. And I was taken by Him immediately. The same as all of His servants. Before I ever had a chance to draw so much as a single breath as a free being. If I could have somehow found a way to escape his notice, I would have. That’s the truth.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, it is.” The sneer disappeared. “And here’s some honesty for you. I still want you to kill the warlock, Kellan. If you show me you can’t, or won’t, you are worth nothing to me.”

“And I suppose you’ll torture me for ten thousand years?”

“Me? Oh, no.” Abnayel chuckled. “I’ll expose you to your precious Empire and let them do it for me.”

Read more about Kellan and his all-too-familiar demon in A Sense of Murder, coming soon from Selene Press!

Pre-order A SENSE OF MURDER from Amazon!

At one point, he confided to another pastor that he had some serious problems in his church. No details, just that things were bad. He said the other pastor leaned in and whispered, voice trembling: “Is it… miniskirts?”

In a lot of ways, I feel like that is “Christian fiction” in a nutshell. Or, at least, what gets marketed as Christian fiction. “My Amish Boyfriend Romance Pretty Horse Girl (TM)” edition, where the biggest problems are people who should know better being rude to each other. Because Great Aunt Betty would get the absolute vapors if there was something on the shelves that talked about any of those dirty people. Old Betty is a sinner, but she’s a clean sinner, doncha know.

I have a problem with that. I blame C. S. Lewis for opening my eyes to the real dangers of evil. I read the The Screwtape Letters in high school, and it wormed its way into my brain exactly like it was supposed to. It left me convinced me that there is real evil in the world, and it isn’t what we’re told about in Sunday School. It’s nasty, treacherous, and beguiling. Seemingly rational evil that starts with twisted words and ends with brutality that would make animals back away in horror. Seductively wrong thinking that treats “people as things,” as Terry Pratchett wrote.

I think far too many Christians are content to turn our heads away and refuse to talk about that. As if acknowledging it exists would somehow give it power. News flash: it’s there and it’s got power, whether you look at it or not. Go watch Nefarious for a modern depiction, and realize that I think that movie pulled its punches

When I sat down to write A Sense of Murder, I knew that the background setting was an explicitly Christian universe. A world where God and his angels fight the Accuser and his forces. A universe where faith has real implications, because angels and demons aren’t locked away in scripture, but are active participants in the fight. An existence where your relationship with God matters; and where for the faithful, nothing happens by chance.

Not even murder.

So this isn’t Christian fiction. Or at least, I hope it’s not. What I do hope is that it’s fiction with teeth, fiction that was written by a Christian who believes in his Savior. Fiction that is a reflection of our world: a dark place, perhaps, but one where God works to use noble men to bring light into that darkness.

Oh, and pirates. Because I’m me, and everything’s a little bit better with pirates. I mean, if you were writing fantasy with a Christian underpinning, what else would you add to it to make for an exciting story?

Enough pontificating! Have a snippet. Here, Kellan is speaking with Prospero about the nightmares he has been having after having come face-to-face with a demon…

“I am but a humble servant of the Empire.” I said wryly. “So it’s returning to haunt your dreams, too. Are we doomed to live with our memories, then? At least it will drive other nightmares away.”

He sat back. “You make light of it, but you’re not wrong. The influence of a creature like this extends beyond the bounds of flesh. Its very nature is designed to stun and horrify. Being in its presence is enough to leave lingering wounds, blackening your thoughts the same way that the freezing void blackens flesh with frostbite.”

I shivered, recalling the unnatural cold that the thing had used to bind me. The idea of it having its fingers in my head, even if only in my dreams, made me want to retch. I pushed my plate away, appetite gone in an instant. “Is there anything you can do to help me drive it out? A charm or a draught you can give me?”

Prospero smiled. “It may sound trite, but I recommend grounding exercises, along with prayer.”

“Grounding?”

“Before you go to sleep, focus on all of your senses, one by one. What you can see, hear, feel, smell, taste. Give your mind something to focus on outside of yourself. Once you are ready, pray.”

“Heh. I’m not sure my prayers have ever made it past the ceiling. Are yours special? Does Elah listen more to a magus than a man like me, perhaps?”

“Don’t.” I could tell the magus was not angry, but there was a firmness in his voice. “Kellan, in the past few days, we two have encountered agents of the Accuser more than once. As we continue our hunt for the shuot, the warlock who brought it forth, we are likely going to encounter those agents again.” He spread his hands. “Trust me when I tell you that when we do, it will be a contest of will and spirit as much as a battle of steel and magic. Even more so, perhaps.”

“Prayer.” I shook my head. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to mock. I’m used to using the law and a gentle word to get what I want. But prayer? That’s not something I’m accustomed to, aside from my lauds in the morning to welcome the day.” Even that was only because I’d had it drummed into me while attending the Empire’s schools.

“Take time this evening for vespers. Remind yourself of who we are. What was that you said, earlier? ‘I am but a humble servant’. Recall who you serve, and who you are called to defend.”

Read more about the Empire, her servants, and how the get along like a great, big, murderous family in A Sense of Murder, coming soon from Selene Press!

Pre-order A SENSE OF MURDER from Amazon!

He froze for barely an instant, giving her time to reach up with both hands and grab his knife arm. She used her handhold to pull herself up. She raised her right leg and slammed her foot down on his instep.

Nissa must have caught it just right. She drove her boot heel into his foot with a sharp crack of bone. The thug howled in pain, loosening his hold on her. Nissa took immediate advantage, yanking his right arm down, sawing the edge of his own knife across his left forearm.

I missed exactly what happened next. I was distracted because I realized I could once again see a ghost-like emanation surrounding her, something eerily like a faint aura. So much so that I experienced a momentary burst of panic, thinking that I might have raised my Talent reflexively. I didn’t need to concentrate to see this effect on her, though; and it was faint enough that in other conditions, I would likely have missed it entirely. It didn’t so much envelop her. Instead, it seemed to precede her, as if it were a real being and she was nothing more than an ethereal shadow following along in its wake.

She hip-checked the thug at just the right moment. He stepped on a loose stone with his bad foot, losing his balance and falling face-forward to the street. She kept hold of his knife hand, following him down, shifting one hand to his elbow.

She didn’t so much put him in an arm bar, as move just so to let one just materialized under her hands, letting her drive the thug into the ground and beyond. The thug’s scream was muffled by the pavement as she bent his right arm bent in an unnatural way. His knife flew out of his hand, bounced wildly on the cobblestones—

—and landed perfectly in Nissa’s hand when she rose. She didn’t bother looking at it when she caught it, tossing it behind her in one smooth motion.

The thug on the ground was curled up, whimpering and sobbing in pain. Nissa pulled her foot back for a kick. I stepped between her and her target before she had a chance to shatter his already dislocated elbow.

“Enough.” I spoke softly. Nissa looked up at me without moving her head, panting, teeth clenched. A thin thread of blood ran down from her nose. She wiped the back of the hand across her face, smearing away the blood.

“You wouldn’t have done that if I had kept the knife.”

“No.”

“That’s why I threw it away.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. With that, whatever spirit gripped her vanished like mist in the morning sun.

“We really have underestimated you,” Prospero murmured. He came over to kneel down beside the thug. “That was an outstanding demonstration of instas praescientia.”

“It hurt.” Nissa said dully. She wiped away another thread of blood from her nose. “I should have seen him coming, too. The echoes of whatever it is in the Weave must be getting stronger. I should be able to keep something like that up for two or three minutes at a time, not just a few seconds.”

“Then it was doubly impressive.” Prospero reached out and nudged the thug. “Don’t you agree?”

Read more about Nissa, her Talent, and how in the world a seer could end up with a knife at her throat in A Sense of Murder, coming soon from Selene Press!

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The steam whistle of the packet boat died as we approached the pier. Prospero was in conversation with the captain when I nudged him and pointed at the shore, where a tall, bald man wearing a blindfold and an ornate robe was seemingly waiting for us. Heavily armored men stood behind him, gleaming rifles made of sharp metal and smooth glass held at ready.

“Friends of yours?”

Prospero turned at my words. If I hadn’t been paying attention to him, I likely would have missed the subtle shift in his posture when he spied the entourage waiting for us. I’d seen that sort of change more times than I cared to think of: the change of stance that indicated a man prepared for a fight.

“We are all servants of the Empire.” A smile crossed his face and disappeared faster than the morning mist on the river. “That is Ser Elgus Nedom, Maiorna of the Black House. I mentioned the oracles that first sent me your way, didn’t I?” He nodded. “There you have it.”

Every schoolboy learned about the Instruments of the Empire. The triumvirate of the Legion, the Mares, and the Offices—land, sea, and paperwork—were the tools granted to us in our battle against the Accuser. I’d not heard of the Black House, but Prospero’s mention of oracles might explain that.

“Seers. Are they part of the Legion, like the magi and the world-mages?”

“Hardly. They stand apart. As do I.” He shook his head. “The function of the seers is distinct. They manage their own house, reporting directly to the Empress. Normally, they would outrank a Legion magus.” He grinned, but there was no warmth in that smile. “Normally. Elgus and I are peers, though he is reluctant to admit it.”

“He doesn’t look like the friendly sort.” The seer’s scowl was impressive.

“In the realm of Imperial politics, the distinction between friend and foe is something that is not always clear. Leave him to me. He no doubt wants to berate me for failing to accomplish his pet task.”

Read more about the Empire, her servants, and how the get along like a great, big, murderous family in A Sense of Murder, coming soon from Selene Press!

Pre-order A SENSE OF MURDER from Amazon!

It’s also led to an interesting problem for me. The Christian Bible is definitely present, and a large part of the heritage of the Empire. Individuals, particularly priests, will be quoting from those writings. How can I write those in English is such a way that they are understandable, yet give the feeling that they come from centuries of change and development in Latin, modified heavily by Aramaic and other languages?

Well, if you’re J.R.R. Tolkien, you create an entire history to understand how your language evolved. As for me, I am not a linguist; nor do I have the patience (or time, at this point!) to become one. So I am left to fall back on the tools that I have: existing translations, creative interpretation, and the help of Google Translate.

In a recent passage, I found myself wanting to reference Proverbs 3:24. The King James version is thus:

“When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid: yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet.”

Poetic, but I don’t want readers to see this and think of our history. I want something that conveys the idea embedded in that passage, without bringing along the weight that the language of the KJV bears.

Now, since this is coming from Kellan, it needs to reflect his idea of the passage. He was raised and educated by teachers the Empire sent to help rebuild his world after a war to deny the forces of the Accuser. So his basis is going to be the Imperial scriptures - which means something based on Latin.

Enter Google Translate.

I have access to the Latin Vulgate form of the Bible, so that’s my starting point for this particular passage. If I take it and run it back and forth through Google Translate from Latin to English a couple of times, I can get something that expresses the ideas of the verse, without sounding like it:

Vulgate: “si dormieris non timebis quiesces et suavis erit somnus tuus”

1st pass: if you sleep you will not be afraid, you will rest and your sleep will be sweet

2nd pass: if you sleep you will not be afraid, you will rest and your sleep will be pleasant

Tweak that a little and you end up with:

I slept well that night, better than I had in a week. Better even than I had since I’d first met Prospero. Was it from the effort Nissa and I put into covering the city the day before? Perhaps. Then again, didn’t the Preacher promise, “rest, and your sleep will be pleasing”?

Some of you with a religious background may notice that Kellan is presuming that the author of Proverbia and the author of Ecclesiastes are one in the same. That might be the Imperial teaching. Then again, he is from the backcountry region of a backwater world, in Imperial terms, so maybe that’s a local teaching…

Which brings us to the next point. There’s going to be multiple versions of the Bible running around the worlds. I mean, we don’t have one translation - why should they? The Regnan Thalassocracy has a rough, working-man’s translation influenced by their centuries of life at sea, and Proverbs 3:24 is rendered slightly differently:

“Fear not, fer yer slumber shall be sweeter’n the motion of a galleon at sea.”

Yes, that’s taken from “The Pirate’s Bible”. I’ve been planning this for a bit. 🙂 I don’t think I would use that as-is, honestly. If one of the Regnans were quoting this, I’d want to tweak it until it suited their freebooting nature.

Finally, there’s going to be a version of the Bible that has been influenced by translations in places where a variation of Aramaic is the common tongue. I’m not sure quite how I’ll represent that yey. I might use the translation trick with Arabic, for example. However I do it, I know that I want very distinct language that will leave you with the idea that there is a completely different political, religious, and liturgical history backing whoever quotes it in that particular way.

Who’s right? You’d think that in a universe where you can hunt down an angel and simply ask, this would be a simple problem to solve. Except the ineffable tends to be ineffable, and messengers are generally only concerned with the messages they carry, not the ones that have already been delivered… so it would seem that confusion continues, though if the Almighty approves, is it really confusion?

“Such lies we have.” The demon stretched and elongated in unnatural ways, its voice mocking; but this time, the sinking ache of dread was strangely distant, as if in—

A dream. The colors of the world were muted, washed out. I struggled to pay attention to them, but they faded, giving way to a gray nothingness. The Vohan-thing was still clearly defined, however. It continued to distort, twisting in ways that my mind told me both weren’t possible, but also were not true memories. It opened its mouth wide, hooting in anger, and in the sound I recognized the blast of the packet ship’s engine blowing off steam.

My nightmare recollection followed the same pattern as previous nights. The sickness. The cold earth clutching my foot, sapping my energies. Once more, I pulled out my pistol, fumbling it into place before I pulled the trigger with no effect.

My trembling lips were tempted to curse. Instead, in that moment, I found myself repeating words my father had taught me: a child’s vespers, litany against the evil of the world. I am sure they would not have come to me if they hadn’t been so ingrained that reciting them was as much muscle memory as conscious thought.

“Sayet es vo ishoa, hakim melek; esoka, sheth, ey adruhk, alaha melek.”

Save me from evil, wise Lord; body, soul, and spirit, let me walk with God.

In my dream, I muttered that prayer continually. The incubus shrieked, a hellish noise that mimicked the blast of the ship’s steam engine. My pistol grew hot in my hand with each utterance, and instead of firing it to free my foot, I found the strength to turn it around and hammer it against the icy earth congealed around my foot. With each blow, the web of icy mud cracked, until at last the earth shattered and I pulled myself free, twisting to try and catch a glimpse of my face in the swirling blackness of the mirror.

“Esoka, sheth, ey adruhk, alaha melek!” I gasped, fighting free of—

A wool blanket.

I was sitting up on the cot on the packet ship, tangled in the blanket I had pulled over me before I fell asleep. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, making me shiver in the light breeze that came through the open windows of the cabin.

I untangled myself and sat forward on the bunk, hands on my knees, breathing heavily. After a minute, my heartbeat slowed enough and I gulped down a deep, shuddering breath.

“Not as bad as it could have been,” I croaked, voice was barely more than a whisper. I stood and wobbled over to the washbasin. Slivers of moonlight wormed their way into the cabin, distorting my face into something grotesque, yet familiar.

I stared in paralyzed horror, unmoving, as my reflection in the mirror titled its head. Two yellow eyes, slitted like a cat, met mine. A third winked at me from my transfigured forehead. The apparition in the reflection grinned, showing a wet, red tongue and rotten brown teeth.

“Such lies!” The nightmare voice was barely a whisper, but did not stay there. In a trice, it rose to a shriek that startled me backward. Freed from the dread pinning me in place, I fell back onto the bunk. I struggled, trying to scream; but unable to find my voice.

Somehow, I was tangled up in my blanket again. Once more, I sat up and disentangled myself. This time, though, I did not wait for my heart to calm. I lunged for the wash basin, grasping it until my hands ached, twisting and turning my head to examine the face that the mirror showed me.

In the moonlight, I saw nothing more than my own reflection.

At the end of it all, I took the blanket from my bunk and covered the mirror. I sat up on the bunk across from it, staring at it as if it were a trapped animal, until exhaustion and the rhythmic thump of the packet boat’s engine lured me back to a dreamless sleep.

Read more about Kellan and his struggles—spiritual, mental, and physical—with his own very personal demon in A Sense of Murder, coming soon from Selene Press!

Pre-order A SENSE OF MURDER from Amazon!

My nobledark fantasy mystery, A Sense of Murder, is available for preorder! Come enter worlds that are the battleground for good and evil. Places where magic is law; guns and steel are justice; and evil is patient, persuasive, and genuinely terrifying…

In a far-flung corner of the worlds-spanning Empire, Ser Kellan tor Iaestus is a Highwayman, sworn to keep the peace in the rugged Outlands. Armed with a revolver from a forgotten war and a hidden Talent to see truth, he is an agent of justice and peace in a wild land... so long as he keeps his talent hidden, lest he be pressed into the service of the Empire.

When Prospero, an Imperial Magus, arrives in the Outlands hunting for a magical truth-teller, Kellan is assigned as his guide. Certain he can keep his Talent concealed and maintain his freedom, Kellan escorts the magus on his journey. All goes well until a string of seemingly unrelated murders exposes demons, dark powers, and a warlock weaving cruel designs in the shadows. As Kellan and Prospero investigate, they follow a thread that leads from the Outlands to the city of Victar de Reya, links whores and politicians, and takes them from fine restaurants to piratical celebrations.

Saddled with a suspicious young seer and facing demons clawing at them from the Unreal, the two must work together to unravel the warlock's conspiracy before he kills again. But can Kellan locate the killer without exposing his own power, and surrendering the independence he's fought so hard to protect?

Duty demands truth. Survival demands secrecy. Kellan can't have it both ways... and time is running out.

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Thank you for your patience. And now, what you have all been waiting for: MEMES!

In his latest article, Ian2 branched out to talk about women’s self-defense:

The Bugscuffle Gazette

Women's Self Defence

I don’t offer training…

Read more

3 months ago · 48 likes · 21 comments · Ian

I’ve also been following Mrs. Emma Walz on Facebook recently, where she has been doing a series of videos on “Crap My Cop Dad Taught Me To Keep Me From Getting Trafficked”3 (Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six). As she says there at the start of it all, “Some of you have the self-preservation instincts of a golden retriever.”4

Having some experience with this subject for a couple of reasons, I’ll say that neither of them are saying anything shocking or new. At least, not to me.

My wife & I assist a friend who does a hapkido-based women’s self-defense class. It’s 3-4 hours, and the actual techniques are (IMHO) secondary. The primary takeaways we try to leave them with are:

• Situational awareness5, and

• Yes please use your voice, and

• Situational awareness, and

• The idea that you can fight back (and must fight back) instead of being dragged off wherever6, and

• Situational awareness

You may notice a theme there.

No, we are not teaching waif-fu. I mention that because of the startling number of people who think “women’s self defense” means “teaching women to fight and defeat men.” Nope. If that’s what you are looking for, if that is what you think you might need, learn a formal martial art (hapkido or judo).7

Our technique is rooted in some of the base concepts use in hapkido, but that’s where the similarity ends. I say “technique”, singular, because while there’s a number of holds we talk about, the breaks we teach are based on two simple movements. They are about using surprise and leverage to break common holds. The focus is teaching the women that they can break those holds and get away from an attacker.

Note: not fight an attacker. We do cover strikes (punch, heel-palm, scoop kicks) but those are for familiarization and to instill confidence. We always emphasize that if everything has gone to hell in a hand basket, the goal is to break a hold and get to safety.

More to the point, though (and I think Ian and Mrs. Walz would both agree with me here): we repeatedly emphasize that what we are teaching the ladies are intended to be measures of last resort, because the absolutely best way to win a struggle8 is to never be in one. And that best way to ensure that you’re never in that situation?

Situational awareness.

Go. Read. Learn.

And make us all happy by putting your dang phone away in the parking lot, okay?