Impaler

This excerpt is the opening scene of Impaler. Final edits haven't been completed, so there will probably be some changes in the published ebook.

Enjoy!

Impaler

Chapter 1

Always before battle begins I am possessed by the need for solitude and prayer. It is a curious thing, for I have never fought as merely another knight. I first ruled men at the age of eighteen, when the old Ottoman Sultan Murad and his son Mehmed still thought I could be a Turk puppet.

Those who slander me say I care nothing for the fate of other men. They forget that those who rule by the Lord's grace are entrusted with the Earthly welfare of their subjects, and to some extent their souls. To take one's subjects into battle, however righteous the cause, ensures that they will sin. The burden of their souls falls upon me, their Prince.

I do not allow others to see my weakness. Few great lords care for the fate of those in their domains. That I of all men should do so would seem the most grotesque of jests. I, whose name echoes through Europe as a byword for atrocity. And yet, I am driven to pray for those whose lives will end on the battlefield this day, men whose only crime is to obey the commands of their lords.

Thus I walked through heavy mists in the Snagov marshes towards a hillock built by the monks to shelter their hermits from winter's worst. Mist beaded on the fine dark red wool of my coat and brushed cold and clammy against my skin. Around me my bodyguards ghosted through the marsh trees, soft-soled boots all but silent in the pre-dawn gray.

Only ten men of the two hundred my cousin Stephen had sent to my aid walked with me. Of all the forces I commanded this day, Stephen's two hundred were the only ones in whose loyalty I placed any trust. There had not been time to build forces of my own as I fought to reclaim my land from the Turk's puppets. My men were hirelings for the most part, bound by no oaths of fealty.

My goal emerged from the chill mist: a glade nestled against an earthen wall overhung with vines. It was a place sought by hermit monks for generations, and an air of peace and contemplation hung about it still.

I nodded to the nearest of my guards, and entered the glade. Another man might not have heard the whispers of movement, the sound of chain mail muffled by layers of quilted cloth. The curse laid upon me by Mehmed had its uses. I knew where my bodyguards positioned themselves, knew that they would give their lives to protect me should the need arise.

I knelt on a bed of fallen leaves, damp cold seeping through my pants to chill my legs. My lips moved without sound as I prayed. I begged mercy for those who would die this day, even those who fought under my traitorous cousin Basarab Laiota's banner. I asked no quarter for myself, nor for victory, for those matters lay in higher hands than mine. And finally, driven by what impetus I do not know, I prayed that if the Lord would not lift the Sultan's curse from me He show me a way to use the curse to further His glory.

How many times I begged that the curse be lifted from my shoulders I could not say. I can only say that this morning, as I prepared to face an army near twice the numbers of my forces, I begged instead that the Lord show me His will.

His answer came mere heartbeats after I stood, when I heard the whicker of a horse and the distinctive sound of metal against leather. My chest tightened and my hands clenched. I swallowed, and forced myself to show no sign of disturbance as I walked the few paces to Stefan, the captain of my guards.

"I heard horses and armor to the north," I murmured.

He nodded, and hastened to another man, who moved away in the mist. I waited, nerves drawn bowstring-tight, while the remainder of my guards joined us. They sensed the tension though they knew not its cause, loosening their swords in their sheaths, faces grim in the ghostly mists.

I drew my own sword, my hand settling comfortably around the worn leather wrappings on the hilt. This weapon had been my father's, a sword of the finest Toledo steel. Like him, I prized it for its strength and wicked sharpness as well as all it represented. How his faithful retainers smuggled it to me when he was murdered, I do not know. I was young then, too young to fully understand for I had never ruled, never known the bitter fruits of betrayal. Now I could only honor them for their courage and loyalty.

The scout returned, moving as quickly as he could without making undue sound. Though he whispered, I heard enough. At least fifty men approached from the north, men in the turbans of Turkish soldiers. It seemed my dear cousin Basarab lacked the courage to meet me on the field of battle and sought instead to murder me by stealth. The horses would be to ensure they could escape before any pursuit could be raised.

The captain swallowed when he turned to face me. "Sire, fifty men from the Turk army, leading horses. We must fight."

I nodded once. I and my ten guards were woefully disadvantaged, the Turks too close for a safe withdrawal. Had my curse-sharpened senses not heard them, they would have held the advantage of surprise as well. "Have your men draw weapons, and conceal themselves as well as they may. In this mist, we will be able to strike the center and send them into confusion."

"Sire... my Lord Prince... We can cover your retreat." The man's face had the calm, empty look of one who knows that death awaits, and has made his peace with his fate.

I smiled. Stephen's men deserved better than I could give them. "If I am not here, they will not allow you to hold them." I saw no reason to add that the rarely-used paths I had traveled to reach this place were unguarded. Better to draw the teeth of the snake here than to hide and allow brave men to die in my stead. "Go." I could hear the enemy more clearly now, whispered curses and the sound of wrapped hooves upon soil and leaves.

My guards melted into the mist, slipping behind tree trunks and bushy shrubs. I joined them without word, fighting the excitement that strove to quicken my breath. Soon enough there would be battle, and bloodshed aplenty to appease the curse. Now I could only wait.

Each breath seemed an eternity, those last few moments before our enemy emerged from the heavy mist stretching out into the everlasting wait. First they loomed as grotesque shadows, blurred darkness, then details began to emerge. Here, the shape of a horse's leg, there the glint of a drawn scimitar. They stayed close, horses and men breathing steam into the air, merging with the swirling shadows.

Their faces were grim, their turbans dark. They wore coats of all shapes and sizes, patched and worn and stained with the blood of former owners, for these were men who rarely saw the bone-aching chill of Wallachian winter. I smelled the oil they used in their hair and beards, the cleaner scent of horse, and shifted a little to ensure that they saw nothing of me as they passed us, alert but unseeing.

No signal was given, for none was needed. The rising tension in the bodies of my men, the quick flicker of their eyes as they checked to see how many had passed us and how many remained, gave the signal to all.

I leaped forward, my sword slicing across a Turk's unarmored chest as screams and shouts of alarm rose around me. Blood sprayed into the air, scarlet against the gray mists. My mouth opened to receive the accursed nectar, the sickly sweet taste sending thrills of anticipation through my body. My first swallow burned through to my stomach, the fire of renewed strength, of the energy that defeated the wasting sickness that would otherwise consume me.

A scimitar's movement caught at the very limit of my eyesight. I reacted without thought, my left hand reaching for the hand that held the weapon even as I kicked my first victim aside, raised my sword to the new threat.

I slashed that one's belly open and wrenched his scimitar from his hand, left him to scream and spill his entrails upon the forest floor. In those few moments, the joy of battle, the knife-edge of knowing that each beat of my heart could be my last, rose to fill me. My sword and stolen scimitar slashed into horses and men as I spun and danced amid the screams of the dying.

None could touch me: the Sultan's curse granted me speed and strength beyond human while the draught of fresh blood coursed through my body. Here, there was blood aplenty to sustain my unnatural prowess and for once, I welcomed it. Surely this was God's answer to my prayer.

If I were to use the curse in His name only, dedicate the victories it won me to His glory, it ceased to be the tool of darkness the Sultan had intended and became instead the scourge of Mohammed's followers. Thus could I expiate my many sins.

I truly know not how long the battle lasted. It can not have been long, for mist still lay heavy about me when my weapons could find no more enemies. I stood, gulping air tainted by the stench of death, and listened. I could hear only my own guards, all ten with the dazed look of men astounded to find themselves still breathing.

Of the enemy, I counted forty and three dead, and seven still living though wounded so severely they would not see the morrow. I stalked to the nearest, rested the point my sword in the hollow of the man's throat.

He took time to recognize my presence, to look up along the length of Toledo steel to my blood-covered face. A moan escaped him, and the words, "Kaziklu Bey."

I smiled. The Impaler Lord. He recognized me: good. "Grant me reason not to impale you alive," I said in Turkish.

His eyes opened very wide, and he grew even paler. His words lacked coherence, and were interspersed with pleas to Al-lah, but they told me enough. This group had been sent to commit murder and return to my beloved cousin Basarab with my corpse -- or failing that, my head. Returning without proof of my death had not been an option.

How fitting that dear Basarab Laiota should choose the coward's path. No doubt he wished to be free of me so he could rest his old bones safely. Perhaps instead of sending his head to the Turks I should send that part of a man they valued most.

My mood must have reflected upon my face, for the Turkish soldier began to beg the mercy I had implicitly promised.

I regarded him with contempt. "May your Al-lah grant you mercy," I said, and drove my sword into his throat. His body spasmed once, then was still. The death reflected nothing upon me, and I felt only weariness. In truth, there was little likelihood that he would have survived to be impaled, but fear of that fate -- and no doubt the reputation I had garnered -- overwhelmed any such consideration in his mind. To Turks, death by impalement was dishonor, and impalement by my hand dishonor and defilement.

For Turks, not only did I grease the stakes, I greased them with pig fat. Few had ever received the relative mercy of the stake piercing their heart: I displayed their proclivities to the world instead. Small wonder they held that death in battle was preferable to capture and impalement.

I cleaned my sword on a fallen man's clothing before sheathing the weapon, and located a relatively unstained turban to unwrap and wipe the worst blood from my face. "Send someone to the camp to have stakes prepared and bring these back." I could feel the grim amusement in my smile, taste it in my voice. "We will have a welcoming gift for the Sultan's tool ere this mist lifts."

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First Novel Squee

I got the momentous news yesterday - Impaler is scheduled for March this year, and I have a cover.

This makes it all so much more real, seeing the schedule notification on the Naked Reader blog, and of course having Laura Givens cover artwork sitting in my inbox. It's almost like having the physical item (I'm old enough to be a bit of a traditionalist that way, but hey, one day...)

I'd be bouncing with excitement except that when I bounce, too much else bounces along and it doesn't stop when I do. Besides, it's fast approaching this Mad Genius's bedtime. (I'm writing this Wednesday night).

The Road Not Taken

I was informed recently by Those Who Know that alternate history is either "dead" or "rubbish" because there are too many factors in the major events - the prime example being that old standby of Germany winning World War 2.

Now, while I agree that the end-point of a war is something that's far too complex to be treated as a single alternative, I utterly disagree that this condemns all alternate history. Most of history is a kind of juggernaut of inevitable where the pressures of the era would produce if not the same result, then one close enough to make no difference. If Hitler had never been born or had remained a minor artist, someone else would have risen to fill the gap.

There are, however, pinch points where history can, with a bit of a push, head down the other leg of Pratchett's Trousers of Time. This is where alternate history is valid and can produce some very interesting results. Usually the pinch points are individual actions: assassinations successful or failed, edge-of-the-knife decisions, and the like. Sometimes they're circumstances: suppose Catherine of Aragon's sole surviving child had been a boy? English history would have been quite different. Or a more recent example: the Midway sea battle. The weather was appalling, and every account I've read suggests that it was pure good luck that American pilots saw the Japanese aircraft carriers before they'd deployed their planes and soon enough to destroy a hefty chunk of the Japanese naval power of the time. That battle is generally regarded as the turning point of the war in the Pacific - suppose it had ended differently?

Obviously I have a less-than-impartial interest in this, since Naked Reader is publishing my first novel, Impaler - which just happens to be alternate history. The companion novella, Born in Blood, is closer to straight historical novel, and available from Amazon and Smashwords as well as the Naked Reader site.

Both of them deal with one of the relatively few people who formed a historical pinch point: Prince Dracula, aka Vlad the Impaler. To start with, it's rather unusual that someone from a tiny buffer state between two much larger empires should be a central figure in an extraordinarily fraught period of history. Then there's the interesting point that despite Vlad's much-reported faults a change in his favor has the potential to significantly improve the outcomes. Specifically, Vlad recognized that no treaties would stop the Ottoman Empire's expansion - and predicted the fall of Hungary if the Ottomans weren't stopped by the one thing they did recognize: overwhelming force. He was, as it happened, correct.

I describe Impaler with the over-simplified "What if Prince Dracula had won?", when the real event that switched the Trousers of Time around is Vlad surviving the assassination attempt in December, 1476. I'm taking the view that his twelve years as effectively a political prisoner of the Hungarian King served to temper him and he emerged somewhat more in control of what was by all accounts a fearsome temper, as well as realizing that he lacked the resources to completely break the boyar class. That along with the realization that the Ottoman Sultan, Mehmed II (Mehmed the Conquerer) will not allow him to keep his throne drives the story.

The fun part was in the cascade of events: I dug all over the internet for obscure information about the first few months of 1477 - little things as much as big ones. Where I couldn't find any documents, I chose what seemed to me the most likely possibility given what I could find about what followed. If I get to write sequels, the impact of Vlad's survival will get wider, until ultimately his world and ours are very different indeed.

That's my road not taken. What road would you like to investigate, and why?

Life, Nanowrimo and Just Doing It

After all the gremlins and goblins, princesses and pirates go home tonight and the Halloween decorations and candies are put away, NaNoWriMo begins. For those of you who aren't familiar with NaNoWriMo , you agree to try to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. That sounds like a lot and the first time I tried it, I let my own insecurities psyche me out. About 10 days in, I decided there was no way I could do it. After all, it meant writing -- gasp -- a novel in just one month. What I didn't take into account is that the rules say 50,000 words, not 100,000 or more (which is what I write now without batting an eye). So, I became my own worst enemy.

Instead of focusing on the end number of 50,000, look at the daily average you have to write. 1,667 words, give or take. That looks more manageable, right? Now, that might mean you only write a few hundred words a day during the week and then pound out more on weekends. You -- and I because I am doing NaNoWriMo as well as taking up Sarah's challenge. Yes, I've lost my mind. But you already knew that -- simply have to do what works.

One of the biggest excuses I've heard -- and I've used this more often than I care to admit -- about taking part in NaNoWriMo is "I don't have time". It's an easy excuse and, yes, real life does happen. But, if we were to look at our lives with a critical eye, I'd lay odds each one of us could find a few minutes a day when we are doing something -- or nothing -- that doesn't have to be done. Some of us are gamers. Some of us are avid TV watchers or sports fans. Some of us don't get up until we absolutely have to. So, instead of spending an hour or more a day playing Halo 3 or watching Dancing with the Stars or the World Series (oops, strike that. The Rangers are in the Series so we'll say football) take half of the time you'd normally be gaming or watching TV and write. If you like to sleep in, start getting up half an hour or hour earlier. Give yourself time to write.

The issue really comes down to the question of "Are you a writer?". It's not, "Do you want to write?". There are a lot of people out there who want to write, some who even think they can, but who will never be a writer. A writer is, in my opinion, someone who has to write. That's right, HAS to write. I'm not talking about having to write to make a living or to please someone else. I mean you have to write because it is a part of you. It truly is something you have to do. For another author's take on this, check out John Scalzi's post here.

Another thing to beware of as you take up the challenge of NaNoWriMo or even Sarah's challenge from a week ago: distractions. It is so easy as we hit that part in the book that seems hard to write to start looking for other things to do. Some of us suddenly need to clean house. Others just have to get that yard work done. There are any number of distractions -- including, for me, deciding that it is the PERFECT time to learn something new. Sometimes a distraction is good. it lets your mind take a step back and, when you return to your writing project, you can look at it with fresh eyes. But these distractions are also insidious because they will keep you from writing if you let them. So, just as you set goals with your writing, you need to set limits on the distractions.

All this said, I'll admit I haven't written much this past week. But, after everyone left the house after the baseball game last night, I took time to write out the basic outline of a story that attacked me earlier. Then I finished the outline for another project I've been working on. Today, after a bit of work I have to do outside and which shouldn't take more than an hour and after I finish prepping Kate's prequel to Impaler, Born in Blood, to go up at Naked Reader Press, I'm spending the rest of the day writing. And, tomorrow, I'll start getting up half an hour earlier than usual to write. That is my commitment to both Sarah's challenge and nanowrimo. Now, the project for NaNoWriMo will not be complete at 50,000 words, but it will be halfway completed. That's a good start.

So, how many of you are doing NaNoWriMo? How do you find time to write and, if you're having trouble finding the time, is there anything you can do to carve out 30 minutes a day for it?

Naked Reader

No, no, no! I'm not sitting here in the suit I was born in, reading a book. Nor am I encouraging you, dear readers, to toss off your clothes as you read MGC. Unless that is how you usually read us, and then, well, I really don't want to know ;-) In fact, the photo to the left is a clue. So, read on, dear readers, read on and all will soon become clear.

If you've followed the blog for any length of time, you know there are a couple of things I'm passionate about. One is the growth and future of digital publishing -- of e-books. The second is that I view DRM (digital rights management) as not only unduly limiting on customers but also nothing more than encouragement to geeks and pirates. Encouragement to geeks because who doesn't want to prove you are a better hacker than big business is a programmer. To pirates because DRM limits the market unduly, thereby building an underground market for books that are either not offered in digital format or in a "locked" format.

This is where the drum roll comes in. I have the pleasure of announcing the formation of a new e-publisher. That's right, there is a new player in the game. Naked Reader, LLC will go live tomorrow. About 30 seconds after the site goes live, I'll either be dancing in celebration or hiding in the shadows, waiting to see how things go. Maybe both. This is a big step for me, and for those I'm working with. But it is something we are all passionate about and we truly believe it is something we can do and do well.

Let me start by reassuring you that Naked Reader isn't THAT kind of publisher. ;-) What you'll find there are quality short stories and novels by established authors as well as those just breaking into the business. I am thrilled to be able to announce that this first month, we will be offering a wonderful short story -- Left Behind -- by our own coconut tosser, Dave Freer. Also on the schedule for August is A Touch of Night -- think Pride and Prejudice with shifters -- by Sarah A. Hoyt and Sofie Skapski. Our novel reprint for August is the mystery/suspense B. Quick by C. S. Laurel. Two more short stories, one by Charles E. Quinn and another by Pam Uphoff, will also be available. To help introduce people to Naked Reader, all downloads in August will be free.

But it goes beyond that. Beginning in September, we will operate on a quarterly schedule. We will offer new books for sale this September and December. The other months will see new short stories, the occasional novella, as well as previews of upcoming novels -- all for free. And, no, we haven't lost our minds. The only way to succeed in this business is to build up a following and the best way to do that is to get people coming to the site and seeing the quality work we will offer.

Oh, one more thing, we will have a slush pile. Full details will be available on the site. But the quick version is that we will open up for submissions three times a year. The first submission period will be November. I invite those of you who are interested to visit our site tomorrow and read the guidelines.

Now, for some details. There will be no DRM added to e-books published by NR. The caveat for this is, of course, that certain stores (iBooks, Barnes & Noble, etc.) will add their own DRM. We can't do anything about that. However, for those sold through Amazon, there will be NO DRM encryption. We opt out of that.

The website is www.nakedreader.com. But don't go there today. You won't find anything. It will be up tomorrow. I promise. You'll find our schedule for the rest of the year, more information about the "house" and some of the people who operate it behind the scenes. I think -- I hope -- you'll like what you see.

So, this is your chance to tell an editor -- or at least a "senior executive editor" -- me. And, omg, I have a title!!!!!!!!!! (looks around for a place to hide because titles scare me) -- what you would like to see from an e-press. What formats of e-books do you prefer? Are you more likely to download, and pay for, a single short story or a collection of short stories? What do you see as the top price you're willing to pay for an e-book? We've done our research, but I'm always interested to see if we're on the right page.

Oh, and, Chris K, no fears or need to curse with regard to Kate's Drac. I shall say no more....bwahahahahahaha!