Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

As you've probably noticed over the last month and a half, Saturdays have become promotion days for MGC. Sometimes it will be self-promotion. Others will be guest blogs by authors who have new books coming out. Sometimes, we'll even throw in an open floor. Today, I'm going to step in and do a bit of promotion for the MGCers who have titles coming out from Naked Reader Press this month and nexzt.


In a land with a weak king, in a time when murder was often disregarded, four men made sure justice was served.

First up -- and I'm really excited about this -- is Death of a Musketeer by Sarah D'Almeida.

This is the first in the series and it has never before been released in digital format. Now, I see some of you scratching your heads and wondering who this D'Almeida chick is. Well, if you take a look at her Amazon author page, you'll see that she looks pretty familiar. Actually, it's no secret that Sarah D'Almeida is one of several pseudonyms our own Sarah A. Hoyt writes under.



Computer hackers are nothing compared to Legion. Its source is unknown and it continues to baffle programmers and defeat firewalls and antivirus programs. Nothing seems able to stop it. Could Legion possibly be intelligent? Or is it something else, something totally unexpected?

Up next is a wonderful short story written by Dave Freer and Kate Paulk. Legion: The Enemy Within came out earlier this month and, as with all NRP titles, it is DRM-free and available not only at the NRP site but also from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.





A boy's search for the truth sends him on a journey to find his grandfather's downed plane. Suddenly trapped in an alternate South Africa, faced with pirates and worse, he refuses to give up. His quest to clear his grandfather's name turns into a desperate race against time. It's a race he can't afford to lose.

Our next title is Dave Freer's middle school/early YA novella, Without a Trace. It is currently available for early purchase as an uncorrected e-arc (advanced readers copy). The edited version will be available for purchase the second half of March. If you like a rip-roaring adventure, or know someone who does, Without a Trace is for you.

The day she died Mackenzie Santos's life and her perception of the world changed forever. Everyone else thought her return to the living was a miracle. She knew better. How else could she explain away the dreams she knew were symptoms she was losing her mind? And if that weren't enough, she's now in charge of the investigation into the most brutal murder she can remember in her time with the Dallas Police Department.

Nocturnal Origins is by, well, me. Yes, me. The blogger currently hiding under the bed because self-promotion isn't something I'm comfortable with. It will be available from NRP the first half of March.

And don't forget that Kate Paulk's unique take on the Dracula legend, Impaler, comes out in March as well. For more information on Impaler, as well as a snippet or two, check out Kate's website. You can also find more information on Impaler at The Naked Truth and here on MGC. One word of warning, do not expect any sparkling vampires or emo werewolves in this novel. As far as Kate's concerned, the only time vampires should sparkle are when they've stepped into the sunlight and are bursting into flame.

With the exception of Legion: The Enemy Within, each of these titles will also be breaking new ground for NRP. Each of these titles will also be released in print as well as in digital formats.

(Full disclosure here -- for those who don't know, I'm the senior executive editor for Naked Reader Press.)

The Allure of Evil

(This is the first of a three-part set of posts. Tomorrow part 2 will be posted at The Naked Truth blog, and part 3 will be posted at my site on Saturday. Blame Amanda. She asked me to write about Impaler and why I wrote it, and this is what happened.)

Have you ever desperately wanted to do something you knew was wrong? Have you ever done it, and then thought up all manner of justifications why it wasn't really wrong in the first place? No, don't answer. I'm not who needs to know.

If you answered "no" to either question, you've either successfully convinced yourself, or you've been lying to yourself. Humans are good at that - at both "that"s, really.

Now, one of the things I find terribly unsatisfying about a lot of fantasy and SF is that the evil is so often hollow, unconvincing. You look at it and - if you're me, which fortunately is a rare phenomenon - you wonder why anyone would want it. For instance, in Lord of the Rings, the evil side is uniformly deformed and twisted - there's no reason the average orc would want to stay there, and they can't all be fallen from elf-ness. Admittedly, Tolkien was writing what he thought was mythology, which has a different flow and needs than fiction.

Thing is, coming off 100 years packed solid with examples of populist and/or popular evil - they had to appeal to enough people to get into and consolidate power. After that it wasn't such a big thing - your standard ugly, repulsive evil just doesn't cut it, at least for me.

I'm prepared to admit that I might be a tad on the strange side here (when am I not?), but I've been fascinated by the nature of evil for as long as I can remember, so unconvincing evil irritates me. Evil is attractive: it's supposed to be.

At a more basic level, evil involves letting our least human aspects (i.e., the animal nature) run free. Not being stuck with all those stupid rules and getting a good solid boost over those (insert your epithet of choice here) who make your life miserable... you bet your sweet ass that's attractive. When it's wrapped in a charismatic package, it's very attractive. The idea is to seduce people from what they know is right, after all. And, Rule 34 notwithstanding, orcs and seduction just do not go.

All of this is one heck of an introduction to how I came to write Impaler, and why - trust me, it's relevant. See, my guilty sideline in my reading habits is history. Specifically, the history of such charming topics as torture, of regimes like Nazi Germany, Communist Russia, Pol Pot's Cambodia, the Mongolian Hordes, and other equally delightful regimes. I joke that I have a hotline to Evil Bastard Central in my head, but whether it's the subconscious processing of my unclean fascination or springs from some other dark corner of my subconscious is something I don't know and prefer not to investigate too closely. I might find the answer...

Enter serendipity, in the form of (I think) a 1980s documentary. At that point, I had what you might call the pop-culture image of Dracula: the pale dude with fangs who wore old-fashioned evening dress and a high-necked cloak. Discovering that there had been real man named Dracula, and that he made even your nastier-than-average vampire look like a wuss, hit me like a hammer on speed.

Naturally I started reading vampire fiction as well as the history of the vampire mythos. Of course, I read Bram Stoker's Dracula. Most of the fiction that mentioned Dracula stuck with the Stoker image, although some (Jeanne Kalogridis (Diaries of the Family Dracul) and Dan Simmons (Children of the Night) come to mind) incorporated the history of Prince Vlad Dracula with the vampire myth. Vlad - of course - was always evil, and usually chewing-the-furniture insane as well.

Eventually I managed to get my claws on the books that are still the gold standard for Vlad: the McNally and Florescu Dracula books (In Search of Dracula, Prince of Many Faces, and assorted others). Fascination turned borderline obsessive: there were (and are) gaping holes in the history, and massive inconsistencies in the narrative. This was a man who was revered by his people (and to some extent still is). How could that reconcile with the standard "perverted mass murderer" narrative?

My first - and thankfully long-buried - attempt to write Vlad's story from his perspective started around then. I wasn't a good enough writer to do it. Besides, I didn't have the resources or the research material I needed. Yes, this was before the Internet.

The situation and idea nagged at me during the following years, generating a crude outline for an alternate history - which is recognizably Impaler, although the resemblance is like an artist's sketch beside the final painting. Over the same time period, my writing kept cycling back to the theme of someone who - for whatever the reason - does evil in the service of good. Not evil rationalized into faux-good, but actually in service to good.

In Impaler, I made the analogy between what a ruler like Vlad has to do, and a gardener pruning diseased branches so the whole plant doesn't die. It's not the only time I explicitly called out that what Vlad is doing is evil by most standard but is in service to a much greater need. Vlad doesn't - usually - excuse his actions on these grounds. He mentally adds them to the long list of sins he'll ultimately be punished for.

This dichotomy between action and goal, between cruelty now to prevent worse later, is a topic I find endlessly fascinating, and I'll be exploring that and the circumstances of Vlad's life - the things that shaped him into the man who dominates Impaler - tomorrow at The Naked Truth.

Update: Post 2: The Kindness of Cruelty is available.

Updated Update: Post 3: The Man Behind the Monster is now posted.

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."

#

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).

Hi From Worldcon!

Hi to all the MGC-goers from Aussiecon4. The venue is very spacious, and despite the attendance levels there is plenty of room to move about. I would have to say I found the intense orange-red décor just a little disorienting to begin with, but that might have been just me trying to deal with the array of potential panels to attend.

Some real luminaries here. I have not seen George RR Martin yet, but Kim Stanley Robinson is busy giving plenary lectures on various topics, and last night Robert Silverberg was chatting in the foyer with a bunch of other writers so casually you would think he appeared there every night.

Yesterday I trundled along – via the Dealer’s Room — to Dave’s signing, then along with Barb Freer, went to listen to Kate’s reading. A very smooth performance for a first timer! Kate read from her “Knights in Tarnished Armour” and a work in progress — “Wetherfakawi Blues” (hope I got the spelling right). The typical dry humour was endemic, with tightly written prose and a good storytelling voice. We were all disappointed when the half-hour slot was up.

The fellow who followed Kate, a SF writer from the UK called Gary Couzens, read a ghost story that had appeared in Fantasy and Science Ficton. I very interesting piece written from the point of view of the ghost, and written in second person. The voice was an unusual choice, yet really worked with this, increasing the tension. It made me feel like it was a sort of cautionary tale, like it could be you trapped in that house watching your loved ones go about their lives.

Below are two photos of Kate, one in mid-sentence and the other eyes down on her little life companion, her Kindle.

Tomorrow I will get to hear Dave read — always a treat — as well as China Mieville. It has been great to be able to sit back and hear these talented writers read their own works.

What are some of the best readings that you have been to?

Vampires and Werewolves and Ghosts, Oh My!

Like many Americans over a certain age, my fascination with vampires and werewolves began with the Dan Curtis soap opera Dark Shadows. I'm talking the original series that ran every afternoon from 1966 - 1971. Looking back on it now, it probably set into motion my quest for good novels that place these mythical creatures in every day situations where their special abilities became both a boon and a bane.

And that brings me to the eternal question: What is the difference between Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance?

On the surface, the answer seems simple enough, especially with regard to paranormal romances. To fall into that category, your heroine falls into lust, and then love, with either a vampire, a shapeshifter of some sort, maybe even a ghost. There's sex, romance, more sex. A book for women, in other words (don't throw anything yet. I'm not through.) Urban fantasy, on the other hand, has a smart ass narrator who is usually involved in solving some sort of crime with a supernatural bent to it. He, or she, is either assisted by a supernatural creature or the bad guy is the evil vamp, shifter, etc.

Like I said, simple. Right?

Wrong, with a capital WRONG!

So, how do you know if you're writing, or reading, a paranormal romance or an urban fantasy? Agent Nathan Bransford has written a blog post about genre distinctions. He recommends going to your local bookstore and checking out where books similar to what you are writing are shelved to help determine how to classify the book when marketing it. That is sound advice for most genres and even most sub-genres. But it doesn't really work in the case of urban fantasy and paranormal romance.

Take Laurell K. Hamilton's books for example. Her Anita Blake series is nominally Urban Fantasy. I say nominally because it started out firmly in the UF corner before Anita's sex drive took center stage for a number of books. I've seen that series shelved in Horror as well as in SF/F. The latter makes sense, especially because UF is a sub-genre of SF/F. But horror? Then there's the Sookie Stackhouse books by Charlaine Harris. I've seen them in SF/F and Mystery. See my dilemma?

Laura Miller has an excellent article about this at Salon.Com. One observation she makes in the article is one I've heard discussed, and have discussed myself, over and over again: that the fan reaction to the increase in Anita's sexual escapades in direct correlation to the decrease in her kick ass, mystery solving activities "exemplifies a perennial argument in urban fantasy: the ratio of crime to sex, or more broadly, of mystery to relationships."

So, where do we draw the line? Or do we draw the line?

Miller goes on to write that the best urban fantasies don't "just set a detective story in an alternate world where vampires, werewolves, demons and fairies are real. Like "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," it also uses the supernatural material to reimagine the challenges of young adulthood...Class as much as sex is an urban fantasy preoccupation...Where working-class characters in literary fiction are often depicted as tragic and helpless, the urban fantasy heroine gets to surprise everyone by using her talents to save the world...."

While this definition fits a number of books that are classified as UF, it also fits those classed as paranormal romance. And it causes confusion when a reader picks up a book termed UF, expecting these factors and finds something else.

For example, Nocturnal Origins, a book I shopped around as UF (and which I'm waiting to see if it is picked up by a certain editor), brought about a comment from one reader who wanted to know if my main character, a female cop who is, to her horror, a shapeshifter, liked guys. The reason for the question -- there was no sex in the book. Sure, she enjoyed looking at a good looking guy here and there. But, because it is UF, this reader thought it had to have sex in it. Forget that it followed the kick ass, smart assed female lead. Forget the crime/mystery that had to be solved, all the while Mac was having to accept and adjust to the fact that she sometimes shifted into a jaguar.

Another example of how wide open the genre is, is Kate's ConVent. It is filled with mystery, humor -- lots of humor -- and a cast of supernatural creatures ranging from angels to vampires to succubi to werewolves to demons. Oh, and let's not forget the human fen. But no sex. At least none on-screen, so to speak. Oh yeah, one more little thing. Her narrator is male.

I think John Levitt said it best in a Genreville post last November:

...defining UF is an exercise in futility. Everyone has their own particular take. Mine is simple – it’s like the old quote about pornography from Justice Potter Stewart, where he admitted he’d be hard pressed to define pornography, but nonetheless, “I know it when I see it.” Jim Butcher is classic UF. Neal Gaiman, who also sets his fantasies in contemporary society, is not. Rob Thurman is. Sean Stewart is not.

Now there’s another line of UF that owes much to Romance. Rachel Caine, Charlaine Harris, and early Laurel Hamilton come out of that tradition – smart mouthed, kick ass heroines who owe a lot to Buffy, and are not to be trifled with. But the romance tradition is clear – no matter how complex the world building is, no matter how convoluted and surprising the plot, an essential element always remains about whether or not it’s a good idea to do the vampire, werewolf, or both.

So, is there a clear line demarking the difference between UF and PR? No. Just like Justice Potter Stewart and pornography, I'll now it when I see it. The only thing is, what I see and what you see may be two very different things.

Now that I've thoroughly muddied the waters, what is your favorite UF novel? How about PR novel? Do you see any difference between urban fantasy and paranormal romance. Finally, and from a writer's standpoint, WHERE SHOULD THEY BE SHELVED AT THE BOOKSTORE?