37 thoughts on “Book Promo And Vignettes By Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike”

1. Cry Havoc and unleash the Dragons Of War!

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   1. “The beacons are lit! The beacons are lit! Hundor calls for aid!”

      “And the Bookwyrms shall answer.”

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2. ooh, a Bob and Nikki Just ain’t in the mood for Rachel or Icarus right now. no idea why

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3. Figured it’d be appropriate to shift to this bunch.

   “Father? Are you here?”

   “Of course, Maylis,” Amadeo answered, greeting his oldest daughter with a warm smile. “I’m glad to see both you and Her Majesty returned safely. How did the summit go?”

   “Well,” she said, her smile at seeing her father fading into a cool, neutral expression. “I don’t see Her Majesty, King Kylian, and King Friedrich’s forces having any issues cooperating, at least until that damnable Mad Empress goes to her eternal reward. After that, who can say, especially with Alphonse Faucher as Loire’s Chosen.”

   “Too true.” Amadeo concurred, checking on another of his plants. Maylis was very much aware of what could have happened if Alphonse had been on active duty rather than a disgraced exile when he and Jacinthe had eloped, much less what would have happened if he had been Sadalmelik’s Chosen at the time. There was no need for either of them to rehash it, yet he couldn’t help but wonder. “What was your impression of him, Maylis?”

   “He isn’t much of a conversationalist,” she began. “Yet he conducted himself like a gentleman at all times and he was never known to cause any trouble while living in Ampthill. Whether any of that was out of simple self-preservation or it is a reflection on his true character, I cannot say.”

   Amadeo nodded before he turned to the subject he was most curious about: “How did Carys and Vincent react to the thought of working together?”

   “I think merely not having to fight each other as long as Her Majesty and King Friedrich remain on amicable terms is enough for both of them,” Maylis sighed. “They have a lot to work out between them, Father. We both know that.”

   “They do, but I have faith that they will do so.” the sorcerer said with a smile, turning his attention to another plant.

   “They had better,” Maylis concurred, shifting the rifle on her back to a more comfortable position. “If he makes her cry again I absolutely will find a way to send him to Hell once and for all.”

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4. Totally off topic.

   ST:TOS “Space Seed” playing on the local oldies channel.

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5. Christmas Day is drawing near, spreading hope and cheer.
   Remember what’s important and treasure what you hold dear.
   Yuletide greetings to all and a Happy New Year!

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   1. Hear, hear!

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6. A fire crackled on the hearth at Sparta Point. Elaine wrapped her hands around the mug of hot cocoa and remembered another fireside moment — had it been a year? Sometimes it seemed so recent, and at other times it seemed like another lifetime that Ted Alandale had taken his household to one of the ski resorts at Tahoe during the week between Christmas and New Year’s.

   That evening she’d sat beside a fireplace in the ski lodge, listening to the more experienced skiers topping each other’s stories about close calls on the double black diamond trails. There’d been hot cocoa there too, albeit made differently than Tamara’s, or any other hot cocoa she’d ever tasted. And the platters of goodies that the staff had brought around — she could almost taste the little cakes, the squares of fudge–

   A yowl brought her back to the present. This was lion country — how far away could you hear the cry of a queen mountain lion in heat?

   She looked around the living room, studying the expressions of Spartan’s Own for any sign of alarm, but saw only relaxation. Spartan himself was over by the archway to the dining room, talking with Mikhael Yehuda.

   Nothing to worry about. The cat probably had a lair well away from the old ranger station, and no inclination to come any closer, especially if she knew the area well enough to know these rough men habitually went armed, and were crack shots. And Elaine had no reason to go outside at this hour, in the rain.

   But the moment was lost, and could not be recovered. Elaine stared into the flames, remembering the intensity but staying firmly anchored in the present.

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7. She crept on, alert with every sense for any sign.
   It was no cry that alerted her but the sight of light ahead. Ciara doused her own light at a gesture, and the tunnel dimmed, and looked more orange.
   The light came around a corner, but its dancing was clear.

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8. The cries from the crowd were just as jubilant at seeing them go as seeing them arrive. Then, she thought they felt no fear. Liam at least was happier, and smiled and waved to the crowd. She smiled herself, but she knew she was only his consort in their eyes.

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9. Hey!! That cover of Detritus shows a “ginnel”!

   I was so excited to hear Az from Heel vs. Babyface use a northern English word like that, when he was playing a Witcher videogame.

   And the other day, while playing Dark Souls 3, he described a passageway as a “snicket.” (Although some people say a snicket has to have greenery and drainage ditches, and that one just had zombies.)

   It makes me so happy, because I like to hear those words out in the wild, living in the cyber world. :)

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10. Prince Espar looked too young for his age. It was an odd thing to think, especially since he couldn’t be more than a year younger than Kailen, likely not even that. But he did.
    Probably something you got by growing up in Sigfrey’s Towers, rather than the streets of Lower Whitecliffe. That sort of innocence, that sort of lightness. That pride, too – he knelt before Sigfrey’s Lightgiver, but his shoulders did not bend. His eyes only wavered from the high priest’s face to glance at Kailen and Foray on either side, a smile flashing over his features for an instant before being swallowed again by a look of solemnity that seemed slightly forced.
    As pale smoke and the heavy smell of incense rose from the brazier in his arms, Kailen wondered whether that smile was meant to taunt or reassure. He didn’t know the prince, would never see him again after the anointing. He probably wouldn’t even think of him again, except in passing. But if his younger brother was anything to go by – if what he’d seen of ‘Respi’ earlier when the little prince escaped his tutors was real, and not an act – it was probably meant to be friendly.
    Odd. They lived so far above everyone else, even by Avigar’s standards. But they didn’t act like it at all.
    “– Majesty,” the Lightbearer intoned, lifting his gaze to the king. “Do you here pronounce Espar, eldest son of Sigfrey’s Chosen, Prince-in-Waiting and Beloved of Light, to be your chosen heir?”
    Espar did not turn his head, did not look towards his father. But Kailen thought he saw a flicker of nervousness in his eyes, and something like doubt. If the prince were an enemy, now would be the time to strike. But he wasn’t, and there was no need for a fight, no matter how uncomfortable Kailen was with the enormous crowd behind him.
    King Gelar smiled, his Queen’s hand looped through his own. Kailen wasn’t quite sure how to parse his expression, but the smile looked real, and there was no cruelty in it. So it was probably safe. “I do.”
    There was a noise from far behind Kailen, something like a quickly stifled cry. It wasn’t close enough to be one of the dukes arrayed behind him, and it came from directly behind rather than off to the left or right, where the lords stood. So it probably came from somewhere among the crowd.
    It didn’t sound right.

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    1. For my own satisfaction, I’m going to try and copy this over again without it being just a block of text, as well as the other part I had written.

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11. Karl followed his gaze. The knights looked ordinary enough. Even the blazons on their tunics boasted of the most ordinary of domains. But in their midst, heavily chained, was a half-naked man with butterfly wings of the darkest blue on his back. His hair was of the same color.
    Worthy a cry of surprise. Or two. Karl wondered even as they walked toward them whether they avoided the villages and towns and cities. The shortening of the distances would not hasten the journey if crowds came to gawk.
    The necromancer looked at them.
    So would crowds fleeing that, causing havoc.

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12. Aaargh. WPDE. Not sure if this is my fault for writing such a long ‘short,’ or the dumb program’s. Let’s see if this can make it through –

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    1. Chop it into multiple comments if you have to. I hit the comment limit (around 800 words or so? I think. Might be 1200 or more, somewhere in there) a lot, too. Really have to try to keep things short some times.

       And I’m really bad at short stuff. All my short stories tend to sound like parts of multi-volume series or something.

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       1. I know that pain…

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    2. I dimly remember something about a limit of 8,000 characters in comments. That translates to around 1,300 words, or less if you use a lot of long words.

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       1. Hmm. Good to know… Thanks!

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13. “Why do you cry?”

    The question was not a rude one. Not from the alien Kthhk. Uriah assumed they knew, more or less, what the physical act of tears was. Emotions did not seem to translate so well.

    “Because…” He hiccuped, swiping his face with bloodied hands.

    “Because I’m so fucking USELESS!”

    The furry insectoid tilted its head. It was an innocent seeming movement. Like a curious dog might, he’d always thought.

    “I’m useless because I can only do one thing. Can’t fight. Can’t cook. Can’t fix things. Can’t summon magics or build golems or pull water from the air.”

    As if that wasn’t enough.

    “Can’t lead. Can’t plan strategy, or scrounge for useful gear, or do anything that might even remotely be something we so desperately need.”

    Uriah sniffed. He was making a bloody mess of himself, but just couldn’t stop.

    “Can’t sing. Can’t even make myself run away. I’m the worst sort of utterly broken, useless, shallow, and pathetic. Can’t even be bad. Can’t be good or even good at anything at all that matters.”

    The alien was nothing more than a soft brown blur in the corner of his eye, still looking at him with those weirdly glowing eyes.

    “All I can do-” a wet, gross sob interrupted his harsh whisper of self hatred.

    “All I can do is heal. I can’t even bring back the dead.”

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    1. Heartbreak in a snippet, this one. Well done!

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14. The scratching rub of the stone on the blade made a softer, slower kin to his song’s words and tune and beat; he left off the second a few moments to enjoy the first, then went on.

    “Hang down your head…”

    “Goss?” He’d stopped on the instant (funny how your own name was one of a few things you’d know before anything, even when you could hear it barely at all), and now replied, “Molly? I’m up here, cleanin’ granddaddy’s old clayvay again.” He’d never stopped, never faltered in that first beat.

    (Clayvay — as claymore was really ‘claidhmeadh mhor’ that ought by all right to be clayvor, so clayvay was ‘claidhmeadh bheag’ — though that so called ‘little sword’ was the size of a cavalry saber, it was far-enough behind the huge ‘big sword’ old broadsword.)

    His cousin’s steps climbing the stairs were energetic, but in that very particular way that meant, too often, interest and care. And sure-enough it was her, known from only one short half-heard word.

    “Goassamer August Moon, here you are sharpening that old sword, and even singing that old song, that one, too. Now tell me, please, you’re truly not about to go all full traditional on someone, do?” Hands on hips, feet spread and braced, the picture of someone about to deal in trouble, to deal with trouble or perhaps even deal it out. Said in that particular way of women trying to get men to agree, to surrender right off.

    “Some things need an answer, Molly. You’ve likely heard what I mean. And if you doubt that, Emolument Joanna Dark, recall your repetition of those old first-world words.” His hands were steadily busy, but a jerk and toss of his head pointed out — clear enough for both — a bright bit of stitchery on his wall, framed in fine-cut chestnut. Hers, given to him.

    “For evil to triumph, it is enough for good men to do nothing.”

    — Edmund Burke (O-W)

    Maybe the words weren’t perfectly the same, over the Crossing from one threaded world to another, but the meaning and elegance was. So much of the Learning was like that — maybe not perfect but still good-enough.

    He’d’ve taken up the song, again, if she’d not been there, if this had not been the kind of moment it would’ve been a challenge to her. So he let his busy, steady hands speak for themselves.

    Though his throat yearned thirstily, to say also, “Fee Blevins.”

    “Goss.” Molly had come to sit, no presumption at all in it only intimacy, in the chair on the other side of the low table — ‘coffee table’ in the old words from the old world, where their people had been ‘hillbillies’ and worse, ‘backwards’ to so many so ‘mainstream’ — facing him in his cloth-upholstered chair. Him and his clayvay, him and the song he’d been singin’… but now, as she faced him, the stance and the tone of voice and the… attitude were gone. Now, it was one well-known person to another such, not one talking down from above.

    “Molly?” His hands did not falter or break their rhythm, yet.

    “I’d not dream o’ tryin’ to say ever you ought to do nothing, like it says on that gift from me of yours on that wall. I heard what happened to that girl down by the Border…”

    “Felicity Joy Blevins, Molly. Say her name, and never forget it.” Goss did not look up, or scold or hector as he said it. But it was a thing old from before the Crossing that not-a-one of their ancestors had done anything (known) to provoke or invite: when wrong is done to one not deserving, always remember the name the wrongdoers want and mean to erase, along with all the wrong they’d done that’n.

    “Goss. Please. Take a moment, or a few, listen and look at me.” There was little pleading in her voice, and much earnest request. Not honoring it, that’d surely’ve been a challenge too. So he stopped; and only in stopping felt how tense his muscles had been.

    “I’ll not dispute what happened to her was wrong. Not trying to do that, couldn’t do it decent if I tried. There she was, rock on the road, wagon axle broken, walkin’ the few miles into a Border town she only half knew, with an eighty-pound iron fine-casting in her hands.” Even Molly had to take a breath, there, before even trying to resume.

    (It might weigh a good bit, but it was too easy to come across and steal, and also too hard to ignore. Being dropped, one and all, into a world and history where pre-Industrial-Revolution technology still ruled, where the very habits of thought of a ‘modern’ world had never been… had put the ancestors of the highlanders in an oddly-backwards position. So much so, their descendants made the best steel in the Kingdom, on either side of the Atlantic, here in the half-wild Coombrian Hills. That carefully cast and worked hunk of iron was better than a gilt-edge letter of credit from the far-off Bank of London, at showing how her folks could pay.)

    He did. “And yes, that — kingsman, on his ‘short cut’ through our Border lands — he might’ve rode her down on the roadside careless or ignorant in a dim twilight; there’s no way he turned back by accident, stuck his sword through her guts by accident, wiped his blade on her hair by accident, or spit on her by anything like accident.” Much as his hands had come to itch to take up their recent work as he said it, itch and burn to, he forebore.

    (Joy’d not lived. But she’d lived long enough to tell all her tale.)

    He pointed to another deftly-framed piece of Molly’s careful work instead. With his index finger, now, in a more-customary way.

    “Better to light a candle,
    Than curse the darkness;

    Better yet to light a balefire,
    And fence all darkness back.”

    — Endurance James Doss, AD 2075

    (From which the Balefire Books, that first compendium from the Learning ever printed out on paper, had been named. Brighter than a candle by far.)

    “Goss. Look at me, do look at me, and this time take my hands.” Which she offered, open, over the table and space between.

    Which he took, wordlessly, in an earnest intimate double handclasp.

    “I’m not about to dispute what happened to her was wrong. Not tryin’ to do it, couldn’t do it. I’m not tryin’ to say it’s a thing we ought ‘let pass’ or ‘let slide’ in the old words, not at all not one bit. Also not sayin’ you or we ought ever leave this work all to others.

    “What I’m askin’ you, August Moon, is what I asked: are you meanin’, now, to do this full-traditional, and all? Strike down that man, so called by the ignorant and haughty, of the King in London and the Governors in Tryon Palace and Richmond Manor… all by yoursel’ with our Grandpappy’s bright old sword? Or, are you willin’ to… innovate enough, to let others stand with you, and… lighten the work, while you-all do it as one?”

    She ceased looking him in the eye, cast hers to the rug.

    “Law, Goss, it’d hurt me to lose you thuswise so much.”

    And there was a quiet.

    “No, Molly, I’m simply workin’ through the old ways. Gettin’ our family sword all ready, ’cause no sword ever failed to fire from damp or dirty powder yet.” (The British Kingdom had good muskets. The Hills people had, well, a thing much like a Kentucky Long Rifle with silencer. And less familiar tools, too.)

    “Sorry, if you thought I mean to go all… one-man-alone on ‘im.”

    And she smiled. Bright and cheerful and (in old-World terms) chilling as a high-country cold snap in mid-January. “So, may I get down your long-rifle now, and clean its report-muffler for us?”

    And soon the old words of that Old World song rang bright and clear in the soft, warm lamplight of an upper room in Goss Moon’s house.

    She unfastened and disassambled, he polished and sharpened.

    Weaving her high counter-harmony in around the low foundation of his own main-line plainsong. In what was by now a song to declare, like those old swords that must taste blood once drawn, a very old flavor of intent.

    “Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,
    Hang down your head and cry;
    Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,
    Poor boy, you’re bound to die.”

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15. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” sighed Delbert as he started the still. “Once more unto a crazy hillbilly circus act for Martian tourists.”

    “The hayull you cryin’ for?” scolded Clem. “This crazy hillbilly circus act for them Martian tourists netted us a cool thirty-five hundred just last weekend!”

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16. “Design a Howland Technologies Companion for that Brewster boy?” cried Agnes Slim-Howland. “What on Earth for? He’s a right punk!”

    “That’s precisely the point,” explained her brother Nigel. “Can’t we design something the boy can’t bully, that won’t cry when it’s hit, and will give as good as it gets?”

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17. Nice set of promos today! MOAR books to read!!! :-)

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18. Prince Espar looked too young for his age. It was an odd thing to think, especially since he couldn’t be more than a year younger than Kailen. Probably not even that. But he did.

        Probably something you got by growing up in Sigfrey's Towers, rather than the streets of Lower Whitecliffe. That sort of innocence, that lightness. That pride, too – he knelt before Sigfrey's Lightgiver, but his shoulders did not bend. His gaze only wavered from the high priest's face to glance at Kailen and Foray on either side, a smile flashing over his face for an instant before being swallowed again by a look of solemnity that seemed forced.
    
        As smoke and the heavy smell of incense rose from the brazier in his arms, Kailen wondered if that smile was meant to taunt or reassure. He didn't know the prince, would never see him again after the anointing. He probably wouldn't even think of him again, except in passing. But if his younger brother was anything to go by, it was probably meant to be friendly. Assuming ‘Respi’ really was as friendly as he seemed, assuming it wasn’t all an act.
    
        Odd. They lived so far above everyone else, even by Avigar's standards. But they didn't act like it at all. He wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not.
    
        “Your Majesty," the Lightbearer intoned, lifting his gaze to the king. "Do you here pronounce Espar, eldest son of Sigfrey's Chosen, Prince-in-Waiting and Beloved of Light, to be your chosen heir?"
    

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    1. Okay, that clearly didn’t work. Ugh.

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    2. Yack! How did THAT happen?!?

       Though Our Good Fast Friend Willie Pete is well-known to some of us for starting to roll the dreaded “Your comment is awaiting moderation” dice at or barely over ~8000 characters (there’s a reason my vignette above is just below that maybe-limit, and it’s not only a bit of determined gets-only-shorter editing), the part of your (welcomed and much awaited) post above that ‘made it through’ to the comments page is surely well under that, even without counting carefully.

       So (alas) it’s not even clear to me where the trouble (or excuse for WP to make trouble) lies.

       Maybe it would be worth making sure your original text is ‘pure’ text (no possibility of any ‘funny’ control or non-ASCII characters, if you know how to ‘hack’ that)? Maybe some ‘bad’ explicit HTML formatting tags (the strange formatting above looks like some sort of ‘program text display’ mode, or something) lurk there??

       Sometimes it’s seemed to me like ‘Willie P. simply hates your post and wants it never to see the light of day here’ — and I know I’m not alone in it. Please do, within reason, persist!

       If nothing else, perhaps try short-ish snippets (2 K chars. or so??) taking up right where the last one that worked left off… with all good wishes from afar.

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       1. (salutes)

          Trying to copy-paste from a word document keeps doing that, but it’s easier than trying to write it all over again.

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19. Prince Espar looked too young for his age. It was an odd thing to think, especially since he couldn’t be more than a year younger than Kailen. Probably not even that. But he did.

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    1. Probably something you got by growing up in Sigfrey’s Towers, rather than the streets of Lower Whitecliffe. That sort of innocence, that lightness. That pride, too – he knelt before Sigfrey’s Lightgiver, but his shoulders did not bend. His gaze only wavered from the high priest’s face to glance at Kailen and Foray on either side, a smile flashing over his face for an instant before being swallowed again by a look of solemnity that seemed forced.

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       1. As smoke and the heavy smell of incense rose from the brazier in his arms, Kailen wondered if that smile was meant to taunt or reassure. He didn’t know the prince, would never see him again after the anointing. He probably wouldn’t even think of him again, except in passing. But if his younger brother was anything to go by, it was probably meant to be friendly. Assuming ‘Respi’ really was as friendly as he seemed, assuming it wasn’t all an act.

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          1. Odd. They lived so far above everyone else, even by Avigar’s standards. But they didn’t act like it at all. He wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not.

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             1. “Your Majesty,” the Lightbearer intoned, lifting his gaze to the king. “Do you here pronounce Espar, eldest son of Sigfrey’s Chosen, Prince-in-Waiting and Beloved of Light, to be your chosen heir?”

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20. Espar did not turn his head, did not look towards his father. But Kailen thought he saw a flicker of nervousness in his eyes, something like doubt. If the prince were an enemy, now would be the time to strike. But he wasn’t, and there was no need for a fight, no matter how uncomfortable Kailen was with the crowd behind him.

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    1. King Gelar smiled, his Queen’s hand clasped in his own. Kailen wasn’t quite sure how to parse that expression, but the smile looked real, and there was no cruelty in it. So it was probably safe. “I do.”

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       1. There was a noise from far behind Kailen, something like a stifled cry. It wasn’t close enough to be one of the dukes, and it came from directly behind rather than off to the left or right, where the lords stood. So it probably came from somewhere among the crowd.

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