[Macros]

Would love to read the changes Tatts, if you don't mind my asking to see i5

[Whisperzzzzzzz]

Seconded, the new prologue sounds intriguing.

[amphibian]

I will say that the big disconnect in the beginning for me was the attachment of soldiers to each other - there wasn't much interplay between them and certainly not with Orenzo.

I didn't finish the book before it got pulled. But that's ok. It had serious promise.

[Tatterdemalion]

Two of my four beta readers have returned their notes. You two wanna jump in? I'm all ears! Well, eyes. If you want, Whisperz and Mac, PM me your emails and be ready to check the spam folders. I will send directly, or Google Drive it if need be. It's about 40 pages.

Writing day 2/10 closed a chapter with a punch. I've now written chapters 1,2, 5, 7, 8, 10, 12 and part of 16 - all on a different continent and featuring none of the characters from Purge (though a few who are mentioned). Us Malazan fans can (hopefully) appreciate that

Don't worry, most of those missing chapters are Oz and co. Who do you think I am? Only ERIKSON can be such a badass son of a bitch as to pull a DG or MT in such fashion.

[Whisperzzzzzzz]

PMed

[Tatterdemalion]

Just found this, half a year later. Here's an update and a little something else:

1. I am days away from querying my top 3 agents. The book's fully edited and down 7k, as well as beta read by 6 fine people who gave great notes - and like you all - were, for the most part, impressed and interested. Fantasy author Michael R. Fletcher helped me trim my query and synopsis, which is great, and Ed McDonald also gave his opinion on Chapter 1 of my sequel "Grip of Dust" which is still about 110k and unfinished while I prepare Purge for a purer launch. Also great! Immense help. We'll see, naturally. As a teacher, I work a lot after hours, and as a dad, my little guy has anaphylactic 4 allergies and some serious long-term medical conditions his 8-9 specialists can't figure out... so there has been a lot on my plate. But once PoA is away on submission, I can get back to bustin' out Grip of Dust.

2. Whisperzzz and Macros were curious over my new prologue... so why not just post it here, y'all?

For newcomers, well... it's the start of my book. For the 5-10 of you who read the original Purge of Ashes, this replaces the previous prologue entirely (except for the scene with Captain Scobas and the mysterious passenger, that yet remains. The rest is fodder or moved to Grip of Dust).

Without further ado, PURGE OF ASHES: PROLOGUE [EDITED BECAUSE COPY/PASTE JAMMED WORDS TOGETHER FOR SOME REASON]

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The cry cut through the thrumming downpour,quelling the mutters of each impatient soldier, breaking the tension gripping them all. Somewhere among the multitude, fighting to hear over the droplets pelting each upturned helmet, Orenzo's ears perked up.

"It's over! The campaign's over! Dalbragga surrendered! We—!"

All words drowned as the hill came alive, shouts of both victory and indignation going up on all sides from all manner of mouths. Oversea recruits and seasoned veterans alike seethed their disapproval, pushing, shoving, and bellowing their hatred for the Renyd Clan savages. An equal number clasped their faces in relief as the Sveldtlander threat was undone, praising Aneom to the deluge and bending their hands in his manner.All clamored about the girth of the hill, fighting for ways to corroborate, dispute,or celebrate the claim, which, after almost a tora of waiting, fell like a hammer on a hive.

Orenzo Madleej watched the top. Everything that mattered was happening up there, and it took focus to ignore the jostling of others. He tried to keep calm, bu this breath kept reaching for that higher register. His hands kept tugging on the standard issue surcoat afforded him by the bursar. It was soaking wet, and leaking in three spots where it was not yet broken in. At the nape of his neck,captured rain ran over a black mess of plastered hair to funnel its cold tickle down his back, but it was not the inclement weather that chilled him. It was the words.

Over. It can't be true. It can't. Days moored at port, and then decadae in the bowels of that nought. Yet more hiking across the Rockswell. An enspan—an enspan!—since I last saw mother or the others from my old truncheon sector. This can't end. They promised the biggest tilt since the Spanwar, recruited everywhere touched by the sun… to just be over…

It can't be true. He is a liar. The man is a liar. That voice lies.

Yet through it all tingled the cold chill of certainty.

Trying to angle himself closer while navigating the revitalized crowd,he spied movement near the tent at the top of the hill. Figures filing out into the rain. Anticipating proof of the assertion, the furor intensified until Orenzo could barely see for the bodies in his way, or hear himself think for the din they made.

Icy certainty.

An elbow caught him in the chest.Stumbling, he reeled into the hauberk of the soldier behind him who caught hold of his shoulders and shoved him away. Then, pressed by some unknown momentum,everyone in the vicinity lurched three steps to the right, grabbing at each other to retain their balance and getting their legs tangled in the process. He fought for footing, finding traction only rarely amidst a tumult of pushes and grabs. Orenzo was not short, but in this crowd he was far from the biggest and it showed. Catching hold of someone's half-cape, he tugged his way vertical before the swell of the crowd hauled him off in its opposing reaction. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of more figures through the shroud of rain.With desperate eyes, he searched for those whose choices dictated his life.

The fervor that clung to the lot of them was a palpable thing. Recruits his age buzzed with a tremulous energy, a dangerous bundle of daunting fear and potential for violence. But where it was raw and energetic in the young, it was refined and reminiscent in the aged—juices pumping once more, invigorating the mind, the heart, and the fingertips. Orenzo did not feel wild-eyed, nor did he feel unprepared for the world's promise of stark contrasts, but it was hard not to feel lumped in as just another draftee drummed up by the call of war.

To this he railed. Loce was to be a beginning, a new undertaking planned for and prepared for to the letter. His chance to make something from the nothing allotted him at birth. There would be cause to mark this gathering as the dawning of a new era, a fresh wellspring of songs and stories as lustrous as the ones he repeated to himself every night, alone. A moment integral to the very course of history. A cause worthy of devotion.

Of this he was impatiently sure.

Yet the truth of the proclamation seeped in through a pinhole deep within his heart, and with two simple words he went from a soldier in the company of the most famous military tactician of the era to the less-than-palatable role of aggrandized mercenary.

He was about to unleash a slew of curses and make for the brow of the hill when a hand clutched his shoulder and spun him around.The fellow facing him was as young as Orenzo, and by all indications a soldier for exactly as long as the ripe majority: three endae. He recognized him, and on a better day may have placed exactly from where, but today, this moment, self-pity was in firm grip of Orenzo's graces, and his attention was in short supply. In the distance, the pointed peaks of Loce were barely visible through the rain, the vast sweep of open space beyond the man's plated shoulders a greater gulf than any elevation within runs of Arc Dago. The contrast did little to soothe his dwindling reserve of nerves.

"You saw that huge bastard fall," the lad cried over the hubbub. No, I didn't. "Their champion is dead. It's over. It's all over. This whole swathe of the tribe's land?" He extended his arms as if to take in the hill and the several nearby. "Ours."

Orenzo muttered his agreement, then turned away.

It felt awkward to claim victory after three days of marshaling and a soggy endae aft on a slope—as if doing absolutely nothing could stir a pride equal to mounting a storied conquest. 'Ours'. Hmph. We're a thousand parts no one. None of us even earned our footing on this hill. We simply followed the commotion. This… this is no Spanwar.

Some subtle difference to the combination of pounding rain and fitful voices alerted his senses, and he glanced once more to the rain-bleary summit. A dark crowd was descending, either forcing their way through the clustered soldiers, or simply being given a narrow berth. The sea of people around him eventually clenched their jubilation or outrage as they noticed, preparing to make way. Something in the swagger of the shapes and he knew it was they.

The Sveldtlanders.

Recruiters described them as wild, ferocious warriors who plagued the villages around Loce and the eastern Thynlands. Tribals who lived for the hunt, equally adept on foot as astride a horse. Tenders of the vast grassy steppe known as the Sveldtlands, and fierce protectors of the fringe it shared with civilization. The derelict sectors of Arc Dago gave up their young to the mythos of such fearsome horse lords.

They resembled none of this.

Grim frowns dragged on faces. Slumped shoulders dragged on postures. Their approach was a clanking shuffle of iron and hide that spoke of warriors without weapons in hand. Hale bodies spoke of strength and endurance, but hard eyes cast downward in shame. In a loose formation resembling a blunt spearhead, the last vestige of the Renyd Clan's teeth plodded through the heart of the Locian army, dazed or dumbfounded.

Hmph. Stark contrast. He frowned at the observation. Then he realized the contrast was twofold. It extended not just to the capitulation, but also to earlier in the day when a celebration of hoisting hands carried down the one responsible for this whole mess: the duellist.

As always,whispers of rumor came first through the ranks. He was a hero. He was lucky. He was bedded by chaos. Then came the man, plain to look at, but lauded by peers and carried through the crowd as a mob of comrades carries a groom at a wedding. After came the discussion, and from that flurry of assumption and supposition rose three credible facts. First, that this was the man downright stupid enough to call the Sveldtlanders to duel a day before the campaign began in earnest.Second, that this was the man whose stiletto put a decisive end to the Loce Campaign upon entering the giant's eye. And third, that this incredible victory sired a nickname destined to live on in the annals of history. Chants of 'Stil-e-tto RED, Stil-e-tto RED' still rang in his head, contrasting the weary silence holding the Reynd Clan to a plod as they made for the Locian camps.

Silence in passing, but for the rain.

Then, notfar from where he watched the procession, commotion broke the drudgery.

"Off!" growled a glowering Sveldtlander, swatting at a pointed finger too close to his face. Framed by the satha tangled through his hair, he had big lips and face paint a sinister shade of blood. Even hunched he was clearly a powerful man. The target of his ire stood out a little from the others, his back to Orenzo. One did not need to see his face to know the type.

"Oh, they can speak."

The Sveldtlander stepped around him.

"This speaks, too," and a through the rain a blade drew to a wet ring.

Heads popped up. Plodding Sveldtlanders bunched up as those nearest kept their distance from the drawn weapon. Down slope, the aggrieved also stopped,slowly turning to face his sudden tormentor. The Locian splayed his arms as ifto invite rebuttal, sword hanging loose. It struck Orenzo as incredibly cowardly while encompassed by thousands of brethren.

A blur and the tribesman lunged, grabbing the hilt with both hands.Wrenching the man down to him with a flex of his arms, he then inverted the grip and plunged the steel back up through the descending crotch.

The Locian slid off, squealing and clutching.

The blade of another was suddenly lodged in the Sveldtlander's back. Grunting,he fell to a knee. Unarmed Reynders tensed like cornered cats, hands up and eyes wild, while Locians on all sides glanced at each other and drew newly-forged swords in a resonant succession—both sides sparked from dull to dangerous in a matter of heartbeats.

"Enough!"

And there he was. But twenty leaps from where Orenzo stood.

Voice honed razor-sharp by the whetstone of command, he stood with his arms crossed, glaring at the altercation with overt disdain. He wore a plain coat, with no indicator of rank, and was bare-headed and unbothered in the inundation. A simple moustache was his only distinguishing facial feature,spanning his mouth and neatly so. On the shorter side, Hand Kitran Sorel would otherwise be missed in a crowd, ordinary but for the edge to his words. Before the movement of the mob stole the Hand from view, Orenzo had time enough to be let down.

"Leave them both. All of you. I will not have this juvenile clucking." He snapped the words like a parent chastising a toddler or elder. "Events have taken an unexpected turn, but if you pardon me but a little time I will explain all the manners in which this is to the benefit to the veterans of War Chief Dalbragga and you recruits as well, war party to me." His tone made it clear who had conspired to bring whom. Then he lowered his arms, softening his frown and speaking louder to the collective crowd of shoulders and helmets.

"We live in an era that celebrates bloodshed by condemning it in others.Lets blood when necessary, yet takes blood as necessity. Threats are no longer clear. Adversaries no longer in common. The dispiriting influence of Xyn remains in the cracks, nooks and crannies of the alleyways, skulking in shadows and shadowy hearts. We need the bright hearts of men. We need your clarity. We need those under the yellow life-giver,souls brave enough to ride in defense of the grasslands they call home, and we need those under the sun who gathered for their extinction. We need you to be vigilant in denying him, and until such time comes to pass, the Renyd Clan has agreed to give up claim to the grassland steppes of their home in exchange for our clemency and integration into the cultures of those who go by roads. It is a decision supported by myself and by extension Sceptre Tolman of Csarvent. As such, we no longer have cause for your service as soldiers. There will be no campaign across the Sveldtlands. The Locian Army is disbanded."

The words left Orenzo's mouth dry, though his body remained soaked through. A wholly different kind of silence dominated the crowded hill, but not nearly so much as it dominated Orenzo. No, no, no, no…

The Hand's sweeping gaze took in all those beneath him on the hill."Report to your Blade if you wish to remain in his or her employ."

No one moved. No one said anything.

"You hear me? You are no longer enemies. End this. Now."

Orenzo blinked, rivulets mimicking tears running from the corners of his eyes. For the first time he noticed the row of Blades who descended with the Hand from the summit, now fanning out to either side like a killer displaying the knives at his disposal. With this lot the effect was no less menacing. All but one towered over Hand Sorel, each a general in his or her own right, and with a history of combat experience as long as Orenzo's arm. Each wore their full armor: silver hauberks splitting at the waist,overladen by pauldrons, greaves and vambraces, and undercoated with thin, pliable leather. Various plates were painted a Locian blue, though none displayed the trio of black arrows comprising the Locian sigil. Blade Horus glared through his wild black hair at the lot them, while Embra hung back, dark and quiet. Raruk, Cha, and Sorn Drad wore unreadable expressions of anger and impatience.More looked on from the wings. The Blades led divisions a centorasworth strong. The Blades survived where others perished. The Blades were damned impressive. 'Remain in his or her employ'?

The procession down to the camp outside Loce picked up again. Passersby spat on the bodies left to the hill, blaming them for their tactless blood lust,but it was a sorry show of derision for the rains washed away blood and phlegm both.

Orenzo watched them go, and felt the shift in tension as the majority of Sveldtlanders passed and the Locian Army broke up in descent. Nothing left to see. Orenzo stayed anyway.

In time he made it to the top of the hill, his boots proving adequate even in the thickest mud. It was a rounded crest, and broader than most of the neighboring crowns, but woefully empty compared to the endae aft. As empty a she himself now felt faced with freedom without purpose. A few other recruits also made the journey and were milling about, internalizing. Orenzo searched for his diminutive Haradachi friend, but Avery was nowhere to be seen.

His attention fell upon the body of the Renyder champion, splayed out flat on his back like a sacrifice left to rot. There was a nasty red hole where his eye should have been, but otherwise his tattooed body was undisturbed,untouched by his fellow clansmen. He really was huge. Orenzo estimated again-and-a-half his height. Even in death the man pillaged his confidence.

To his left, the tent used for the deliberations let slip a mooring and crumpled in upon itself, the chairs within creating an odd topography.

And somehow Orenzo got a sense of wrongness about the whole scene, as if it was missing some fragment that would make it more natural. As if an aspect yet leaked in the aftermath, but his brain could not fashion the stopper. This affected him for a moment, but then proved fleeting as vagaries often do.

By the time he returned to camp, it proved forgotten.



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This post has been edited by Tatterdemalion: 19 February 2019 - 01:31 AM