In the interest of banishing the Clown from the top of my blog, and out of some measure of jealousy of Skaggs and his fiction post, I thought it would be fun to show you all a bit of last year's NaNoWriMo attempt, "Ascent." I began the story as a fantasy novel, and then decided to switch to science fiction partway through.

I like the sci-fi section more, but I'll go ahead and post some of the fantasy section for now, and put the other stuff up later, perhaps.

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Cold. The frigid winds were stronger at this altitude, cutting through Beghaval’s padded coat and making him feel as if he had gone bare skinned to the mountain. His mail hung heavy on his shoulders, making them ache, and when the metal links pressed against his cheeks, they nearly stung from the cold. Beghaval plodded onward, pushing himself with the realization that he was almost near the summit. Yet, his next step went awry, as a loose stone twisted underneath him and rolled down the rocky slope accompanied by a hiss of scree. Beghaval stumbled, falling to his knees as his gloved hands shot forward to catch himself. He gripped the boulders on either side of the narrow path to keep himself from sliding back down the way he came.

“Begg? How d‘you fare?” From between the great stones above him there appeared a feline face, maned with a halo of white-gold hair that swayed wispily in the wind. He grinned, a wide, sharp toothed predatory smile. “Do you need me to climb down and get you?”

“No, I‘m coming,” Beghaval muttered as he regained his feet and began to climb anew. He worked his way between the boulders, clutching the grip of his mace to keep it from catching on the stones, and climbing the rest of the way until he emerged from the narrow confines of the path. It opened onto a rocky promontory that twisted around to his right, continuing its torturous way amidst sharp jutting rocks toward the peak of the mountain. The panorama of the world below spread out to the heavy grey storm-bearing clouds that lay oppressively on the horizon. The wind here was even more piercing than what had whipped through the narrow pass, and Beghaval could not help but draw his woolen cloak around himself with a violent shiver.

“Looks as though it may snow ere long,” Beghaval mused to his companion. “Have you your glass about you?”

The leonine Radakai swiveled his upper torso to allow him access to his rig. He unbuckled one of the pouches he wore on his harness and withdrew a roll of leather and a soft calfskin bag tied with a drawstring. From the bag he removed two round glass lenses which he placed at either end of the square of leather, and then he rolled it up like a cup. He offered it to Beghaval.

Beghaval held it to his eye, scanning the rough landscape below them. Most of the land here was rocky and dry, with little vegetation aside from scrubby bushes. The eastern edge of this plain was lined by a great forest that ran the length of the mountain chain. Beghaval noticed movement along the treeline, and leaned forward as he stared at it. “Rava, which of our sentries was it that reported seeing shapelings in the trees last night?”

Rava’s pupils narrowed to slivers. “Volapharis,” he said. “Ulaf was with her. He probably convinced her to get drunk with him.”

“She can hold her drink,” Beghaval said, “and she‘s not likely to tell tales. Look for yourself.” He handed the glass to Rava and pointed toward the trees he had been examining. “Do you see something?”

The Radakai stared intently. His body was still, his muscles visibly tensed as if he planned to leap off the ridge as soon as he had sighted his quarry. A low growl began to undulate in his throat. It was a sound that had never failed to give Beghaval a sense of uneasiness about his friend. Ravayaalbhar was his oldest companion, and one of his Seconds, commander to a column of hardy and battle-tested Firsts. Still, the difference between their species was simply too great a gulf to span in one lifetime. He had heard tales of the dangerous unpredictability of Radakai instinct on the battlefield. He had witnessed for himself how Rava, with his hooked claws alone, had rent a spearman into shreds. The spearman had gouged him - it was more of a deep graze than any serious kind of wound - and Rava had exploded into fury, unleashing a roar which made the very air around him tremble. Rava was Beghaval’s comrade in arms, but he was also a beast.

“Shiel,” Rava snarled. “I cannot see what they are doing, but there are at least…seven of them. They appear to be camouflaging themselves. Planning an ambush, no doubt.”

“You have better eyes than I do. I saw only four.” Beghaval unlaced a leather tube at his side and withdrew a rolled, wrinkled piece of parchment. Unfurling it, he compared the marks on the chart to the features of the land below. According to the map, the forest was the Shiel Woodland, several leagues long. To go around the northern tip of the forest would take them well out of their way and into the more difficult high country surrounding the mountains. There was a pass through the mountains that would lead to their destination - a dot on the map noted as Town Five-Davit. It would be foolish to divert an entire 216-soldier hexipal because of a handful of scavengers in the underbrush. Still, Beghaval had spent most of his life in the caverns, and he knew as well as any that where a few vermin were seen, there were likely colonies of them breeding in the shadows.

“What say you, Begg?” The muscles in Rava’s haunches spasmed visibly a few times, his tail swishing. “Do we make for the pass?”

Beghaval turned to the left, scanning the far side of the plain. He caught sight of a large cloud of dust and followed it to the earth, where the feet of a small army kicked it up as they marched northward. Banners of many colors bobbed above the heads of the troops, and a score of beast-drawn wagons brought up the rear. It was a formidable sight, Beghaval thought. Certainly their sheer numbers would give pause to any who might attempt to hinder their advance. How much could a handful of men do against such a legion?

“Yes,” Beghaval said. Slowly, the marching host began to gleam, their colors growing more vivid. Beghaval felt a faint warmth against the back of his head, and he lowered his glass, turning about. He squinted as his eyes met the glare of sunlight, piercing through the grey veil of clouds that drifted past. He shut his eyes, allowing himself to feel the warmth of the light on his face.

--

Beghaval remembered the first time he had felt such a sensation. He was a child, having lived for little more than five or six anh. He had wandered from his brood, having spotted a silver-carapaced beetle scuttling along the floor of the communal hall and wanting to catch it. The creature had led him further and further into the caverns, almost seeming to tease him along by scrambling for a few feet and then becoming completely still until he crept close enough for it to sense his presence. Then, just as he reached out for it, it raced away again. He had followed it through a number of crevices and portals before he finally managed to snatch it up in his cupped hands. Looking around for the first time, he realized that he had come to a section of the caverns that he did not recognize. He wandered for a time, curious about this length of hall that he’d not seen before and enticed by the sweet smell of the warm air that blew gently through it. It carried a scent much like that of the dried and shriveled greengrowths that the mothers often collected from visiting surfacers, but at the same time it had been more robust, more vibrant. It was untouched by the mustiness of the caverns, the stale and stony presence that lingered over everything in the lamplit chambers of the hive. He had walked toward the breeze, enjoying how it ruffled his hair and blew ripples across his shirt. He came to a bend in the tunnel where no lanterns or lichen-globes were hung, and yet from around the corner shone a light unlike any he had ever seen before. It was bright, brighter than the hottest forge but without any real heat. He crept around the bend and saw that the cavern led upward to a hole. The hole had been fitted with a grating, but what caught his attention was what shone beyond it. There was a wall of blue, more intense and luminescent than anything he’d ever looked at. He remembered thinking that the hall which lay beyond must have been impossibly large, as the distant wall of azure blue seemed to recede even as he drew closer for a better look. He cried out as he was suddenly blinded by a terrible flash, and he had reflexively covered his eyes with his hands. To his confusion, it did not fade back into darkness, but remained both intense and constant. Spots danced before him for a few moments, but then he began to be aware of the warmth his open palms felt - indeed, that he felt over his entire body. It was unlike a fire; it did not sear him the longer he stood there, but rather it was gentle and subtle. He slowly lowered his hands, but saw that the stinging brightness was still there, so he simply shut his eyes. The sensation spread to his eyelids, turning his darkness a tint of orange and warming the orbs of his eyes underneath. He took deep gasps of the delicious, fragrant air, letting it fill his lungs as the impossibly intense light warmed his body. Then he became aware of a new sensation - the sound of flutes, or whistles, from outside the hole. They carried no tune that he recognized; they seemed instead to be attempting to find the right note, but they repeated the same notes over and over. He stood and listened and waited, hoping that these unseen pipers would soon begin to play.

He did not remember precisely how long he had stood there like that, his arms outstretched and his eyes shut, listening to the piping sounds. In some ways it felt as though he’d been there for hours by the time that the Utta found him. Yet, as they pulled him away and clicked and screeched angrily at him, his only thought was to return to that spot, to stand there and listen and be warmed by the light. The punishment they’d meted out for contaminating the ventilation shaft had been so savage that he’d required rest for days afterward while his mothers wept. Yet his dreams, feverish as they had been, were only of the secret azure eye and its pupil of impossibly bright flame.