Mass Shootings and the Depravity of Man

This week brought another tragedy to our nation's headlines: a deranged young man with an assault rifle walked into his former high school in Florida and opened fire, killing 17 students and teachers and injuring dozens of others.

And of course, any time this sort of thing happens, we get two battle cries that fill our op-eds and social media feeds: (1) Guns are the problem! and (2) Mental health is the problem! I think both diagnoses are flawed and incomplete, but enough has really been said on both of these things. I don't have anything remarkable to add to either one of those conversations--though I have my opinions on both--and figure my small handful of readers have heard quite enough of those debates.

I do want to draw attention to two other things that have bothered me about what I have seen in the headlines this time around that I think have more to say about the realities of the world we are living in and what American society is becoming, or rather, devolving into.

It's Not Mass Murder if You Use Forceps Instead of an AR-15

The first is a glaring hypocrisy of the American people, particularly those on the left side of the political spectrum, who get rightfully angry and indignant over the injustice of a mass shooting, and yet cannot see, for the life of them, the mass murder they allow--nay, celebrate!--on a daily basis. I am of course speaking of the thousands of tiny souls murdered each day, with full permission of our law and courts, in abortion clinics across the country. I am baffled at the complete lack of self-awareness many of these people have. Cecile Richards, the (thankfully) exiting CEO of Planned Parenthood, even tweeted her righteous anger over the shooting, and yet she makes millions of dollars slaughtering children (and sometimes the women themselves) in her "clinics" across the country.

Let me blunt: if you think abortion should be legal, and want to "protect the rights of women to choose" then you have absolutely no moral standing to get angry over a mass shooting. None. You are contradictory, you are a hypocrite, you are intellectually dishonest--frankly, you are a fool with darkened understanding. Shame on you.

The Real Efficacy of Prayer

The second thing that bothered me was a trending social media status along the lines of, "If all you're offering is thoughts and prayers, you are doing nothing to help this situation."

To some degree, I can actually sympathize with that sentiment. James said in his epistle, "If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, 'Go in peace, be warmed and filled,' without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? So faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead." (James 2:15-17 ESV).  So it is true that prayers, unaccompanied by whatever possible action a person can do to alleviate suffering, are useless and lazy. I am of course guilty of such laziness and don't excuse myself.

But let's be realistic: Most of the country does not live in or around this area in Florida. Aside from our votes for policy change as we see fit, and any assistance we can give to those who can go to Florida, prayers may be the only thing we can offer. And prayer is not doing nothing--what better thing to do than call to upon the all-powerful Creator God to help those who are grieving the loss of  loved ones and battling life-altering injuries and trauma? If one lives in the area near the shootings; absolutely, do something! Anything! I know local churches and organizations are already opening their doors (literally and figuratively) to those affected and I hope more do so. But it is not right to begrudge a Christian's honest prayers to God to alleviate another's suffering. It is one of the biggest acts of love we can offer, especially to strangers.

Not all prayers are equal, however. Thoughts, for one, do absolutely nothing. I guess offering "thoughts" is a way that non-believers and even atheists can demonstrate sympathy and feel like they're doing something when they have no God they believe in to call upon. But let's be honest, happy thoughts and "positive energy" are inventions of people who rightly realize that they have no choice but to acknowledge spiritual realities yet don't want to go so far as to label them as coming from the God of the Bible.

And while I realize this will offend some, if you have not trusted in Jesus Christ, your prayers are useless as well. If you are praying to some vague, inclusive notion of the "divine" and are expecting something to happen, then you'll be disappointed, because you are merely praying to a god of your own making, and that is idolatry. That god does not exist and is therefore impotent to help anybody with anything. Only prayers offered by Christ's sincere followers are heard and answered.

TULIP's T: Total Depravity

In short, this indignation at prayers is really an attack on Christians, and brings me to what I think is the root of these problems: a nation that has abandoned God. I'm not the first to make such an observation, and I know I will not be the last. But the reality is that we are desperately sinful, and people who have given themselves over to sin (see Romans 1 and 2) are capable of the most horrific acts, regardless of any mental illness or the lasting effects of personal tragedy. We are dead in our trespasses. Without Christ, our only choice is to sin, and anything good we do is tainted by that sin. No gun law, no help for the mentally ill, will change anything if we Christians do not plead with God to reveal to us and others the reality of our lostness without Him and call to Him for the salvation that only He offers. What we need is revival: not silly tent meetings and emotional altar calls or snake handlers or "glory dust", but Biblical revival of hearts turned from sin and to Christ. Only God can bring that about, and all Christians should be praying for that daily. I say this as much to rebuke myself as anyone else, because I admit my heart is often sleeping to this spiritual reality and the sacrifice it will take, and that is commitment to God in our own lives and a reordering of our priorities.

We must be aware (and perhaps this is the only comment I'll make on the issue of guns) that guns are morally neutral, inanimate objects. No gun has a soul or a mind with which to think. Guns are not floating around on their own volition, shooting up schools and nightclubs and shopping centers. Flesh and blood people, with sick, sinful hearts, are planning their attacks, preparing their weaponry, and moving their bone and muscle fingers to pull those triggers. So until we fix people, we will always have mass murders, whether guns are available like candy at supermarkets or whether they are completely banned by our government. We must realize the truth that, but for the grace of God, WE could be one of those mass murderers. In humility we need to repent and turn to Christ; if we don't, we will see these tragic headlines again in another month or two.

So brothers and sisters in Christ, pray with me. Keep me accountable to pray. Let's keep each other accountable to witness to those in our lives, to notice the lonely and hurting and help them. And in the midst of political and religious chaos, let's remember who has never stopped being sovereign, who is the source of true comfort and freedom. And let's trust Him with our lives and pray for the souls of those around us to know for themselves the radical hope and peace we enjoy.

WIP Post #8...After a LONG Hiatus!

Tried to find an artist name to credit the image.
Feel free to enlighten me!

Hello amazing beta readers. Actually, I think you really ought to be considered alpha readers, because I don't even have a finished product for you yet.

I'm sorry I've been so long in posting another installment. And what I'm posting today will probably be mildly disappointing if you were looking forward to finding out "what happens next." Today I'm posting an excerpt I wrote just a few days ago as I'm going back through my unfinished manuscript and trying to fill in some plot holes that will be harder to fix if I just finish the draft without addressing them (at least, this is my diagnosis on the matter; I know many writers say to just keep writing, plot holes and mistakes be cursed and saved for the revision phase, but that is, unfortunately, not the way my brain works).

So below is a short little incident in Azya's life, as she is with the man, Jarta, who bought her as a slave and is planning to take her to the Emperor's palace to serve as a slave there.

One revision I made before this that you haven't read was that Teldon and Azya planned on marrying each other. It was a marriage of practicality between two good friends who cared for one another (at least in Azya's mind) but not one of undying passion or "true love."

In my mind, Azya is pretty plucky and brash. Throughout the novel, you will find her taking lots of dumb risks as she tries to sort out her mess of a life (not that we can blame her for that, right?). And this is one of those times.

Let me know what you think!

Happy reading! And THANK YOU!

            The third night, her belly uncomfortably full from the greasy inn food, Azya found it difficult to sleep. A low rumple of voices, laughter, raucous singing, and clanging dishes sounded through the floorboards where she slept. Jarta had passed out an hour before, having imbibed too much mead at dinner.

            She rolled over onto her back, wincing at the floorboards poking her spine and shoulder blades. The wooden ceiling of the inn was knotted and twisted and stained dark with age. It looked to be the sort of ceiling that would leak in a bad storm. Thankfully, it had been a dry, if cold, autumn thus far. She sighed, rubbing her wrists where the rope had rubbed them raw all day. She fought down the anger at her family that had gotten her to this place. Had sold her. All because her dolt of a father wasn’t smart enough to save money for taxes instead of ale.

            She couldn’t find it within herself to miss them though. She guessed she ought to feel guilty about that, but she didn’t, so it wasn’t worth trying. Both her parents had been distant, cruel, and cold her whole life. Her father beat her. Her mother lashed at her relentlessly with her words. She was relieved to be rid of them.

            She couldn’t miss Kellen either. Four years her senior, he had joined in his parents’ abuse since he was young. But he was a coward. Even his beatings had stopped of late, after Azya won a fight with him and scared him off. No, she was rid of him too, and glad for it.

            The thought of Morda came with a pang of regret. They had not been close, not like friends, but he didn’t beat or belittle her. Occasionally he had snuck her food when she was being punished with starvation. He had even tried, if not very hard, to keep her parents from selling her. She wouldn’t forget that.

            Tears stung Azya’s eyes as she thought of the one person she did miss: Teldon. Marrying him would have been an escape, if not from the hardship of life that was inherent to their village, then from her family. Teldon was good and safe. He was unremarkable and plain, but he was steadfast and loyal. He had enough sense to not throw away his meager earnings on drink. He cared for his young sister diligently when their parents died. He was as ignorant as she of the outside world, but he was the kindest person she had ever known. And now he was gone too, with little chance of ever seeing him again.

            Azya furiously wiped her eyes and sniffed, more loudly than she had intended. The noise caused Jarta to shift in his bed, the frame creaking beneath his weight. She froze, worried he’d wake and be angry with her, but the alcohol in his bloodstream kept him sound asleep, snoring loudly. She watched him for a moment, barely daring to breathe, when she noticed the leather cord around his neck that fell beneath his shirt.

            His key.

            That was the key to the inn room. A chance to escape the life of a slave. To return to Teldon?

            Her heartbeat quickened at the thought and her mind raced. She was miles from the village, she knew. And her ignorance of the geography around her meant she had no way of returning on her own. Even if she could find her way out of the maze-like streets of Pelborne, it was unlikely that she would set forth in the right direction on the roads. And then there was the danger of exposure, wild animals, bandits, rogue soldiers…

            But what other choice did she have? Slaves did not live very long, often dying from disease, malnutrition, or at their hands of their masters. Better to die free than to die a slave, right? Better taking the chance, the only chance, she had been given to control her own life than to surrender to her captors?

            Resolved, Azya eased herself to a sitting position. The floorboards creaked as her weight shifted, and she paused, watching Jarta, but he didn’t stir. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, and as quietly as she could manage, she crawled over to his bed. Soon, she was close enough to smell the sweat on his body and the mead on his breath. She reached out a tentative hand, her fingers shaking from nerves, and paused just before she touched his neck. He hadn’t moved. Grimacing, his breath hot in her face, she gently slipped her forefinger under the leather cord, her knuckle barely brushing his skin. Still, he did not move.

            She released a quiet, tense breath of air, then slipped two more fingers under the cord, lifting it from his neck. When he still didn’t move, she took her other hand on the other side of his head, slipped her fingers under the cord there, and slowly, ever so slowly, pulled the cord over his neck.

            He continued to snore as the key made its appearance at his shirt collar as she pulled it out. It caught briefly on a button; she clenched her teeth and jerked it free. His breathing changed then, and she stopped. She held her breath, trying to be still as death, watching for his eyes to shoot open and to find her hovering near him. But he merely smacked his lips a couple times, and snored on.

            But still she didn’t breathe. She had four, three, two, one more inch…and the key and cord were free from his neck.  What took a mere minute felt like a lifetime. She clutched the key in her fist, watched him for a moment more, and then as quietly as she could, tiptoed to the door and slid the key in the lock.

            The click sounded as loud to her ears as a shout. She whipped her head around to find that Jarta moved. She froze, watching him, but to her great relief, he had only flopped onto his stomach, facing the wall, his beefy arm dangling off the side of the bed. The door opened quietly, blessedly so, and Azya slipped out.

            She made it this far, and she was unsure what to do now. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and stood in the dark hallway for a moment. The inn dining room was still noisy downstairs. It was likely crowded. She could probably just walk out and no one would notice her. Just in case though, she threw her shawl over her head and pulled it as far down her face as she could and still be able to see. She made her way to the stairwell, and feeling as if she should waste no more time, she slipped down.

            Just as she expected, the dining room was a chaotic scene of bright lamplight, strong smells of food, the mealy smell of ale, and just an acidic hint of vomit and urine. Mostly men crowded the tables, yelling over one another, playing various games of chance, and flirting with big-breasted bar maids and prostitutes that hovered near.

            No one so much as glanced at her as she entered, but the exit was on the far side of the room, so she had a ways to go. She kept her head down and tried to walk in as straight a line towards the door as possible, which was difficult considering the arrangement of the tables and chairs and people crammed around them.

            “Hey lass, I’ll pay you a pretty penny for a romp upstairs!” She couldn’t see the owner of the gruff voice, but she felt a grab on her bottom and she jumped up with a cry.

            “No, sorry,” she managed to say, and thankfully her response was followed only by drunken laughter. A few more hands reached for slaps and grabs, but no one really tried to stop her and with a release of breath, she made it outside into the cold autumn air.

            Azya vaguely knew the street that the inn was on, considering they walked it every day, and had a notion, nothing more than a hunch, that the city gate was to her right. She glanced once more at the inn, hoping Jarta still slept, and ran to the right.

            The streets were relatively quiet this late; a few passersby, lovers arm and arm, a prostitute or beggar here and there. They paid her no mind. She stayed in the shadows as best she could, trying to move quickly enough that she could distance herself from the inn but not so quickly that she drew undue attention to herself. She made it to an alleyway and stopped, dimly recalling that Jarta had used it as a shortcut once to make it to the main square of the town, where most of the upscale shops and banks conducted their business. With a brief glance to make sure she wasn’t being followed, she turned into the alleyway and broke into a full out run. Panting, she reached the end after five minutes, and was just about to enter the openness of the square when she saw two uniformed soldiers step into her field of vision.

            She stopped with a gasp, sure they had seen her and rose on the balls of her feet, prepared to run back in the direction she had come. But their backs were to her, and their stances, while formal, were not tense. She heard one of them say something in heavily accented [language], and the other burst into loud laughter. She sighed with relief. They had not seen her. But they blocked her exit from the alleyway, and didn’t look like they were moving any time soon.

            Azya had only been walking for twenty minutes. That put barely any distance between herself and Jarta. She felt the weight of his key in her pocket and her wrists stung with the memory of his ropes. She was not safe. Not yet. Not even close.

            She bounced impatiently, willing the soldiers to move with her mind. But they didn’t. Their conversation lagged, and one turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. It was dark enough that she was probably not visible, but nevertheless she darted behind a pile of crates, slipping in some wet refuse. Crouching down, she tried not to think about what she could be sitting in and peered around the corner of her hiding place at the soldiers.

            One of them pointed to his left, and they both straightened, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Azya couldn’t see what they had seen, but she heard the faint rhythmic marching of boots on gravel. Sure enough, a small troupe of soldiers, just six, marched in formation towards the two who blocked her path. Her heart sank. Now she was up against eight fully armed soldiers.

            The first two saluted and one solider broke away from the detachment of six to approach them. Even in the dim light, she could see from his uniform that he ranked much higher than the two.  He spoke loudly, unnecessarily so, she thought.

            “Evening, privates. How long have you been waiting?”

            “Thirty minutes, sir,” one of the soldiers answered.

            “Any unusual activity?”

            “None, sir. All quiet, sir.”

            “Good. Well, we’ve cleared the square. The shops are shut down and we’ve instructed any residents to close their blinds until morning, upon penalty of execution. This should go smoothly tonight.”

            “Very good, sir.”

            “Corporal Eldrat,” said the high ranking soldier. A man behind him stepped forward. “Please give the signal for the prisoners to be brought out.”

            The man saluted, then gave three stiff arm waves above his head. At the risk of giving her presence away, Azya rose just a little to get a better look at what was going on. A line of about twenty people, some dressed shabbily, others in very rich clothes, came shuffling into the square. They were all so different in age, appearance, and height, but their one similarity was the bend in their spines, the hunch of their shoulders, their downcast eyes. Upon closer inspection, she saw they were roped together at their waists, their feet and arms bound by heavy chains.

            More slaves? Azya wondered. She ducked down again, even more fearful that she would be discovered. The prisoners shuffled into a horizontal line, facing the alleyway. In the moonlight, Azya could see dark bruises and cuts on each of their faces.

            “He’s late again,” the high-ranking soldier said, this time so only the two waiting could hear.

            “We gave him the time, sir,” one replied. “You know how he is.”

            “Unfortunately, I do.”

            For what seemed like an eternity, but was perhaps only ten minutes, nothing happened. Azya’s feet began to grow numb from her crouch. But the soldiers and prisoners were so still, so quiet, so expectant, that she dared not shift her weight and make any sort of noise. She would’ve stopped breathing if she were able.

            Finally, one of the soldiers looked up, and nodded to the others with satisfaction. Soon, Azya could see another man enter the square. Expecting another soldier, she was surprised at what she saw. The man wore dark clothes and a long heavy cloak around his shoulders. A black cloth was wrapped around his head, leaving slits just wide enough to expose his eyes, which glinted threateningly in the moonlight. The soldiers’ postures became even more stiff and straight, while the prisoners cowered even lower. A few even fell to their knees in fear.

            “Gentlemen.” The newcomer’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet its tone made it strangely audible. It was deep and rough, like a boulder rolling over gravel. He acknowledged the soldiers with a condescending nod, then turned his back towards Azya’s hiding place, facing the line of prisoners.

            “There are fewer than I expected.”

            The highest ranking soldier, who seemed so controlled before, cleared his throat nervously. “Our initial intelligence about their numbers were off, sir.”

            “My master will not be pleased.”

            “No, sir. We apologize, sir.”

            Who was this man that the highest ranking soldier Azya had ever seen called “sir?”

            “None escaped?”

            “Nothing like that, sir.”

            “Hmm.” The dark-clothed man stood with his feet far apart, and crossed his arms in front of him. For long moments, he made no movement or sound. The lead soldier cleared his throat again.

            “Are you considering keeping any alive, sir?”

            Azya felt the blood drain from her head. She whipped her head around, back into the relative safety of the dark alleyway. Could she escape without being noticed? She doubted it. She was not that stealthy a runner. She sat down in the garbage, completely unconcerned now about what she sat in, and tried to become as small as possible. She could no longer see what was going on, she could only hear. She forced herself to breathe evenly, and felt fever rise to her cheeks.

            It was happening again.

            “Not this time,” came the low voice of the dark-cloaked man. “I have determined that none would suit that purpose.”

            Two heartbeats space of time passed, and then, through her closed eyelids, Azya sensed a bright light. She opened her eyes, only to shield them again when blinded. Shaking, tears springing from her eyes, she scooted towards the wall and pressed herself low to the ground behind the crates.

            Then the screaming began.

            Torturous screaming lasted for what seemed like long minutes. Azya felt the heat of her body intensify, so much so that she wondered if a drop of water would sizzle to steam on her skin. Nausea threatened to overtake her, and she clenched an arm around her stomach, fighting for control. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the screaming stopped. There was silence. She didn’t dare peer over her hiding spot. But she soon heard the shuffling of feet and low murmurs.

            “The collection is complete,” came the voice of the dark-cloaked man. “It’s not as much as my master will be expecting, but it will do. Clear the bodies. Continue your work. Report to me this time next month.”

            “Yes sir,” the high-ranking solider said. His voice was thin and strained sounding. Azya tried not to imagine what he must’ve witnessed.

            Soon, the footsteps retreated, and Azya felt her body cool and her nausea abate. She slumped against the wall, finally allowing herself to breathe. She waited until she was sure no one would witness her retreat, and jumped up. She had intended a quiet, stealthy escape, but as soon as she left the safety of the crates, every nerve in her body forced her into a full-out run, away from the square. She wasn’t sure how she’d get out of the city now, but she’d find a way.

            She ran into something solid and fell backwards. When she regained her senses, she found Jarta standing over her, his face purple with rage. They were back on the street where the inn was, not far from it.

            “The law allows me to kill you for such disobedience!” He yanked her to her feet and bound her hands again, so tight her fingers started to tingle from lack of circulation almost immediately. He pushed her to a sitting position and lashed her feet as well, then hefted her over his shoulder. Weak, frightened, and most of all angry that her escape attempt had gone so wrong, Azya could put up little fight.

            “Please…” she managed to croak out through the tears she was ashamed of, “please don’t kill me.”

            Jarta snorted. “You’re lucky I’ve already secured your position, wench. If I don’t deliver you as promised, my head will be on the guillotine.” He shook her for emphasis. “But don’t think you’re something special. Try something like this again, and I’ll have you executed. I may even do it myself.”

WIP Post #7

The saga continues...:-) Brackets are for my use only, they just remind me where I need to fill in information during revision. 

“We’re here.”

            Azya forced her eyes open and rubbed the muscle pain in her neck. She took a long breath and looked out the window of the carriage. A large, ornate stone building loomed above them in the dark. [INCLUDE MORE DESCRIPTION OF BUILDING HERE] A young boy, barefoot and wearing no cloak, scurried to the carriage and opened the door for Jarta. He climbed out and signaled for Azya to follow. Once she was down, Jarta tightened the ropes around her wrists and ankles and clutched her upper arm roughly.

            “Where do I take her?” he asked the boy.

            “This way, sir.” The boy led them a short distance away to a low door. It was rough-looking, a stark contrast from the intricately carved walls of the building that Azya was having trouble keeping her eyes off of. The boy yanked on the door, and immediately inside a dark corridor a young man in a long white tunic awaited them. [MORE DESCRIPTION OF CORRIDOR HERE]

            “The new slave that was ordered,” Jarta said.

            “Right. Thank you.” Azya startled. The man’s voice was as high as a woman’s. He reached out to take Azya from Jarta, but he clenched her arm tighter.

            “I have not yet been paid,” he said, his voice low and threatening. The young man looked at him.

            “Of course. The Madam will be here shortly and make sure you are compensated. In the mean time, one of the mistresses is expecting her new slave. If you please, hand her over.”

            With great reluctance, Jarta let go and shoved Azya towards the man. He took hold of the ropes that bound her wrists and led her down the corridor. [MORE DESCRIPTION HERE]

            “If you please, sir…” Azya stammered, when they had been walking for a few seconds. “Where am I?”

            The man didn’t answer, but stopped at a closed door. He knocked three times.

            “Who is it?” came a sleepy voice from inside. Then a man’s laughter, and a feminine giggle. Prennan pursed his lips and his cheeks flushed.

            “Prennan, Mistress. Your slave has arrived.”

            “Take her to her quarters. I’ll deal with her in the morning.”

            Prennan sighed, as if annoyed with the direction. “Yes, Mistress.” He turned to Azya. “Come with me.”

            Prennan walked briskly down the dark corridor, lit only by smoking torches affixed to holders on the stone walls. Azya hurried after him, her feet starting to feel pinched in the stiff leather of her new boots. A few turns down different passages—Azya struggled to remember them but found it difficult since everything looked the same—and he stopped at another door. This had no lock or even handle. He pushed it open, revealing a tiny cranny of a room that had only a narrow cot, a cracked wash basin, a chamber pot, a few gray linens, and a low wooden stool. “This is your room for as long as Mistress Odellia decides to keep you. She’ll summon you when you’re needed. I suggest you get what sleep you can.” He untied her binds, and he started to leave, but turned back suddenly. “One more thing. It may look easy to escape. But you wouldn’t get far before they sliced your throat at the gate. I don’t suggest you try it. That’s how we lost the last slave. Mistress would be quite put out, and when she’s put out, she takes it out on me until we get a new one. So I’m quite glad you’re here. Don’t ruin my good fortune, would you?” He gave her a cold, wry smile, and let the door shut behind him.

            Azya again took in her surroundings. The room was small, but truth be told, it was the first room she had ever had to herself. She couldn’t help but feel warmed at that thought. Though no bigger than a closet, the room had a high ceiling, and at the top far above her head was a tiny window with a thick pane of glass. It was where her only light came from, and right now it was just dim moonlight. Another look around, and she noticed a brass bell on the wall. She wondered what it was for.

            The sleep in the carriage had not been restful, and Azya’s joints ached. Her stomach growled too; she had eaten nothing since breakfast the previous morning. She wondered when her next meal would be. She sat gingerly on the cot, wondering if its spindly frame would support her weight, and although it creaked ominously underneath her it seemed to hold. With great relief she yanked off her boots and set them on the floor. She wiggled her toes in her stockings and hugged her cloak close to her; it was bitterly cold in the room. She started to unfold the pile of linens at the end of her cot: one was a blanket, so the fibers so thin and worn she could see through it. Another was a pillow, not much thicker than the folded blanket. She squeezed it; it was probably stuffed with pigeon feathers, except maybe just that of one pigeon. She tossed it to one end. The third piece of cloth was small and otherwise non-descript; it was probably meant to be used as a towel. At least all the linens were clean.

            With a sigh of resignation, Azya stretched out on the cot (it had no mattress, just a board of thin wood), and tried to get comfortable under the thin blanket and on the flat pillow. Her family had been the poorest of the poor, but at least they had been able to make adequate bedding. At the thought of her family, her throat choked with the threat of tears and she forced the emotion away. It would do no good to cry. This was her life now. She must accept it as it was and make the best of it. And why, came the thought quickly, should she waste any more emotional energy on the family that sold her into slavery? She resolved never to forgive them for it. Yes—that anger would be part of her drive to live.

            One person she could not so easily forget was Teldon. Kind, gentle Teldon. They had been friends since they were young children, when his family moved to their village from what, he had explained, was a military sacking of the small town they formerly called home. The destruction had left his family destitute, so, like everyone in their village, they struggled to make it through each year with measly crops, horrendous taxes, and the constant threat of abuse from the Emperor’s forces. One bad year his whole family except for him and his young sister died from the blight. That was when they became close—Azya would sneak them food from her family’s larder and pantry and seeds from their harvests so that they wouldn’t starve. No one ever did well in their village, but the last few years Teldon and his sister had survived, and seemed to get through with as little trouble as anyone in their station could hope. In return, Teldon had done what he could to quell the toxic rumors about her family in the village and had helped her when she had been punished for her various misdeeds.

            She allowed her mind to settle on Teldon: his face ruddy from constantly being outdoors in the wind and sun, his ponytail sun-bleached in the summer and mousy brown in the winter, his freckles, his quick, warm smile. Tears escaped her eyes and she let out a sob, bringing her hands to her face. Soon, she knew, she’d have to forget him too. Remembering would be too hard, too dangerous. If she lost heart, she’d lose everything. It was all she had left.

            Despite her fatigue, the chill of the room made it almost impossible to sleep, so she forced Teldon from her mind and allowed a nagging thought, the beast that haunted the corners of her mind, the one she pretended wasn’t there but it lurked anyway—the knowledge of what she had done to that soldier.

            At first, she had comforted herself with the thought that perhaps he had the heart sickness. She remembered a few people in the village who had died that way. They’d be working in the fields, or doing the laundry at the stream, and suddenly they would fall over, dead. Tragic, yes. But not unusual. But her memories would not allow her to entertain this thought for long. She remembered the light. And as she thought more on those dreadful moments, she remembered the heat. Not the comforting heat of a fire, or the heat that came from blood pulsing through veins in normal exertion, but this was a feverish heat, heat that came both from within and without. Heat that she could feel even to the very ends of her fingernails. It had gone as quickly as it had come, just like the light, but she had never felt that before, not once. And she hadn’t felt it since, at least not to that intensity. So heart sickness was an inadequate explanation for the man’s death. But despite the trauma she was enduring, despite the unknowns and her near crippling fear, a new strength seemed to have been born in her—a new quickness in her movements, a sharpening of her mind and her senses. It was subtle, but noticeable. She wondered what was happening to her.

            And then there was the thought that she, Azya, farm girl, half-starved her whole life, couldn’t even write her own name, had never been outside her village in her whole life, had killed a man. She had finally admitted that to herself, and she held the thought gingerly in her mind, like a delicate crystal object of great value and power. And she knew she would only ever admit it to herself; should the truth be found out, she’d certainly be executed. But the truth was there. She felt little guilt. The man, after all, had been planning to rape her. Had he been a father? A husband? Had she deprived a family of their livelihood by killing him? Perhaps. But she did not feel guilt. Sadness maybe, if that were true. But more she felt victorious that she had not allowed him to steal away from her something precious: her humanity. So he was dead at her hand. If it hadn’t been at hers, maybe another’s in a battle or skirmish. Maybe he would’ve died a long and painful death from the blight. But he would’ve died eventually. His time had come, and it happened to be her moment as well. Her crystal moment.

            Azya was drifting to sleep almost against her will, but she allowed it to overcome her, letting the thought linger at the edge of her slumber that perhaps she would be all right after all. This new life wasn’t one she would have chosen for herself, and she knew there would be great trial ahead. But in a way, she saw a beginning, a chance to break away. She was a slave, yes, and little she would do from here on out would be her own choice. But her Mistress didn’t know, strange Prennan didn’t know—that she had killed a man. She possessed a secret power. Ultimately, they had no authority or control over her. If it became necessary, she thought, she could kill them too.

WIP Post #6

A little bit longer one this time for you, but no more posts until next week! I have to give you some sort of craving, right? But really, I've appreciated the encouragement to keep these posts coming. The rest of the book is coming along swimmingly and I'm really enjoying writing it.

Jarta was not kind, but neither was he cruel. He and Azya remained in the town for a few days. She learned its name was Pelborne, and it was the largest metropolitan center in the area, which Jarta explained to her was the mountainous region of the land. “Aside from sea ports, the slave trade is booming here,” he told her over a meal one evening. “The Emperor often sends us to Pelborne to find the best selection.” Jarta often spoke at length about the land, explaining the geography, the culture. He seemed to take a personal, recreational interest in it. Most of it was new information to Azya and her curiosity was piqued. She wanted to ask questions, but a few mild beatings taught her that Jarta was serious about her remaining silent unless he prompted her specifically to speak. So she listened to him dutifully and rehearsed the facts she learned in her mind. She knew the information could prove invaluable one day.

            Azya grew stronger with the regular meals he provided for her. It was plain but hearty food, bought from the inn kitchen where they stayed. Her mind sharpened and she slept better at night. “This is not charity,” he explained roughly, perhaps reading her gratefulness and softening feelings towards him. “You have a hard life of work ahead of you. You must be strong for it or I could lose my job. It has happened to others.” He went on to explain that other slave buyers had even been executed for providing too many weak slaves who died too soon. He said it was less expensive to feed a slave than it was to keep replacing ones that died off. “It’s entirely pragmatic for business, I assure you.”

            When out and about, Azya accompanied Jarta with her hands and feet bound. He seemed to have other business in the town, and she waited outside many a building and shop, tied to posts, while he conducted his affairs. In the evenings, he unbound her in their inn room, but kept the door locked and the key on a string around his neck while he slept on the bed and she curled up on a blanket on the wooden floor. Azya only briefly considered escaping; ashamed of herself, she realized it was the regular meals that kept her with him. She realized that too was probably intentional on his part. Pragmatic for business.

            Before dawn one morning, when they had been in Pelborne nearly a week, Jarta roughly shook her awake. “Up,” he said. “Put this on.” He extended a dress towards her. It was plain, a dull tan color, but it was new and in good shape. She ducked behind a changing screen and obediently donned the new garment. Its fabric was rough and stiff against her skin, and the hem was slightly too long, covering her feet and dragging a few inches of cloth on the floor. Then he handed her a new pair of boots. Practical, heavy, and ugly, she pushed her feet into them. The stiff leather pinched her toes together and she winced when she tried to stand in them. When she was done, he bound her hands and feet again and she followed him. Outside the inn waited a rough-looking carriage pulled by two horses. Jarta pressed a few coins into the innkeeper’s hand and lifted her into the carriage. He sat opposite her and rapped his knuckles on the wall. The carriage jolted to a start and Azya fell to her elbow and she struggled to sit back up with her hands tied together. Jarta glanced at her as she regained her balance but looked away quickly. “We travel for two days. Sleep if you can. I can’t guarantee there will be room in the taverns along the way.”

            Azya leaned her head against the wall of the carriage and tried to sleep, but her stomach jumped with excitement. Instead, her gaze drifted to the scenery passing through the small window. To her surprise, no dust or wind came in through the window. When she put her hand to it, the material that covered it was cold to the touch. She looked at Jarta in surprise. He grinned at her, amused. “Glass,” he said. “It’s costly. Probably no one from where you come from has it.”

            Embarrassed by her ignorance, Azya pulled her hand away. The wagon traveled swiftly but the ride was bumpy and uncomfortable. Outside pale sunlight lit the countryside. They passed through the last few buildings of Pelborne, into small family ranches and farms, and soon it was the slow blur of woods and meadows. The carriage slowed as they climbed sloping hills. Azya wondered if they were getting into more mountainous territory. Jarta had already drifted off, his mouth wide open and snoring noisily. Soon, Azya dozed as well.

*          *          *

            Teldon had haggled a wheel of cheese for a map from a traveler he met on the road. He could not read, but after a few days of study, he could make out the pictorial symbols and figured out where he was and where he was going. A large house-shaped symbol marked a big city. He couldn’t read the letters of the name, but by his reckoning it was just a few day’s walk in the direction he was heading. He would reach it soon if he didn’t stray from the path and avoided the bandits that were plentiful on the road.

            Sure enough, two days later he found himself in Pelborne, learning the name from the gatekeeper. He blinked rapidly and tried to take everything in. He had never seen so many people in one place before. Even market day after the first harvest wasn’t this busy. Carts rattled across the broken cobblestones beneath his feet. People shouted, some in the language he understood but the way they said the words was different. Conversations wafted around his ears in foreign tongues that sounded strange and alien. He took a few tentative steps towards the town square and immediately pulled his bag closer to his body; he was jostled and bumped and didn’t want to lose any of his possessions in the chaos. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. Buildings towered above him. Most were made of wood, several stories high. Some were in obvious disrepair while others seemed to have been freshly painted. In the distance he could see buildings made of chiseled stone—a new sight indeed. Colors overwhelmed his senses—the normal grays and browns of homespun wool interrupted by brightly colored silks and satins and the glint of the jewels that speckled the wealthy flashed in his eyes. Some of these people didn’t even walk, but were carried in cushioned litters by servants or rode grand steeds or peeked from the velvet curtains of carriages so large they had to be pulled by four horses.

            “Watch it!” came a gruff voice from a man wearing a dented breastplate as he collided into Teldon. He had been standing still too long, he realized. The man gave him a dark glare as he passed and Teldon gulped and moved forward. His stomach rumbled with hunger and his rations were low. Strong smells of cooking came from the direction of a busy little building just ahead. He swallowed his nerves once more and made his way towards it.

            Expecting a reprieve from the chaos of the street, Teldon gasped as he entered the crowded tavern. It was as if they had crammed all of the bustle of the street into a small room where people sat at thick wooden tables, drinking from pewter tankards and eating meals off of pewter plates. The noise was deafening, unaided by a wiry man who pounded on movable white tiles of some kind of musical instrument, accompanied by drunken singing in an unfamiliar language. Teldon’s stomach growled again and driven by hunger, he pushed his way to one of the remaining empty seats at the counter near the kitchen. The two people on either side of him—a merchant with a hooded face and a drunk soldier—completely ignored him. Teldon sighed with relief. He grasped his pocket, feeling the few coins he possessed inside of it. He hoped he could afford to eat here.

            “What’ll it be?” A young barmaid with a pockmarked face banged her hand on the counter in front of him to get his attention.

            “Oh…uh, a pint of ale,” he stammered. “And, um. Stew, if you have it.”

            “Two coin,” she said. With relief, he paid the small sum and minutes later a steaming bowl of stew and cold ale sat in front of him. He hadn’t had food that rich in ages. He slurped it greedily.

            His hunger satiated, Teldon wondered what to do next. If Azya was still in Pelborne, it would be impossible to find her in the crowds. And if she was a slave, like her brother said she was, she was likely being protected by someone who was armed.

            “Ma’am…Madam…” Teldon got the attention of the barmaid, who looked at him sideways, as if expecting a proposition she was planning to refuse. “You wouldn’t by chance have seen a woman like this? A bit tall, long brown hair, wide brown eyes?” She snorted.

            “That describes anybody,” she said. “Hell, that describes me.”

            Teldon thought the barmaid looked nothing like Azya. But he pressed her for more information. “Has there been a slave auction here recently?”

            “You don’t look like the type that can afford a slave, lad.”

            “I’m not looking to buy.” He was growing annoyed with her and started to glance impatiently around the room, seeing if someone else might be more helpful.

            “There was a slave auction three days ago. The next one is happening, oh, in twenty minutes or so.”

            “Were any of the slaves like the woman I described?”

            The woman laughed. “Do I look like I attend slave auctions? Now, if you’re finished eating, leave the seat for someone else.”

            Teldon drank the last swallow of his ale and got up. He moved towards the door, lost in his thoughts as he pondered what he would do next. The only thing he could think of was visiting that slave auction to see if Azya was one of the ones being sold. How he would get her out of it if he did find her there was something he didn’t know. He’d figured it out if it came to that.

            Outside a crowd was already funneling towards the town square. Above the heads of the people Teldon could see a tall wooden platform. He pushed through and managed to get close to the front, peering over those who blocked his view. He had never seen a slave auction before, and couldn’t help but be curious. His eyes darted around, keeping watch for anyone who looked like Azya.

            The first thing he saw surprised him. A man—fat, and opulently dressed—climbed the platform and spoke loudly. “Before the auction begins, behold the Emperor’s kindness!” Another man yanked something up the platform by a chain. Stumbling forward was a line of small figures, dressed in rags, and bound by chains to each other. Children. One or two cried. Most had dead, defeated looks. Teldon’s stomach grew sour.

            “These are the children of citizens who, in one way or the other, defied the Emperor. Instead of punishing the parents with execution, he accepted a donation of these brats as slaves. These children will be sold at a steep discount. May we start the bidding at five coin?”

            All around him people started shouting numbers. Teldon stared at the chained children. One in particular caught his eye; her face was gray and hair stringy from not having been washed in a long time, but her eyes forcefully reminded him of Lissella, and his stomach churned. Grief hit him like a punch to the gut. He doubled over, certain he was going to be sick, and fell to his knees. Those around him ignored him, even stepped closer to him, as if he were no longer there. In the dirt, he took great gasping breaths, feeling hot and forcing down the bile that rose through his throat.

            Just when he thought he was about to lose his lunch on the city street, a flash of light and intense heat surrounded him with a deafening noise. His nausea instantly passed but in his weakness he fell backward, scraping his palms on the gravel. The fog of his brain dissipated and he saw around him that the crowed had cleared. No, not cleared. Several people lay in the dirt around him, not moving.

            He scrambled to his feet and looked around for the attacker. The crowd was dispersing with panicked cries and he watched the auctioneer herd the chained children off the stage and away from the chaos. Still dizzy, he looked around for an escape route himself, and located a mostly-clear path towards an alleyway. He didn’t know where it went, but it would get him away. He took another look at the people lying in the dirt. They were still and white. He knew of no way to help them, so he grasped his pack close and took off running.

            Strong hands suddenly clamped down on his shoulders and he cried out. He clutched the strap of his bag and tried to wrench free but the people holding him were too strong. Or there were too many. He couldn’t tell, because a large hand smothered his mouth and someone roughly tied a cloth over his eyes. He was dragged, struggling, towards a nearby building, down some stairs and slammed into a chair. He felt someone tying him up and he strained against the ropes.

            “Let me go!”

            “Was that the first time that happened?” someone demanded. The male voice spoke the common tongue but with an accent Teldon didn’t recognize.

            “The attack? I’ve never seen anything like it. Was it your doing?”

            “Our doing? You did it!” accused another voice.

            “And you’ll talk, now,” said the first.

            Teldon fought down his panic. “Honest, I’m poor…and homeless. I’ve only just arrived. I’ve never been here before. I’m looking for a friend, that’s all.”

            Someone tore the blindfold off his eyes and he saw that he was in a dark cellar, lit only by a single oil lamp that smoked. Two men stood over him, both of them with masked faces. One wore a red tunic and matching pants that stopped short of his ankles. A leather utility belt crossed his chest. His skin was dark, darker than Teldon had ever seen before. He wondered if he was wealthy, considering the color of his clothes, but they were worn and torn in places. The second man was tall and thin with a sword on his belt. He wore clothes that were plain but in good condition. It was his voice that Teldon had first heard, and he addressed him again.

            “Where are you from?”  he demanded.

            “A village, two days walk east of here. It has no name. Really…I don’t know who you are…I’m no threat to you!”

            “We’ll decide that,” said the red-clad man. He crossed his burly arms over his chest. Dark eyes stared at Teldon through the slit in his mask.

            “Explain to us what happened back there.” The tall man likewise crossed his arms.

            “I…I don’t know. I saw the children…those, poor children…” His nausea returned and he choked. “My sister…” He started to sob.

            “One was your sister?”

            “No!” Teldon shook his head, trying to collect his scattering thoughts. “I…I don’t know what happened. I saw the children being auctioned off and I got ill…I saw a flash and heard a noise and the next thing I knew those people were on the ground and everyone was running.”

            They all started as a trap door above them opened and a third man; this one squat and heavy, his wiry red hair braided into a ponytail on top of his head and missing two fingers on his right hand, climbed down.

            “Four confirmed dead,” he said. “The authorities are looking for the culprit.”

            “What? Who attacked them?”

            The three men stared at him. They looked to each other, conversing with their dark eyes behind their masks. One shuffled a boot uncomfortably on the dusty floorboards of the cellar. Another cleared his throat. The tall one in black spoke first. “Well, you did.”

            Teldon couldn’t speak. He felt his mouth drop open. “I…I couldn’t have…I have no weapons…I didn’t want to…”

            “You are absolutely certain you’ve never seen or done anything like that before?” asked the dark man.

            Teldon shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done…are you asking if I’ve ever murdered innocent people before? NO!” He struggled against his bounds, but the thought started to niggle in his brain…could he have done something like that? Without trying?

            “Another case of latency,” the squat man said, his voice low. “We’re seeing more lately.”

            “Yes, but it is rare that we come across one that is so dangerous,” said tall man with a sword. He directed his next address to Teldon.

            “Why are you in Pelborne?”

            Teldon strained again at the ropes that bound him. “I’m looking for a friend. Now please, let me go. I promise not to harm you.”

            “What happened to your friend?”

            “She…” Teldon grunted as he twisted the rope. The squat man chuckled at his distress. “She was taken by soldiers to be sold as a slave.”

            “And what? You thought you’d find her and rescue her?” The tall man laughed. “You are quite gallant. And stupid.”

            Teldon felt his stomach clench with anger. “It’s really none of your business! Let me go!” He rocked the chair so hard that it upended. He tumbled over with it, feeling his face crash on the dirt floor of the cellar. The men laughed. The big dark one, to his surprise, righted him and loosened his bonds.

            “If we let you go,” he said, “you’ll be captured by the Emperor’s army and executed swiftly. You’ll have no chance of finding your friend then.”

            “Why?”

            “Well, you’ve just done something the Emperor fears most of all. He doesn’t put up with the likes of you.”

            “I don’t know what you mean.”

            “Look,” said the tall man, his hand on his sword. “You have two choices here. We can let you go, you figure things out on your own, and inevitably be captured by the Emperor’s army and executed. You’d have a week, at most, to live. Or, you can stay with us. We’ll keep you alive and safe. And we’ll tell you what you just did back there.”

            “What about my friend?”

            “What about your friend?”

            “She was sold into slavery by her family. I have to find her.”

            Man-with-sword sighed. “You realize that idea is hopeless, don’t you lad?” he said. Teldon had to concentrate to understand him, so bizarre was his accent. “Slaves don’t last long in the Emperor’s employ. If she doesn’t die in the next couple months, she’ll be unrecognizable to you. What makes you think that even if you could get to her, she’d want to go with you?”

            Teldon sighed. These were not unfamiliar thoughts. “Look. I have nothing left but her. I have to try.”

            The tall man made an understanding noise and nodded. The other two looked at him, consulting with glances. The tall man nodded, and stepped forward. “If you come with us, we’ll try to help you find your friend.”

            Teldon rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut into them and looked up at the men. He wondered if he had heard correctly. “You will?”

            “Yes. You’ll die if you’re on your own. If you’ve got our help, well, there’s at least a chance you won’t die. Can’t promise anything about the girl though. But we can keep you alive. We can keep you out of the hands of the Emperor.”

            “I did not kill those people back there!” Teldon said, standing suddenly and felt a fever rise. Was he ill? Was it the blight? He sat down again and put his head in his hands. What was happening to him?
            “You did,” said the squat man solemnly. “We know you didn’t mean to, but you did.”

            “We will explain it in good time,” said the tall man. “But you need to agree to stay with us. On our terms.”

            He wasn’t sure he could trust them. But they were right. He knew nothing of the world outside his village, other than he lived under the thumb of the Emperor, just like everyone else. And something happened in that town square. As hard as he tried to push down the thought, his gut told him it was true. Somehow, he had killed those people back there. He was a danger to others. His heartbeat slowed and he steadily approached.

            “How do I know you’re not working for him…the Emperor? How do I know this isn’t all a trick?”

            The tall man shrugged. “You don’t. You don’t know anything. You’ll just have to take our word for it. We’re on your side. We’re on anybody’s side who wants change.”

            Teldon shook his head vigorously. “I’m not a revolutionary. I don’t want to be a part of any fight or war. I just want to find my friend. I want to live in peace.”

            “And as long as the Emperor is in power, you’ll never have it,” said the dark man.

            “We’ll help you,” the tall man said again. Teldon had gathered that he was the leader of sorts. “And you’ll help us.”

            “Help you with what?”

            “Do what we do,” he said enigmatically, elongating his vowels. “Granted, we’ll need to set a trial period. You could be useless. But we’re…down a man.” The other two shifted uncomfortably. One of them sniffed loudly. “You might be the right person to replace him.”

            Teldon walked out of the shadows. He didn’t know what choice he had. If they were right, he could be dead within the week. If they were wrong, he could still be dead within the week. But they did seem more knowledgeable than he was. And he needed knowledge. And if they were right about what he had just done, that he had committed a heinous act that he had no control over, he needed protection too. He sighed, resigned to whatever fate awaited him.

            “Fine. But you’ll have to tell me your names.”

            “Can’t do that,” said the leader.

            Teldon threw up his arms. “How can I begin to trust you if you won’t even tell me your names? My name is T…”

            “Sssshhhhhshshhhhhh!” The leader waved his gloved hands vigorously, his eyes wide behind his mask with panic. “Don’t tell us! We don’t even know each other’s true names.” He shook his head, as if clearing fuzzy thoughts. “I am called Seventy-Seven. I hoped to go longer before I told you that, but…there you go.” He bowed.

            “Your name is…a number?”

            “Mine is Fifteen,” said the dark man.

            “And I’m Twenty-Nine.” The fat man bowed with a flourish, his braided ponytail flipping over his head.

            “And you’ll be Eleven.” Seventy-Seven patted him on the shoulder.

            Teldon stared at him. “Why?”

            “It’s the one we lost,” said Fifteen.

            “There are a hundred of us,” Twenty-Nine explained.

            “The higher your number, the more authority you have,” Fifteen interjected.

            “That’s enough secrets for the day, lads,” said Seventy-Seven, clearing his throat.

            Teldon stared at all of them. “Must I wear a mask?” To his surprise, Seventy-Seven peeled his off, and the other two followed suit. “Only on missions.” He smiled. His teeth were white and straight; if he wasn’t rich now, he certainly had been.

            “Was…was I a mission?”

            “Well, yes. I suppose you were. Granted, an unplanned one. We prefer to plan them ahead. Less risky that way.”

            Teldon sighed. “All I want to do is find my friend. And rescue her, if I can.”

            Seventy-Seven nodded, and smiled at the three of them. “A new mission, boys.” He grasped Teldon’s hand. “Anything to put a barb in the Emperor’s ass. Welcome, Eleven.”