Modern Magic Thief - A NaNoWriMo Project

[Talanic]

Welcome to the thread! If you're just here for the stories, just skip on down to the spoiler tags; they're compressing things so that I can fit updates into the first post as well as posting them below, without interrupting potential discussion.

I'm trying NaNoWriMo this year; while I played with it previously I never made a serious attempt, and the one novel I have finished took me upwards of five years for a measly 60,000 words - not because I can't write quickly, but because (among other reasons) I was learning.

So here begins my first real attempt at writing a novel in 30 days, begun at the stroke of midnight on November 1st.


Myth Taken, aka The Story So Far (does not count towards NaNoWriMo):

Spoiler

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I could start this story anywhere, but things only got really weird when the knife sank into my shadow and I found that I was pinned to the spot. It was at that point that I really knew that I was more screwed than I had ever been.

But that's too far forward. Consider that bit a promise that things get weird in a little while, okay? I had been having fun but nothing really exceptional was happening. I had a free weekend. I was twenty-three and single, and my friends weren't, so it was a perfect recipe for me doing something stupid. Since I prefer not to endanger myself or others – normally, at least – and I live in a small town in the American Midwest, that meant a little jaunt into my old hobby.

I like to explore. As a kid I'd gone spelunking a few times and found it neat, but not quite to my taste. I prefer abandoned structures; old farmhouses, boarded-up factories, anything I can get into unnoticed without damaging anything. I get in, I sketch things – with a few embellishments, sometimes – I explore, and I leave. If I don't intend to go back, I'll find an out-of-the-way corner and leave a little souvenir – a coin from my Grandfather's collection. He was amused by the idea of making the collection hard to reassemble, and left it to me as a private joke between us.

I know there's a larger internet community about that, somewhere, but I've never really looked into it. I'm not into it for glory, I just enjoy making stories about the places I'm intruding on. I suspect I'd have a lot more choice of target if I lived in Europe. Nothing here that I'd sneak into is really that old.

Most buildings like this one will get a local reputation. You know, the neighborhood haunted shack. Not this time. It was exactly as I'd heard from Todd – a building out in the forest. Old timbers. Sturdy-looking door. Now, there are no old-growth forests in my home state – everything got clear cut before environmental concerns were a thing – so I know that this house (well, I assumed it was a house) once sat in a clearing. It had to – one of my criteria for figuring out something was really old (by local standards) is if the timbers used to build it are too large to bring through the woods surrounding it.

Definitely the case here. This building was in a ravine, a three-mile hike from the nearest road according to satellite maps. Since Todd told me about the house's existence I'd poked about to find an owner (so at least my apologies could be personalized if I got caught sneaking about) and had found nothing. It wasn't public land – it was in some kind of legal dead zone and didn't officially exist.

I was ready to about-face immediately if I came across any kind of squatter or survivalist; my suspicion was someone with connections in local government had built themselves a secret getaway cabin in the woods. Then everyone who knew what was going on had died or forgotten about it and it wound up a ripe-to-be-explored ruin.

I'm not really good with architecture. It looked like some kind of extra-large log cabin, with a shingled wooden roof. No windows that I could see. The shingles made me suspect it couldn't have been neglected for that long, but there were no trails. In fact, there was quite a thicket outside. A place this far out wouldn't be plumbed; anyone inside would have to leave to use an outhouse or privy or something. No, it was clearly abandoned.

I had to squeeze through the thicket, taking rather a lot longer to clear than I'd like. That's one of the reasons I like to limit my explorations to man-made structures; they are by definition made for humans to pass through. The door was actual a set of iron-bound double doors straight out of a video game.

The lock was easy. Well-maintained, which was unusual to me. I eased the door open – I kinda like squeaky hinges – and for a moment I saw the dark-but-mundane interior that I had expected.

Then everything lurched. I was no longer standing at the threshold of an old house in Wisconsin. Something hit me in the back – my backpack took the hit but I was still flung prone in a brightly-lit room. I skidded – briefly and painfully – across a hardwood floor, like polished mahogany floorboards. I heard the door shut behind me as a huge-but-unseen bell rang.

This had not been in the cards for today. I regained my feet, slowly turning around to take in my surroundings, still not quite understanding what I was seeing yet. The room I was in now was bigger than the entire building that I had been about to enter. There was a grand staircase ahead of me, like a palace staircase or one of those wannabe-palace Southern mansions. Trophies hung from the walls, and for a moment my eyes just skipped over them – I have relatives who are very into hunting but it could never really hold my interest. I did a proper double-take a moment later. Deer don't have spiral horns; also, they have two of them.

That was when I saw the knife drop at me from the upper level, hitting the ground in front of me, point-down. I reacted with remarkable aplomb, screaming only once and avoiding soiling myself, but my belated attempt to dodge drew me up short. As I said earlier, the knife had struck my shadow, buried itself in it, in fact, and when I jumped away, I felt a fierce tug back towards the knife. My shadow was unnaturally stretched out, as if pinned in place.

Not yet having thought enough to realize how much I should be panicking, I looked up to see if another knife was coming. The man looking down from above was short and heavily muscled. He was naked (at least his shoulders were – he was on the upper level) but that didn't disturb me as much as the fact that he was apparently made of stone. Granite, I think.

He nodded, then spoke. “You will wait there for the master. Then you will serve.”


I'll admit it. I very nearly shut down entirely, then and there. I stammered a bit before rebounding. “No. Wait. What master? Where am I?” I asked.

The stone man had disappeared over the railing, but his voice carried back to me. “The master is Shamasun, son of Enkidu. Do not pretend that you do not know; his home is never found by accident. You came here like all those before you, to take vengeance upon him. Instead you will add your power to his.”

He came down the stairs, carrying something. I edged as far away from him as I could – my pinned shadow limited that to about six feet – as the object proved to be a folding chair, which he set up next to me. The granite man was wearing pants – black jeans with a thick belt and wide pockets – and a pair of sneakers which looked to have seriously compressed soles.

“Feel free to sit,” he said. “You may be my prisoner but that doesn't mean we can't be civilized. Would you like some refreshment?”

For three whole seconds, we just stood, facing each other as I processed what was going on as capably as I could. Finally I raised my hand and beckoned him closer.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” I asked as he approached.

He shrugged. “It's fine. You can't hurt me.” This close, I could see the flecks in the stone that comprised him and the pattern that it imparted to his movements. He didn't look like a machine or a doll, but like a man with an inorganic exterior – along with what little I could see of his interior, including his teeth and eyes.

I reached out a finger and poked him in the belly. He was cold, polished stone that was somehow moving. I couldn't help it. I chuckled. The granite man cocked his head to one side with a quizzical look on his face, but it only set me off more. Soon I was laughing out loud, unable to stop.

“Nobody's ever reacted quite like that before,” he said. “What's so funny?”

“You – ” I had to gasp before forcing it out. “You have chiseled abs.”

He smiled and laughed once. Cold stone, perhaps, but there was a genuine warmth to the smile. “It's not that funny, really,” he said.

“No.” I was still fighting giggles, but I managed to explain. “It's not that funny. But this is too weird. There's unicorns mounted on the wall, I've no idea where I am, you're a golem or something...I'm so far out of my depth that I can either laugh or cry.”

“I'm not a golem,” he said. “Golems are Jewish, and a good bit younger than I am. I mean, they can be fine constructs, I'm just not one of them.”

“What are you, then?”

“I'm Greek. You could say I follow an old pantheon, in a rather literal sense. Shamasun carved me from Cronus' beating heart.” He paused, as if expecting a reaction.

“I didn't know titans were made of stone.”

“Not all of them were. He was. But now you know what I am. What are you?”

I took a moment to choose my words carefully. “So far as I know, I'm not anything mystical. I'm human.”

“Can't be. A human wouldn't have been able to cross the threshold. To anyone without a trace of magic, the door would have led to what's really on the other side, instead of to here.” He ran a hand across the smooth, polished surface of his head. “You can't be human. A god, a demon, a fairy, or some other form of monster, perhaps, but not human. Or not fully, at least.”

“If I am, it's news to me.” Rather inconvenient news at the moment. “Can you tell?”

“Not really. I'm made of too much magic to get a good view of it, myself – and it's all used to keep me alive and functioning. It's like asking a fish to tell you if something's wet. I could make a few guesses, though.”

“Guess away.”

“Between looks and accent I'd guess you to be American of mixed European ancestry. So we'll start with some obvious ones.” He ticked off his fingers. “Faerie blooded. That's actually easy to test, but exceptionally unpleasant for you – iron poisoning tends to be rough. It's the most common among people who don't know it, but you look more Scandinavian, so I'd guess troll, svartalf, or maybe even Vanir. I'd expect us to have found any existing Vanir bloodlines, though. Those are just guesses, though; you could be anything from Aesir to Wendigo as far as I can tell. But...” He squinted. “I think I can see just the tiniest aura. Looks lucky. Maybe leprechaun?”

He paced around behind me, then stopped. “Crud. Would you mind handing me that backpack?”

My faint escape plan was in that backpack, but I didn't think it would do me much good. I slipped it off my shoulders and offered it. He carried it away, set it down, then paced back and forth between me and the pack several times.

“Well,” he said, “The good news is, I don't think you're an invader anymore. Whatever magic was with you is in that bag. I can't be sure you're entirely human but you're no demigod, and it'd take something of that caliber to threaten us. So the situation's changed. You're human, not here to hurt me or the master. You're not an enemy – you're a guest, and I have been remiss in my application of xenia.” He gave me a sheepish smile and extended his hand. “My name is Hewn.”

I took the hand and shook it. “I'm Sam.”

“Sam. You are welcome in this house, traveler. I must apologize - I'm afraid nailing your soul to the floor wasn't the proper duty of a host. And worse, neither you nor I can actually get you loose – because the knife pinned you inside a home, only the master of the house can pull it out.”




“I wish I could tell you when he was coming back,” Hewn said as he set up a small table next to the chair. “I left him a voice mail. He's in the sewers of New York – had a hydra cornered, was working on killing it. You know how it is.”

“Not really.”

He smiled. “Sorry. I haven't really had a mortal here since...Bartholomew? Think that was his name. Nice fellow. His golem talked me into letting him cut through on his way out of central Europe.”

“Let me guess. 1930's?”

“No, no. Some time back in the 1600's. A good time to be in here. Not so good to be most anywhere else, really.”

“Huh.” I mentally fumbled through a list of questions before settling on one. “So what is your master, anyway?”

“Well. For one, I don't usually call him master unless I'm being formal. Or intimidating. But he's a hero of the ancient ways.” He bustled about as he spoke, climbing the stairs and rummaging about where I couldn't see.

“Which means?”

“A lot of things.” He returned with, of all things, a big yellow phone book. “Slayer of monsters. Defender of civilization. An explorer whose trips don't always stay on the same planet, whether he realized it at the time or not.”

“Okay.” I mulled it over for a second before continuing. “But how is he still alive after – what, five thousand years?”

“Thereabouts. But I just told you. That kind of hero just doesn't die.” He paged through the phone book, then grimaced. He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and consulted its contents, frowning. He sighed. “I'm afraid that we have a little situation.”

“What's that?”

“By laws more ancient than I am, as your host, I am bound to offer you food, drink, and a bath, if you need it. That last one, I'm offering but I'm pretty sure we'll skip, considering the circumstances. Water, I can provide no problem – purest water you've ever had, scraped as frost from the waters of Sylgr. Purer than any water that's flowed upon the Earth. It's food that's the problem. See, I don't eat.”

“Can't, or don't?”

“Don't. I like to, but I don't need to. So Shamasun and I don't keep a stocked kitchen.” He disappeared up the stairs, presumably putting away the phone book, then returned with a far sturdier-looking chair for himself. “He usually brings back enough for himself when he's staying in-house for a few days, but sometimes he's gone for months. We can't keep the place stocked – and while I'd order some food, I'm afraid I'm broke.”

I glanced around the hall around me. It was larger than my entire apartment. “Broke?”

“Yup. I know, I know, size of the house is impressive, but it's at a Threshold. Between worlds, space and time are looser concepts, and the better-off heroes would rather live somewhere where they can get electricity and internet, and don't have to worry about things trying to break through.”

“Things? What kind of things?” That had grabbed my attention, but Hewn was still caught up in the food situation.

“Life's getting more expensive these days, and the boss and I made some bad investments. Great Depression, Betamax, stuff like that. I'm afraid I'm failing in my duties as a host.”

“I have some food to share. Would that help?”

He nodded slowly. “It'll have to do. I'm very sorry. The etiquette of xenia was drilled into me since before I really had the hang of talking.”

I retrieved and unzipped my backpack. Inside I had a water bottle, a sealed bottle of soda, half a dozen granola bars and a sandwich. I hesitated for a moment, then offered Hewn a granola bar. “I don't know xenia, but if you want, you can have one.”

He hesitated, but I pressed it at him. “I'll get sick of these before we run out of them.”

Hewn smiled and took it, but set it down on the table. “May I see that backpack? Now that xenia has been addressed, it's proper for me to see about what got you sucked in here.”

I handed it over, then conspicuously took a bite from the sandwich. Hewn looked satisfied, then started to rifle through the pockets. He stopped on the outermost pocket, then pulled forth a coin.

“This'd be it,” he said. “Lucky coin.” He held it forth for me to see. It was one of Grampa's coins. It looked like nothing more than an old half-dollar coin from 1937, with Lady Liberty on it. He regarded it as if it were some kind of beetle. “Look closely at it where I'm touching it. Actually, this will help.” He retrieved my flashlight and illuminated the coin from behind as he circled it with his fingers.

I squinted. Light was coming through between his fingers and the coin. My eyes were telling me that he was both touching and not touching the coin at the same time.

“It's not what you see,” he explained. “It's faerie make. Glamered to look like something unremarkable from your world. If we just sprinkle it with some salt...gimme a moment.”

He rushed off and returned with a pinch between his fingers. On contact, the coin vanished, replaced immediately by what looked like a clay disc that was slightly larger than the half-dollar had been.

“That's what it really is.”

I took the disc and studied it, enraptured. Something of my own had been made by creatures of myth. The side facing me bore an intricate design of an immense palace. Despite having nothing to compare it with I had a sense that it was far larger, far grander than any building on Earth. The other side held the face of a sleeping man – but not a man, no, just subtly different. An elf.

I flipped the coin back to the palace and showed it to Hewn. “What is this place?”

“Don't really know firsthand. It's a palace of Faerie, which means it's not meant for people like you or me to visit and come back from. Not sane, at least. Faerie's not a nice place.”

“I know. I've read Terry Pratchett.”

“Who?”

I gave him a flat look. “You like to read?”

“Sure.”

“Then when I'm able to move about again, I'm going to bring you my collection and you'll be going on a magical journey the likes of which you've never seen before.” He laughed out loud as I turned the coin back over. “And who's this? Oh!” The sleeping elf's eyes were open and he was looking out from the clay with a sharp, hungry smile. “It moves!”

Suddenly Hewn was moving with a speed I'd never expect as he grabbed the coin and flung himself – and it – away from me.


He moved with speed but not particular grace, instead flopping on the coin with enough force to shake the chair I was still sitting in.

“YOU DARE!” He roared, but not at me. “This place is forbidden to your kind!” There was something under him now; silver-clad arms and legs flailing.

Suddenly the fight turned. Hewn's opponent managed to get both legs together and kick the stone man off him – towards me, essentially annihilating the table and sending my backpack flying as I retreated behind the chair. Hewn regained his feet quickly, but his opponent was already up.

It...was beautiful. Not in a sexual manner – although I could tell that that could spring to life in an instant if the creature wanted. No, it provoked a fascination, like a fireworks display or a grand wonder of the world. It reminded me of an erupting volcano: something singular, beautiful, powerful, and attractive, but best seen at as great a distance as possible.

Hewn faced towards the invader and edged towards the stairs. The elf smiled and pulled forth a long bronze blade. It was dressed all in what looked like silver mail. Made sense – I remembered something about them hating iron. I wasn't sure what the blade was supposed to do against Hewn, but the stone man looked cautious, so I wasn't going to make assumptions.

I wasn't going to do much at all, in fact. I was still pinned to the floor. My best course of action right then was to stay out of this entirely. But that option was taken from me as the elf smiled at Hewn and leveled the blade at me.

“Can't be leaving your guest, can you?” The elf's voice was sweet, like honey oozing down silk that was wrapped around a knife's blade. “That would be ever so rude, to let someone in your protection die so very painfully.”

I cowered behind the chair, but the elf advanced, dipping the tip of the blade towards the floor. I didn't know what it was doing until it hit the hilt of the knife and shifted it. The pain was immediate, deeper than a broken bone. I couldn't help myself; I cried out.

“Dis take you,” Hewn hissed, but the blade was already pointed towards him. The pain had ended the moment it left the knife.

The elf had made its intentions clear, essentially breaking through my panic. I was still afraid, but the fear spurred me to do something, anything, no matter how stupid. So I took the chair – my one piece of cover, behind which I had been cowering – and hurled it at the elf, while yelling, “Run, Hewn!”

The elf didn't even bother to dodge the chair, swatting it out of the way one-handed with enough force that the wood splintered on impact with the wall and one of the stuffed unicorn heads dropped to the ground. Hewn charged at the same time, but he wasn't fast enough, taking a thin gash across his left arm, leaving behind chunks of granite. The elf kicked him back and for a moment he had a hold on its leg, but it managed to push its way free, leaving behind a handful of silver mail.

The elf flashed me a heart-melting smile. “His name is Hewn? Thank you. I needed to know that.”

Hewn didn't let up, dropping the handful of mail and closing with his foe. For a long moment they stood equal, Hewn blocking the blade with his hands and forearms, losing chips of his skin but going no deeper. Suddenly there must have been an opening, because the elf ran him completely through with the bronze sword. The granite man simply smiled, grabbed the elf's wrist, and twisted upward, leaving the weapon impaled in his stony flesh.

But the elf was not merely smiling back – it was grinning broadly as its other hand came up with what looked like a shard of solid chrome, which it stabbed into Hewn right above the breastbone. Its sword had had little effect, but the bite from the shard caused him to recoil and roar in pain, then topple backwards with a push from his opponent.

The elf bent in and gloated. “I understand completely what it's like to have one thing in all of creation that happens to be your weakness. We'll explore that more thoroughly later.” It kicked Hewn in the side, launching him up against the wall, where he writhed in agony, the shard – which looked like it was melting – and the sword – which had turned from bronze to brown – still embedded in his chest.

The elf shook itself and stalked over, looking me up and down. I still could barely look away from it, and the closer it came the more overpowering its presence was. It leaned in and sniffed once, eyes half-open, then kissed its gloved pointer finger and pressed the tip of its finger against my forehead. “Later,” it breathed. Then it ran into the mansion, straight up the stairs, leaving me with the stricken Hewn.


“Hewn!” I tried to reach him, but I couldn't. Straining against the knife went beyond simple pain and into the knowledge that I would damage something fundamental if I tried any harder. “Hewn! Talk to me!”

He spasmed, then jerked upright for a moment before curling into the fetal position. He looked at me again but his face was barely recognizable. It looked rougher, with less defined detail in his features, but there was still some intelligence in his eyes.

I took a different tack. “Hewn! My backpack! It's right there; throw it to me!”

He looked at me for a moment before he seemed to comprehend. He dragged himself to the bag. It didn't look like his legs worked anymore, and his fingers were fusing together, but he managed to hook his hand inside the pack's straps and slide it feebly towards me.

It was enough. I tore into the main compartment and ripped free my emergency tools. Backup cell phone, extra flashlight, screwdriver, hammer and mini crowbar.

“Noodly lord, Jesus, Buddha, and whoever else might be listening? This had better work.” I seated the crowbar's prying end against the floorboard that I was pinned to and slammed on the other end with the hammer. I felt a twinge but nothing like what had happened before, so I hit again, then pushed hard on the upper end of the crowbar.

The board shifted as I pulled it up. It wasn't easy, but I kept at it, working frantically, shifting to the other end of the board and finally ripping it loose from the ground. I was scared to pick it up, but when I did, nothing happened, so I rushed to Hewn.

He looked like a rough stone mannequin; while his head was still lolling to one side, there was no detail to his eyes and his mouth no longer looked like it could open. I wasted no time and grabbed the shard, cutting my hand shallowly as I tore it free and tossed it aside. Hewn relaxed immediately, but I still grabbed the elf's sword, only to find that it was just a brittle bundle of sticks, crudely tied together. It snapped off as Hewn regained part of his old definition.

He moved ponderously, gesturing clumsily at his chest. I grabbed the backpack and used it to wipe at the remaining mercury, dabbing it away as best I could.

“Blaa,” he said.

“Blood?” I said.

He nodded and pointed at the shard. “Crana blaa.”

“Cronus' blood.” He nodded again. Features were seeping back into him, but slowly. “Hewn, what is the elf doing? It ran deeper into the house.”

“Thtal.”

“Stall? It needs time?”

He shook his head. “Thtaaal. Take. Make faaree.”

“Steal.” He confirmed. “Make...faerie?” Another nod. “He can turn the house into part of faerie?” I was new to all of this but even I knew how bad that could be.

He put his hand on my shoulder and pointed the other at the exit. “Raaan. Go.” He seemed to swallow and continued, his voice gaining some clarity. “Naat you. Naaat yur fight. Go.”

I can't say I wasn't tempted. I still had my soul nailed to a board but I could take it with me. Figure something out with that.

“What about you?” I couldn't possibly drag him out with me. “You wouldn't leave me. I won't leave you.”

“Youuu can't fight it.”

“That was an elf, right?” I hefted the crowbar. “Iron. I'll go Gordon Freeman on its chull.”

Deep, partly-formed eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Azeem?”

It took me a moment. “That's Morgan Freeman. And not his best movie. But I need to know. Will iron work on that thing?”

Hewn nodded, but tightened his grip on my shoulder. “Not jusst an elf,” he slurred. “Journey warrior of the lower courts. Out of your leeeague. Iron or not.” He didn't seem to be getting more defined anymore – or perhaps it had just slowed down.

“And if I leave? He'll steal your home, but what else will he do?” He opened his mouth but hesitated. “Tell me the truth. Would you be in danger?”

He looked away. “Things like Crronus can't really die. They can be driven dorrmant but if the pieces are brought together, they can wake. Come back. I was made...given life...to help prevent that.”

“The elf would use you to reassemble Cronus?”

He shrugged. “Prolly not. Prolly sell me to someone who would.”

I sighed. “I can't just let that happen. So help me. How can I fight it?”

Hewn shook his head. “Luck. Guts. Iron. Saalt? Would protect from glamer.” He waved up the stairs. “Try to sneak up. Will head to heart of manor. Hearth. Can make himself master of house. Ritual of conqueror. He finishes that, is too late. You should run. Mortals don't escape faerie. So hurry. Run or fight, but do it now.”


I didn't have salt. I've never really been known for having guts. I had some iron – well, probably steel, which I hoped would work just as well – and I really, really hoped I had luck. I didn't really feel lucky – especially not after the events of the last twenty minutes.

It didn't matter. I was doing what I had to do. I tucked the board into my backpack, sideways so that neither the hilt nor the pointy bits were angled towards my back. It was too long, and stuck out near the top.

I put the screwdriver and crowbar in my pockets. None of my tools were really weapons, and despite the Gordon Freeman factor of the crowbar, the hammer was probably my most likely shot.

I ascended the staircase, and my dread was quickly at war with fascination. This place was even larger than I'd realized so far. More than that, the further I went, the more easily I could tell that its inhabitant had a fascination with things grand, old, and mythical.

No more stuffed unicorns, but one of the walls was scaled. Each scale was easily the size of my fist, and no two adjacent looked to have been from the same creature. I didn't try to count them but there had to have been hundreds at least, and a section of empty spaces left open, presumably, for further trophies.

There were statues – mostly of men, some of women, and some of inhuman things. One was of a great bear-creature, at least eight feet tall. It was wearing spectacles and a coat, and had a scroll in one enormous paw. I could read some of the inscriptions, but recognized no names.

I spent a moment disoriented, realizing that even finding the elf in this strange house would be a daunting task. This place was huge. Where would the hearth be?

I looked over the statues again. There was ivy about the bases of some, and one's arm was crusted with moss. It looked out of place, and I had no other leads. I followed the trail of green.

There was something here that I couldn't quite place. A warmth, perhaps. I felt as if these statues had a personal factor to them; they were perhaps Shamasun's own work, memorials of people that he'd known and admired. If so, he put my Facebook to shame; there were thousands of statues. As I went, I picked up my pace; I could tell now that the ivy was actually a trail rather than spread throughout the whole statue hall, and some of the statues were being consumed by the moss, as if chosen for destruction. One – with the inscription of Qatrikias – even fell to pieces at my approach.

The trail was approaching a wall, but this place was unleashing havoc with my sense of scale. The statues were older, too – there was less practice in the hand, and while the first ones I'd seen had been marble, some of these were clay. Some of them bore heavy wear – the print of a hand on a shoulder, possibly repeated once a day for four thousand years had left a permanent mark on one.

I broke through the statues and found myself facing a wall set into a wall – like the smaller one had been the beginning and remained when the place was renovated. I could feel the weight of years, here. The floor was dry earth and stone, arranged in steps down towards a fire pit that was set up against the wall.

The elf was down there. It danced between the rows of stones, chanting, touching each rock in turn. Where its fingers had rested, things sprouted. This might sound like something out of a Disney movie, but in person, it was scary. Rocks cracked as roots burst out of them. Steps that might have doubled as seats sprouted brambles and thornbushes. I saw the elf scatter seeds with one pass of a hand, and with the other the ground erupted in small trunks and something slithered away.

The elf was working its way up and down the stairs; the left side looked like a small stand of jungle at this point, and the creature was nearly to the midpoint. I had to do something – fast.

No, not 'something' – no sense in denying it. I'd have to kill the elf.


I circled towards the right side and stepped down towards the fire pit. Despite my attempt to be inconspicuous, the elf slowed its dance as I approached, then settled into an annoyed posture, hands on its hips.

“Do you mind? I'm taking over a realm here.” It would have been funny, but the elf was looking at me like a stain on a rug. “Why, if you unstuck yourself, did you come after me?”

Of course I've had my action hero fantasies; everyone does, right? Well, I was in a situation where following those fantasies would probably kill me. I'd seen the capabilities the elf had unleashed on Hewn – tossing him about despite him weighing probably five times what I did. On top of that superior speed and strength, it was armed and armored. And, to be honest, I didn't really know how to fight; a ten-year-old green belt left me with just enough skill to throw a punch without breaking my own fist.

Right then, those fantasies whirled through my mind in a blur, along with half-thought plans of drawing the elf into some kind of riddle contest or attempting to stall it until Shamasun returned to kill it.

I opened my mouth, and words came out. “I couldn't leave Hewn.”

The elf looked puzzled. “Why not? He's weak.”

“He was nice to me. And he needs my help.”

“As I said. Weak. Tell you what, though.” Its hands began to move again, resuming the dance. “Throw away that iron. Swear to serve me and I'll let you amuse me for a thousand years. A far longer life than you would ever have in the mortal realm.”

“No.”

It focused on the dance. “Why not? Oh, right. I forget mortal sentiments.” It turned to me and gave me the most genuinely benevolent look I'd yet seen from it. “Do a good job as my slave and I'll collect your family too. I'll need slaves.”

I think it took my shock as agreement, but at last I understood – at least a bit. I might consider the elf evil, but more than that I thought of it as utterly alien. It honestly didn't understand what was wrong with its offer.

I cleared my throat. “No. No, I have a counter-offer.” It perked up as I continued. “Stand down. Leave, or if you're unable, surrender, and I swear I will intercede to get you out of here, free and safe. But if you continue, I will have to destroy you.”

“How dare you – ”

“No, how dare you. I don't know magic but I think I know what you did. You sent a coin into the mortal world, made it lucky so it would be carried around by a hapless human. Sooner or later it would find somewhere magical, get pulled in, trip whatever traps were there to be tripped. After that, you jump out or teleport or whatever you did to get here. You used me.”

“Fool,” it said. The elf glared at me, then reached a hand out towards the trees that it had grown around the hearth. A branch dipped down, snapped off, and became a magnificent sword of the same silvery material the elf was wearing. “That's what mortals are for.”

I hefted the hammer into what I hoped was a guard position. I would probably only get one shot at this. Less than that, probably; the elf was coming at me already, with the grace and speed of a real warrior.

I tried to feint right and pull left instead. The elf responded by slashing its sword straight through my right arm, halfway between my wrist and elbow.

I couldn't help myself; I shrieked as the hammer fell free and the blade lashed out again, biting my left knee. I fell, clutching at my arm, which was surprisingly, still attached.

Not even bleeding. There wasn't even a cut on my sleeve. But the muscles of my arm were knotted tightly and my wrist clicked and ground viciously if I moved. My knee felt like it would barely support my weight; I could feel something vital gone there as well.

“What's the matter? Didn't know about elf weapons, did you?” I was still cowering in pain but I could hear that evil smile in his voice. “You have names for them now. Arthritis. Jaundice. Dementia. But putting names on them didn't take them out of our hands.”

Don't just cower. Think. There's no way I could face that silvery blade. Even if I won in the end – though I couldn't see how – I would be a wreck of a human being. Look for weaknesses.

I bit down hard on my tongue. It had used a different blade on Hewn. Bronze, that one. I suspected that I knew why – the bronze blade had acted more like a weapon, but the silvery blade was for use against mortals. It was a slim hope but it was all I had.

The elf's hand clamped down on my left shoulder and it hauled me upright. “Resist more and I'll keep hurting you. I'll keep breaking you. But you'll still serve me for a thousand years or more before I dump you back into the mortal realm. And when I do, I'll forget you – everything about you, except how you made me laugh at the end.”

I looked him in the eye and spat my blood in his face. There was a single shocked moment where I wondered if I was right – that there was a reason it had only attacked me with a weapon that didn't spill blood – before it tossed me back with a shriek.

The iron in my blood proved even more effective than I'd dared to hope. For a short time, it buried its face in its hands, then threw itself into the newly-grown bushes and started grabbing handfuls of leaves, scrubbing its head and hands repeatedly. It was all the time I needed to try phase two. I only knew of one object that could suppress an invader's power; I was keeping it in my backpack.

The elf looked up just in time to see me slam the board, dagger-point-downward, into its shadow. Enraged, it kicked me in the chest. I felt something snap twice – once when it hit me, and again when I hit the ground about ten feet away. The elf, on the other hand, probably felt something tear, as I had managed to keep hold of the board.

Pain blurred my vision, but I saw the elf coming towards me. As it moved, the silvery metal it was wearing decayed. The sword became just a stick; the mail turned into handfuls of leaves and fell with each lurching step.

“You.” It snarled. “You have...ruined me.” It kicked me again, but the force it had had was gone. It didn't matter much; I was hurt enough already.

Whatever magic it had been using was gone now. It still had an inhuman beauty to it but before its anger had been that of a tiger; scary but still fascinating. Without the glamer to accent it, its wrath was just wrath, naked and ugly as usual.

It knelt on my chest, grinding one knee into my broken ribs. “You don't get to win,” it said. “You think yourself a hero? No. You die here. On a forgotten hearth.”

I'm sure it had more to say, but that was when I finished retrieving the screwdriver from my left pocket and jammed it into the elf's back, somewhere around the area of the kidney.

I was in a lot of pain, so I don't remember much. I remember that its blood was blue. That it hurt to use my right hand, but I did anyway. And I remember that I didn't stop stabbing it until I passed out.



It's always seemed weird to me but the sense of smell is the first to kick in when you're waking up. So I was aware of the smell of flowers before I realized that I had, somehow, survived.

More than that. I was in a bed, tucked in. It was warm, but not especially soft. Consciousness flowed back into me and most of my senses took a back seat to the realization that I was alive – and I felt fine. I was in a moderate-sized bedroom – honestly, it was easily twice the size of my room in my apartment, so huge in comparison, but I've seen bigger.

I was also naked under the sheets, except a bandage on my right hand and, strangely enough, a pendant. I lifted it for a look; it was a bronze disc engraved with a twisting snake. It reminded me of something but I wasn't sure what – and, as I looked, it gleamed strangely at me. I did a double-take before realizing that nothing was there if I looked straight at it, but in my peripheral vision I could see strands of something, threads that didn't seem to really be there. My fingers could pass through them without resistance, and they seemed to lead into my own body. Was that what magic looked like?

“Sam!” It was Hewn, poking his head in the door. He immediately retreated for a moment, calling out, “She's awake!”

I pulled the sheets up around my chest and started to sit up, but Hewn beckoned me back down. “No, no, no. You might feel well but you're really just pasted together. Exert yourself and you'll – well, the easiest comparison is tearing stitches. You'll wreck the amulet and be right back where you started. Sit back, take it easy, and in a few hours you'll be good enough to go.”

Another man rushed through the door and skidded to a stop, a huge grin on his bearded face. Shamasun, no doubt – a muscular Middle Eastern man. He threw his hands wide and boomed, “Well! Look who's the heroine of the hour!”

I turned towards him and -

A face, but not a face; a head containing a mind, yes, but not a person; a malevolence that walked on two gargantuan legs, granite hands that could tear their way from the Outside Between -

I came to, gasping in horror, to find hands on the sides of my head.

“Sam! No, Sam! See me as I am now! I'm not that thing anymore.” My eyes focused on Hewn's face in front of me. There was an echo of what I'd seen. I looked over at the frowning Shamasun, standing helplessly by the bed. Out of the corner of my eye I could see flickers of the thing, but when I looked back it was just Hewn. “You with us, Sam?”

I flicked my eyes away. Monster. I looked back. Hewn's worried gaze. The intensity had faded, though. I nodded.

“I'm sorry,” Shamasun said. “I was going to try to work into it, but we should probably just come out with it. You'll be fine, but your fight with the elf had some effects on you. You'll never be quite normal again.”

I closed my eyes as he spoke and tried to bring my heartbeat under control as Hewn backed off. “What – what did I just see?” I thought I knew.

“In all probability? An echo of Cronus,” Shamasun said. “You've got some magic in you now. You can see auras on powerful enough objects and creatures. But your magic isn't the same as my magic...No. We're going about this all wrong. I'm going to start at the beginning. Well, okay, not the beginning, I'm going to start at the things you need to know. What happened to you now has happened before; it happens to different people in different ways so we didn't know you'd have a reaction to Hewn, but we're not lost in the woods, either. The reason it's different is, well, between you and the elf.”

I met his gaze. “Is it dead?”

He nodded. “Good kill. Thorough. But...here's how it goes. You know physics? Laws of...thermodynamics?”

“Think so.” I could remember them fairly well.

“Magic follows at least one of them. It's not created or destroyed. Magical creatures can die. Magic users can die. But magic itself doesn't die – not ever. If something magic dies, usually the magic just returns to the world it's from, disperses among the creatures there, or attaches to the next soul out the gate. Like when Straun – never mind, getting off topic. The mortal realm. Your home. It has no magic.”

Hewn was nodding along, so I nodded too. I didn't know exactly where it was going, but I thought I understood so far.

“That means humans have no magic. And when a human kills a powerful, magical creature – like an elf, or a djinn – the magic starts to leave, but the human's the nearest empty place. So that's where it goes.”

I swallowed hard. “So I have the elf's magic now?”

“Yes. But it doesn't manifest in any two people in quite the same way, so we're not sure what power you'll get from it. Immortality's pretty common, though – when the elf is reborn in two, three hundred years, he'll be after you to get it back.”

“And I'll be alive then.”

“You could be. You won't age – much. Might take a few years to reach the point you stabilize at. But you can still die.”

I slumped back onto the pillow. It was too much. Shamasun patted me on the shoulder. “Get some rest; I'll get you something to eat. Your clothes will be clean in a couple hours. And if it helps – for me it was a giant, and nobody was there to teach me the rules. You're a heroine of the ancient ways, now. Good luck.”

And the first writing for NaNoWriMo is an aside story in the same setting. The Primals are likely to get very little direct exposure and this struck me tonight during my shift, so I had to get on with it:

Interlude: A Fable

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Editor's note: This is the oldest version of the famous tale that has yet been found; note in particular references to Djinn and Olympians instead of Faerie and Aesir. It probably spent generations as a work of oral tradition, and still retains traces of this; the quotes between the paragraphs were likely meant to be spoken as a chorus, as everyone hearing the story knew it by heart.

The Story of the Three Brothers and Father Wolf

Long ago, the brothers three returned to their sounder from Between. They were all three clever boars, and in their travels they had learned the way of Shapes. With the hands they brought home, they made homes of mud bricks and straw. With the feet they wore, they ploughed fields and raised crops, ensuring that the sows and the piglets were protected. They did all this, and the sounder thrived. They grew proud, and said,

“The shape of man has brought us power among the Primal Ones. We are the greatest of beasts.”

Father Wolf was wise among his kind. One day he came upon the village and marveled at what the pigs had wrought. He went to the brothers and asked,

“Teach me the way of Shapes, that I might join your village and live inside your walls, where my cubs can be safe.”

The brothers scorned Father Wolf and cursed him, using their hands to throw rocks at him. He fled into the forest, and they told themselves that they had been wise and strong, and reminded themselves that wolves had eaten their people since ages long past. They said again and again,

“He would have turned on us. The wolf is no brother to the pig.”

They had mistaken suspicion for wisdom, and their pride became too great. One night, a djinn came from Between, found the youngest brother outside the walls and tempted him with a wish. The youngest brother thought himself clever, and though his brothers counseled him against it, he returned to the djinn, believing he could best the djinn and gain honor for himself, as he had always felt that his brothers were greater than him. He wished to be honored above all others in his presence, so the djinn took him and made him the centerpiece of a grand feast. His brothers cried to know that he was gone, and said,

“We do not trust the Djinn. The people of Mhian do not care for beasts.”

They drew their gates closed, and looked with suspicion on all who approached. But one day, a mighty guest came. A powerful Olympian had come from Between and knocked on the gates. He demanded food and shelter, for he was on a journey. The oldest brother, fearful, declared him unwelcome, and ordered him to leave; the Olympian responded by calling down lightning and cooking the oldest brother where he stood. The middle brother cried, for the safety of the sounder had fallen to him, and he was but one boar against the forces of many worlds. He said,

“My brothers were my strength. I cannot stand alone.”

But stand he did, for many years, until he felt the reach of Dis upon the village. He was greatly feared, as he was the only warrior of the village, and he knew he could not fight this. But he remembered what had happened long ago. He went out into the forest and he said,

“Father Wolf. I was wrong to insult you, and it cost me my brothers. Please, hear my cry, forgive me, and save my children.”

Father Wolf came with his pack, and the middle brother taught them all the way of Shapes. They went to the village in the form of men and met with their ancient enemies. When the dread things of Dis came, Father Wolf led the pack in the defense of the pigs, and fought side by side with the middle brother. At the end of the battle, Father Wolf had fallen, and the middle brother was grievously wounded; he knew he would not walk again, even in the form of a man. On his cot, he talked to Father Wolf's son, the new leader of the pack. He said,

“We will be your slaves if you will protect us and not eat us.”

But Brother Wolf was as wise as his father had been. He shook his head and said,

“Wolves do not need slaves. We will not rule you; we will rule beside you. We will live by your laws and you will live by ours. You will teach us the Shapes of men, who can eat bread and fruit, and do not have to kill for food, and we will no longer be forced to prey upon Primals. We will find other Primals and teach them the Shapes of men, and bring them to the village to live by our laws. And when we are strong, you will teach us to go Between, and we will hunt for game that does not speak.”

And the middle brother wept, both for his own old folly and for the wisdom of Brother Wolf. And Brother Wolf fulfilled his promises, and the Primals grew strong, and the middle brother lived long enough to teach three generations the way of Shapes.

The story varies from location to location, but nearly every Primal was taught a version in the crib, burrow, or, in my case, nest. The brothers three are usually depicted as pigs, but have been known as hares, raccoons, frogs – even badgers, in some northern areas. Father Wolf, however, has always been Father Wolf; it is hard to depict him as anything other than the grand protector of legend. The Story of the Three Brothers and Father Wolf has such reach, it has even been rumored to have found a way to the realm of Men, although no copies from there have found their way back.

November 1st. Words: 1000 on the dot. Remaining for Day: 667. There will be another update after work tomorrow, but pretty good start for the first hour of NaNoWriMo.


If you see any mistakes, please let me know - I may not have time for much editing on the fly, but I'll do what I can. Also, I'm more than a little prone to depression, so if you like my work, let me know; it can make a world of difference to know that people actually care about what I'm doing.

[Talanic]

Posts can only be 50,000 characters, so the first post has hit the limit.

Chapter 2: November 2nd, 1912 words.

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I slept for a time. When I woke up, Shamasun was gone – apparently the incomplete ritual had still led to a bit of cleanup. The type of cleanup that meant that Hewn was staying by me at all times, a sword in his belt and the largest shotgun I've ever seen in his hands.

“Iron pellets,” he explained. “We call it puckshot.”

He brought me a thick slice of freshly roasted meat. “At least one upside of an elf invading your home – we're going to have wild game in here for years. Probably an orchard, too.”

I ate in silence for a while. I'd thought I'd been overwhelmed when first meeting Hewn; that had been nothing. It would take weeks to process what had just happened. Years. It struck me that the events of the last day would have more impact on my life than getting a degree had, and that still hadn't finished sinking in either.

My eyes flicked back towards Hewn. I'd seen what was lurking inside of him. I could still sense that it would be there again if I tried to look. So long as I didn't try, though, he stayed normal. He'd even donned a t-shirt, hiding the chiseled abs that had so amused me.

Now that I thought about it, he probably didn't have to do laundry as frequently as a human would. Or would he? I wouldn't expect a statue to sweat, but at the same time, I wouldn't expect one to talk either, so I had no reason to expect otherwise. My mind was going weird places, but at least I realized it.

When I finished, Hewn had me sit up and remove the amulet, which he called the Asclepian. He followed it up with a thorough checkup, confirming my unnaturally quick recovery. My ribs, knee, and arm were mended, along with whatever other scuffs I had doubtless taken in the fight – except one.

He unwound the bandage from my right hand, revealing red streaks that reached all the way to my wrist. He guided me through a few motions, staring at my injury, unblinking.

“What happened to me?” I didn't even recall injuring the hand, but it definitely wasn't right.

“I'll explain, but first, you need to look at it. Search it for magic. I don't expect you to see any, and I don't want to tell you what you're looking for until you've looked – the power of suggestion could throw off your reading.”

“Okay.” He stepped away and I focused on my hand, then checked myself. It hadn't worked when I'd looked at things – only peripheral vision. I waved the hand by the side of my face, pointedly looking away. “Nothing,” I said.

He sagged. “Very, very good. You're suffering from a mild case of titan poisoning.”

“How would I get that?”

“Probably when you pulled the shard out of me. If any of it had gotten in your bloodstream, you'dve died right away – and if any shards were stuck in your hand, you'dve seen Cronos again...but no, your exposure was limited. You'll be fine.”

I lay back heavily. “Titan blood is that toxic?”

“To humans, definitely. Titans are anathema to humans.” He stopped, frowned, and restated. “Titans are anathema to anything that moves. No. Still not enough emphasis. Even the things of Dis can wind up prey to Titans. They tear down civilized places, ravage woodlands, scorch the skies, and foul the seas. We're just lucky that only a few Titans have ever come from the Outside Between – and none made it to the mortal realm.”

“And you're made of one.” It just slipped out.

He smiled. “I like knowing that I have a purpose in life. So long as I live, I keep Cronos dead.”

“Point.”

Hewn fetched my clothes. They had the stiffness that comes from air drying, but were in better condition than I'd expected – except my backpack, which, after Hewn's explanation of titan blood, I didn't want back anymore. He'd transferred my gear (except the screwdriver, which I didn't really want back either) into a deerskin pack, which I suspected was handmade. I checked my cell phone. No service. It did, however, confirm that it was two P. M. on Sunday.

“If you need to make a call, we need to connect the door with a door on Earth,” Hewn said. “Otherwise, we're a bit out of range. It's one reason why we never got a land line phone, either.”

He led me out of the bedroom and into the open mansion. I couldn't help but notice that where things were once silent, there was now an undercurrent of noise; crickets, mostly, but I had a distinct impression of leaves being blown by an indoor wind, and the high ceiling was now partly obscured by clouds.

The place was, if anything, even bigger than I had realized. A question came to me, and I relayed it to Hewn.

“Will I wind up having a place like this?”

“No,” he said. “This realm is born of giant magic. Part of the whole beanstalk-to-the-clouds kind of thing.”

Oh well. A home that was bigger on the inside was too much to hope for anyway. Besides, I rented, and I'm pretty sure expanding my apartment into another dimension would violate something on my lease.

We reached the door, but I stopped a little short. I had to ask.

“Unicorn heads?” I said. “Are unicorns...evil?”

Hewn shook his head, grinning. “There are three types of unicorns. Wild ones roam Asgard and Faerie. They have a bit of a rainbow shine to them that doesn't go away. Trust me, if you encounter wild unicorn hide or horn, it's unmistakeable. Those ones are smart, and intensely magical. They can't be tamed. The second type's war unicorns. Still pretty, but domesticated by the elves and ridden into battle. They're not as magical, but can usually pull off a spell or two in a fight.”

“And these are the third?”

“Yup. See how the horn's kinda stubby?” He poked the tip of one of the horns. “Not really sharp either. These are domestic unicorns – as related to the wild ones as cows are. They're farmed in the Primal realm for meat and milk. An old friend stuffed these and gave 'em to Shamasun as a joke. He thought it was funny too.”

Hewn opened the door to the thicket from which I'd entered, with one major difference – torrential rain. I grimaced, but I supposed it was a good thing. It had been a dry summer, and a little bit of relief was welcome; it was just inconvenient for me. A check of my phone revealed that I had bars now. Time to check in.

Hewn went off to the far corner of the room to place a call of his own as I dialed my brother. It went to voice mail. Just as well.

“Hey. Todd. Just my usual check-in after an adventure.” He'd assured me that if I didn't call him after exploring somewhere, he'd tell the cops whether I wanted him to or not. “That creepy old hunting lodge you'd heard of was out there, but believe it or not, people actually live there, kinda. Nice folks. Made a couple friends.” What else? I decided that I could easily go back on deciding to keep it a secret later, but couldn't un-tell him about everything else that had happened. “Looks like I'm getting wet on the way home. Bye.”

I hung up, but Hewn wasn't done yet. I caught the end. “I'll have her text you. Gotcha. Bye.”

“Text who?” I asked.

“There's one other active heroine with elven magic. She's coming to meet you but she wants to keep an air of mystery.” He waggled his fingers as he said this. “So she wants a text with your address. And your workplace. You can trust her, she just has a bit of flair for the dramatic.” He handed me his phone, which was already opened to send a text to a contact labeled '1001'.

I was already way too far in over my head to hesitate at this point, so I filled it out. When I was finished, I couldn't help myself; I scrolled through the other contacts, noticing Peaches, Beans, Princess, and Bleach, among others.

I gave Hewn his phone back, and he set it down on a table. “Would rather it didn't get wet,” he explained. “I'd prefer to see you out to your car.” He unloaded the shotgun and set it aside, then unbuckled his sword belt. “I doubt we'll encounter anything that would be an issue outside.”

Considering that I'd come through those same woods unarmed, I had no reason to disagree. He filched out an ancient-looking umbrella, but I'd also come prepared. An emergency poncho is a fair step up from a garbage bag with a hole in it, but it still can fit in a pocket. The one I'd had in my backpack had been transferred into the new pack, and I donned it with minimal fuss. I also had a spare plastic bag, which I sealed my phone in before pocketing it. It never hurt to be prepared.

We struck out into the valley, at which point I started to regret Shamasun's placement of a house in a valley. Notably, the water was deeper than my shoes were tall. I was swearing under my breath as I struggled through the mud, with Hewn following after.

The rain was still coming down heavily and the sky was overcast, smothering the afternoon in a deep gloom. I still had more questions for Hewn, but the rain on the leaves and my poncho made it difficult to talk. If I'd known this rain was coming I probably wouldn't have come out exploring – but then, if things hadn't gone so strangely, I would have been home last night, rather than today.

I pointed the way and Hewn did his best to hold up the umbrella for me as we climbed the side of the ravine – a nice gesture, if an impractical one. He was having trouble keeping up with me, and the reason was quickly apparent: slippery mud is not the best surface for a living statue to walk through. He was sinking nearly to his ankles with every step, while I -

I wasn't leaving tracks.

I was so startled that I stopped walking for a moment. It was the first physical sign of my elven magic. I clearly couldn't walk on water, but I wasn't sinking into the mud at all. Hewn noticed my attention and nodded, smiling. “You'll learn to leave tracks when you want to,” he said, talking over the rain.

I nodded back, grimacing. “Wish it wasn't raining,” I muttered.

The rain stopped, as if someone had turned off a celestial showerhead. It was uncanny – it didn't end like rain usually does, it stopped. I could hear the drip of water from leaves, but nothing was falling from the suddenly-cloudless sky. Hewn lowered the umbrella as the two of us looked around.

“Bugger me,” I said. “Did I do that?”

[Fusonn]

I just read through this and I'm DYING to read the rest, this is REALLY good. I always love stories of magic in our world as it is.
Edit: Thought just struck me, if anyone knows where i could find more stories like this, i would be forever in your debt.

[Talanic]

Falling behind, sadly. 1073 words, but I'm too sore and tired to continue tonight. Getting up early tomorrow seems the better idea, to take advantage of daylight savings.

Also, similar settings include Neil Gaiman's American Gods and Neverwhere, and I just picked up Something from the Nightside, by Simon R. Green. There's also the Sookie Stackhouse books (upon which the True Blood series is very loosely based) and doubtless many others.


November 3rd update:

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Hewn gaped alongside me for a moment before he answered. “I really don't know. I don't think so – weather control is usually Aesir magic, and far too advanced for you to have managed it accidentally. You shouldn't be able to do that.”

“But this isn't natural,” I said.

“Doesn't look like it. But I think I know what might be happening. New heroes tend to have a bit of loose magic around them – matter of fact, you have an aura that even I can see right now. If there were an old enchantment here that had run out of power but was still intact, your presence might have recharged it.”

“Is that likely to happen a lot?”

He shrugged. “I really don't know. You have to understand – humans don't win magic often, so my experience with new Heroes is limited. I'm not a teacher, so I can only tell you what I've been told. And I don't know of any dormant enchantments or creatures. That's why we've got someone coming.”

“My mysterious mentor. Who is she?”

“Promised I wouldn't tell you. And no hints. But don't worry. She's been a comrade-in-arms for a long time – by my standards. You'll get along just fine, and she'll be able to keep you safe. And if it is a latent enchantment, she'll be able to pick it apart when she comes to visit.”

That was clearly all I was going to get, so I changed direction. “Okay. You mentioned Aesir earlier. Can you explain a bit about that?”

“Well, again. I'm not really a teacher.” We broke out of the woods and into the path as he continued. “There's six realms other than this one. Four main realms I know of, and two gateway realms. Elves are from Faerie. Aesir are from Asgard, Primals are from the Wild, and Outlanders are from Pandemonium. The gateway realms work by different rules; they're called Jotunheim and Dis, and they're much easier to get to and from than any of the other realms. Giants are from Jotunheim. Evil things are from Dis.”

“Evil things?”

“Evil's the easiest word. Any maneater from any legend you've ever heard? Probably from Dis. Anything that hunts in the dark, that feeds on corpses or blood, or turns innocent people into monsters? That's Dis. Demons in the flesh. When Dis is waxing, they can leak into the mortal realm. That's when the Heroes perform their greatest service to mankind.”

I shivered. “You mean I'll have to fight them?”

“Better than letting them rampage. You'll get the hang of it – and you're safer than most,” he said. “You can't be converted anymore, and you're able to kill them without becoming them, either.”

The implications sank in. Killing a fantasy monster caused the killer to absorb its powers. “You mean that if a normal person fought, say, a zombie – are zombies real?”

Hewn pondered for a moment. “Ghouls are more what you're thinking of; undead cannibals that rob graves.”

“So if a human kills a ghoul, then, what happens?”

“In that specific case, the killer wouldn't gain any powers,” Hewn said. “If he killed some other fey creature – an elf, for example – he wouldn't seem to gain any powers either, if he'd killed the ghoul first. But when he died, he would rise from his grave as a new ghoul. The magic of any of his kills would be added on in raw form, so he might wind up a more powerful ghoul than the one he'd destroyed, even. Other creatures would convert their killer much faster, and more thoroughly.”

“But if I killed a ghoul, it would go differently. Right?” I could imagine myself killing a zombie easily enough. Hell, half the video games of the last five years had involved that as a central theme.

“You've already bonded to elven magic. The ghoul's power would be added to yours in raw form; your magic would grow stronger. No ill effects for you. It's one reason the world needs the Heroes.”

I grimaced. The thought of creatures like that being real made my skin crawl...and it was going to be my job to hunt them down for the rest of eternity. Or until I died in battle. It sounded like a good purpose in life – a noble one, even – but if I'm honest, it also scared the crap out of me.

I stumbled as my feet sank into the mud. Whatever magic had been keeping me from leaving tracks had failed and the sudden change in traction threw me. Hewn offered me a hand to steady myself, but I waved him away. “I'm okay, but it looks like my magic's not really reliable.”

“Not yet – not for a while, either. Look, sh-she'll tell you more and better than I can. And she'll be there tomorrow at the latest.”

We reached the edge of the woods; I could see my car in the park-and-ride. “I'll be okay from here. Thanks, Hewn.” Probably. Maybe? Physically, I was probably going to be fine, but my soul might be a different story; after all, I had work tomorrow.

It was a twenty minute drive into town, which was as quiet as a typical Sunday afternoon. I could feel that something was different, but couldn't quite place it. Something was off about the traffic; I was picking up on something fleeting. I wrote it off as the somewhat-unfamiliar sound made by wet pavement under the tires. Now that I was clear of the woods I could see that even in the aftermath of the downpour, there wasn't a cloud in sight.

Once I reached home I went straight for a computer, then to the weather forecast. I backed the radar view up by a couple hours and watched as an enormous storm stretching from the upper peninsula of Michigan to somewhere around Texas suddenly developed a perfectly circular hole with a two hundred mile radius, centered on my hometown. As the radar advanced, the storm continued to move, but the circle stayed completely dry.

I put my head in my hands and rested it against the desk. Secrecy hadn't been covered. If it was an integral part of being a Hero, my tenure might wind up being very short indeed.

[Talanic]

Hey. I'm actually still plugging away at nanowrimo, I just didn't keep posting here. Someone directed me to Tablo - it's a useful site for hosting the story. Link is here.

Apparently Pan Macmillan agreed to check out five books on that site that achieve some level of following during November.