Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 26)

It's been quite a long time. The last time I did some transcribing was back in February. Well, my dissertation prospectus is written, and I find I'm looking for things to take my mind off the project after a day's work. And so, don't be surprised if these serials become a daily thing again. One of these days I'll finish the transcription of this novel manuscript.

In any case, here is serial 26 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

The Rogue spoke on. He told of how he had deceived the first of the folk he had encountered with a self-inflicted wound and his acting skills and he asked that, when they all arrived to the strange village, they would restrain themselves and refrain from misrepresenting him to the people of the village. He spoke more of the villagers, emphasizing the taboo their leader, the greybeard, had voiced to him: the black-brick ruins that lingered above and beyond the village were sacrosanct. None should approach them.

After summarizing his experiences, it was well into the night, and the Rogue was eager to break away in order to make sure the four warriors from the village were still waiting. The merchants did not want him to leave--all were craven, except for Brol, whose closeness to death and fierceness in battle had stirred some courage in him: "Let him go, you cowardly fools! If those red monsters return, we know the truth now! The demonlings are cowards, nothing more! An old merchant with a quick temper routed them, and it cost but an eye! Cut one of their numbers down, and they'll fly away, screaming like little, frightened children!" He ended his speech with a rasping cough and wiped greenish-red blood from his chapped lips. He needed healing, indeed, thought the Rogue.

Before leaving the Rogue helped Rew and Tauos coordinate the packing up of the camp, and he ordered the still-panicked Paj--in spite of his mental state--to tend to the ailing Brol. The merchant assented quickly, nodded humbly. The Rogue thought it strange when he reflected on how he was, by the law of their homeland Stoh, their property, their servant, their slave; and yet, they responded to his orders now as if he was their master. Helping Brol seemed to level Paj. He helped his leader carefully and deliberately. He dabbed his forehead with a rag, wrung water into his dry mouth.

In any case, the ten remaining merchants--except for Brol and Paj--were busy organizing their departure when the Rogue left them to meet up with the five warriors.

He found them lounging just outside of the hillock upon which the merchants were bivouacked. He used as many non-verbal cues as he could muster to tell the old greybeard's son--the son who wore the wolf-cloak--that they, the merchants--had been informed and were coming back to the village with them. He was eager to discuss the demonlings with the villager-warriors, who he thought might have encountered them before--but their lack of a common language frustrated his curiosity. After he confirmed the warriors knew what was happening, he left him, returning to the merchants. They were finishing packing their horses, tying their parcels and belongings to their saddle. Rew was dousing the fire coals when the warriors and the Rogue strode into the camp's light.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 25)

Here is serial 25 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


No one spoke for a span after the attack until Tauos commanded that Brol's wound be tended to. Then they began a somber search for their comrades, who they assumed were dead. Eerily, the fog seemed to lift directly after the monsters flew away, and all they found to indicate the fate of their comrades was a steaming pile of entrails. They did not sleep that night and were too frightened to go in search for the Rogue. Some assumed he had died, killed by the monsters. And yet, in spite of their fears, they organized a steady watch and prepared to leave in the morning. Indeed, they praised their god when the light of morning crept in.

By the time they finished telling their story to the Rogue, it was sunset.

Brol sighed as he sat forward: "And what of your scouting venture, slave? Tell me, please, that the settlement in the canyon is rife with fresh-baked bread, soft beds, hot baths, and that the folk who live therein speak the language of my fathers," he said. He shivered. His eyes were darkening. He was perspiring profusely. The Rogue wondered whether it was wise not to have held off on the telling of their long story and to have taken Brol, straightaway, to the settlement for his wounds to be tended.

Brol indeed looked pale. The attack had taken a toll on him. When the Rogue placed his hand on his master's brow, he was not not surprised to feel it burning hot with fever. "I am fine," chattered Brol, pushing aside the Rogue's hand.

The Rogue sighed, for her he knew his report of the canyon settlement would come short of Brol's desire, that all he could say of the settlement was that the folk who lived there were strangers but seemed to be good hosts. He forced himself to tell the whole truth and not to play into the merchant's hopes. He summarized his scouting thus: he wasn't completely sure if the people of the village were to be trusted. He had certain reservations. They were reluctant to discuss their god. Furthermore, he asserted that the merchant's they may seem "primitive," who, being from a city that was at the height of its decadent era, were used to comparatively luxurious amenities. Some of the merchants were offended by this assumption on the Rogue's part. "We're city dwelling folk," Tauos said, "but we've no right to expect a tavern and copper bathtubs this far out in the wild. I'm sure, if these folks will have us, whatever they offer will be appreciated. As to their trustworthiness: I cannot say."

In deliberate unornamented truth the Rogue spoke about their lack of a common language, about their alien culture, and about the strangeness of their customs. Not all of what he had to say was horrible to report, however; he told of the beautiful women, of their healing arts--crude though they were. He also told of the foreboding beauty of the ruins in whose shadow they had built their village. Of these ruins, he clearly articulated suspicions: "There are many folk who have been and who will be. There were many empires that rose and fell before your city of Tabun Stoh was built. For all I know, these folks have once lived in those ruins. For all I know, these folk are the descendants of those who had once dwelt there. That, I cannot say."

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 24)

Here is serial 24 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


The entire entourage lost their discipline then and scattered like deer in every direction, yelping, gargling out in fear. Some waved their blades wildly at the attackers, striking but thin air and shadow. Many of them were wounded straightaway--cruel scratches on face, neck, and flailing arms.

Brol, though his knees trembled with fear, carried the attack forward after the initial horror. He was accosted by two of the red implings and swung his knife madly and skillessly. The monsters, though they were lauging in the beginning, grew craven when they found one of the merchants had a fight in him. They spoke to each other in a fast, chittering language indiscernible by the merchants. They left their other prey alone to concentrate on Brol, who appeared to be a kind of threat. One of the implings--he seemed the largest of them, although he was small in comparison to Brol--seemed to take great offense at the merchant leader, and attacked with a viciousness unmatched by the others. He clawed Brol's face, gnawed his arm with a foaming mouth; and, using his long, black, forked tongue, he sucked one of Brol's eyeball's right out of the socket with a wet, suctioning "plop".

"I killed it then! I did this in spite of the pain and horror," Brol coughed. "By my god Evyat! I was determined to bring one of the beasts down to death, to the Vansts, with me!"

He then explained how he killed it. He brained it with the pommel of his dagger, ripped and shredded its leathery wing with his teeth, twisted its arms until the bones cracked and it stopped moving.

The other merchants testified that Brol had become an animal. It had crumbled, dead, to the ground.

The other monsters, chittering with rage, flew away screeching and cursing unknown curses in a language they did not understand. Though they were fierce, they were obviously cowards, for their fear had been bestirrred by just one death.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 23)

Here is serial 23 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

He wasn't believed by his comrades, for Paj--very unfortunately--was known among them as being overly superstitious, a religious zealot, and a "jumper-at-shadows". In spite of his vehement ravings, Brol, Tauos, and Rew--who were in spirit the leaders of the caravan--disregarded him. They demanded that he sleep off whatever lunacy the night fog had inspired in him.

They were concerned, however, when Paj pointed out that the one of them, the youngest--his name was Munish--was missing. Brol, Tauos, and Rew, after a quick search of the camp, could not deny this. The young ones were indeed missing. And so they called everyone together, threw stones, and, in this way, enlisted the help of two of the younger merchants, Theis and Farard. They would go out and search for Munish, but they weren't to go out very far. If they could not found the boy, then they were to return to the camp and to call for help if they needed it. They gave them short-blades of Tabunian make and had them march into the darkness looking for their lost comrade.

"It was directly after this that we knew something was wrong, that Paj had been speaking something of the truth about a horror out there in the darkness--though we thought it more likely an animal at this point," said Tauos. He tugged nervously on his long, thin, tightly braided beard.

After Theis and Farard left, bearing trembling blades, it was not long before they heard them gargle screams and their moans began emanating from the fog. Screams and moans became gurgles and then hacking and then became screams again--a perpetual, staccato of hoarse howls. This horrible orchestra of death sounds seeped into the entire camp, and so all of the merchants--the ten who remained--issued from their tents to stand, eyes wide with horror, gazing into the fog, muttering questions to themselves and wringing their hands as the screams went on. None could tell what had happened but all were frightened.

Brol was the only one who shook off his fear and began to organize them. He commanded them to arm themselves, although the two blades they had given to Theis and Farard were their only swords. They had daggers and skinning knives and two bows and some arrows, but no swords. He ordered others to secure the horses, who were, by this point, neighing as loudly as Theis and Farard were screaming in the fog. And they were kicking and stamping and going crazy and threatening to break their reins. After a few moments, when the horses were settled, the moans of pain and screams ceased. Silence lay about the camp.

Brol whispered orders to the merchants. He had them bear torches and to circle themselves around the central fire of their camp, where there was the most light. Something deep within him stirred and he knew an attack was inevitable. And he was right.

Swooping out of the fog were dozens of those read beasts, tongues waggling, monstrous grins on their toothy faces, their many-knuckled fingers dancing with delight. They raked over the merchants with long claws dripping tar, and they cackled evilly: a shrill, razorish laughter.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 22)

Here is serial 22 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

An update: I've painstakingly transcribed 8 pages and I'm at precisely 9228 words. That's approximately 1150 words per page! I don't know what I was thinking, typing this up the way I did. 

8 fulls pages of 30 transcribed; 9228 words

I don't know why I'm fascinated with the manuscript the way I am. But, here's another picture of it. Along with my Atlantean sword. 

Please know that the Rogue would never use anything like the Atlantean sword.

Anyhow, here's serial 21!

In spite of Brol's command, the entire entourage had, but a few hours later, huddled themselves into Brol's tent to listen to his conversation with the Rogue. Thus, the tent had become thick with smoke due to the many long-stemmed reed pipes being nervously puffed on. Indeed, everyone sat around smoking, drinking steaming blackroot, and chewing trailcakes which had, at this point, become but barely palatable.

In sober voices Brol and Taous related to the Rogue was had happened. Details were filled in by an occasional merchant who squeaked in animated fashion, and Rew threw in a comment every now and again. Occasionally even Paj chirped out a comment, though he still seemed quite distraught and spent most of the time, his hands wrapped around his knees, rocking and muttering to himself in the corner of the tent. And here was their story, as the Rogue pieced it together.

Perhaps an hour after the Rogue left on Brol's horse, the merchants had a good fire going and were brewing their blackroot and tea and preparing to cook the very last of their salted meat that they had rationed to this point. The stars had come out, and Paj--a cartographer and astronomer--was pressed by the terrible notion that the constellations looked strange and unfamiliar to him. He wasn't able to confirm his suspicions and fears with the others as a thick fog rolled in that becloaked sky, camp, and distant canyon. 

The merchants were not concerned, though one or two of the more suspicious young among them muttered some misgivings. In the meantime, the night air had cooled down and this quickened them, made them feel somewhat hopeful. They had no plans to go anywhere that night and they were sure the sun's light would burn away the fog in the morning. The idea that they were approaching swampy lands disturbed them (where did this fog come from, if not a bog or swamp as nearby); but Brol chastised them and led them all in a prayer to their hearthfather god. This seemed to calm them. 

All was fine until the first disappearance was noted. 

Paj was playing a tiny woodflute on the margins of the camp shrouded in fog, when he heard the faint voice of one of his comrade's calling. Screaming? 

Not thinking of the sound as anything threatening, he put away his pipe and moved toward it. A great gust of wind came, lifting the fog like a certain for but a moment. And so, poor Paj got the first glimpse of them. 

Standing over one of his comrades, its pointy chin dripping gore, was one of those beasts. It was quickly flanked by two more who flew out of the darkness--claws outstretched, veiny wings unfurled, eyes like glimmering jewels. They grinned at him, revealing their knife-like teeth; and Paj, horrified, screamed and screamed to the highest heights his lungs could carry him, and turned and ran back to the center of the camp. 

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 21)

Here is serial 21 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


In a puddle of coagulating blood lay the small, red corpse of a mysterious creature the Rogue had not seen before. It's body was the size of a small dog or lamb. It was shaped by a particularly lanky and long-armed human, only its ribs were far more abundant, pronounced, and sharp. It's skin was a shimmering crimson red and it appeared to be stretched taut over sinewy flesh. From the shoulders branched out bat-like and leathery wings that were twice the length wide as the body was long. The wings were of thin, veiny skin, although one wing was ripped and patchy and shriveled. The most disturbing aspect of the creature, however, was its tiny face. The nose was long and pointed like the poniard. The cheekbones were high and sharp; its eyesholes were deep and the bones angled in. The eyes--which were wide open in death--were a bright green and the irises of the eyeballs were slitted like a cat's. The chin was nearly as pointy as the nose: long, curving, sharp. Finally, the mouth, which gaped open in death, was filled with hundreds of curving, knife-like teeth set in tight, black gums. The teeth were caked in greenish, yellow grime, and a long, forked and red tongue lolled from the black mouth.

"Behold!" Brol said. "You see that our comrade Rew should be forgiven his enthusiastic thought not so fanciful characterization! I! I have seen such creatures depicted in the grimoires once shelved in Spiral Towers! And always. Always! Those are illustrations of demons!"

Brol looked at the Rogue and narrowed his eyes. A kind of challenge lingered there.

The gruesome sight of the red corpse lying on the ground stirred revulsion in the Rogue. His stomach lurched. But, taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. A silence fell about the camp as the merchants waited for his reaction. The Rogue looked to Brol, who now held a bloody rag to his wounded eye, and trembled, and wheezed. Obviously the doubt of the Rogue had hurt him. Thus the Rogue felt shame, for he had doubted the merchant. He had thought of Brol as a fat, city-dweller; and he had expected to see that he had killed a coyote or wolf pup, at most.

Though he did not know what it was, the Rogue now desired to know more of how the creature came upon them.

"You say a group of such as these came and killed--or dragged off!--three of us! And that you, good master, have killed one of them! Please! Tell me everything! I've a few things to tell myself, of where I went and what I found in the canyon. But. Please! Inform me of all that transpired after I left last you last eve first!"

"Indeed," said Brol, spitting, throwing aside his rag. He turned to return to his tent. "Tauos! Boil water, by the gods! Everyone else! Return to your tents!"

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 20)

Here is serial 20 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

Apologies for waiting so long to continue the serialization! I usually transcribe if I have the time in the evenings. Just can't seem to find the time lately.

Anyhow, here't the 20th serial!


***

At first, these strange words did not register with the Rogue. He thought Rew spoke figuratively. Demons.

And yet, after a moment's pause, Rew's clear conviction stirred the Rogue. Tauos and Brol did not speak up to elaborate what Rew had meant.

Demons. It was as simple as that.

But then the Rogue's natural skepticism overwhelmed him and he looked at these men, trembling, disturbed, speaking of demons, and he spat on the ground. What disturbed him more was that their superstitions had resonated with him. He then saw it as his duty to bring them back to reason. To do so he would have to identify and kill whatever it was that had attacked and wounded Brol. Perhaps it was a large cat. A wolf. It did not matter. It had become a specter to these men. And the Rogue would seek it out. The Rogue shifted his blade hanging from his belt.

"Speak clearly, man! Demons! Nonsense! You've obviously been smoking too much lassra weed to indulge in such phantasies! Now--tell me clearly. What was it that stole into the camp?"

Tauos frowned. Rew gritted his teeth. And Brol--after a moment--he laughed heartily. Standing from his chair against the protestations of the other two merchants, Brol approached the Rogue.

"Perhaps Rew and Tauos speak too soon by calling these things demons, but it was a sort of monster that crept into our sleeping camp last night. They have most surely killed three of us, or dragged them off to a fate word than death, at least. I'll prove it to you, my skeptical though good-natured slave. I managed to kill one. It's corpse is rotting outside of my tent, covered by a cloak because it was too horrible to look upon. If you're not too frightened, good slave, I'll show it to you. One look is worth an entire evening's discussion about what befell us when you went away."

The Rogue respected Brol, and so he assented. He helped Brol out of the tent. With the aid of a pole-blade used as a walking stick, Brol left his tent and proceed to go around to its back.

By that time the other merchants had heard of the Rogue's return. They had left behind their breakfasts, their steaming cups of blackroot, their conversations, in order to witness their savior's return. Many of them were mustering in the camp when Brol, the Rogue, Rew, and Tauos issued from it.

Eventually they all came to a small mound covered by a blood soaked cloak. They all stared at it wordlessly.

Brol was flanked by Tauos. Tauos was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Rew had his arms folded across his chest and his eyes seemed to tremble with suppressed emotion. And Paj--the groveling fool who met the Rogue when he returned to the camp--he was in the middle of the remaining merchants, gibbering and crying. He was muttering to himself and whispering to his companions, who leaned away from him, embarrassed and disturbed by his behavior. Obviously, whatever had happened the the merchant's during the Rogue's absence had deeply effected Paj's mind.

Brol knelt down next to the blood soaked cloak and sighed when his wound began to bleed again. "I warned you, Brol!" Tauos shouted, coming to his leader's aid. "Shut up, fool! I need to show our mercenary the horror came upon us last eve!"

With that Brol dragged off the cloak revealing a sight horrible to the Rogue. The Rogue's breath came shortly. He felt his mind reel, the knot of his sanity loosening. He swallowed.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 12)

Here is serial 12 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

In spite of it being in the middle of the night,
everything here was brightly lit.

The old man left, leaving the Rogue with his granddaughter. She took him by the wrist and led him silently into one of the largest huts. From the hut issued  a plume of black smoke. Obviously there was a fire inside.

The young girl held back the cloth that served as the portal door and nodded with no smile, "Go on," she said, "nothing is inside but fire to warm the water I need to clean your wounded arm."

The Rogue was surprised by her words. "You speak the language of Tabun Stoh!" he said. "Wonderful! I was afraid my conversation would be limited to your grandfather, young one!"

He entered, followed by her, into the hut.

"Oh, no," she said. "He taught me. He's a very wise man, educated in many languages. I understand your prejudices and expectations, considering how we live, which must seem a barbarous way to one from the city."

The Rogue said nothing. He was too distracted by the interior of the hut, which was clean and well organized. It was lit by a central fire that was ventilated by a smoke-stained hole in the roof. The floor was covered in many layers of furs; and there were what appeared to be cushions of woven cloth stuffed with wool. And the hut smelled wonderfully; some dried spices, hanging from supporting rafters, fragranted the place.

The young girl smiled and walked over to the fire-pit. Out of the various furs she pulled a bronze tea-urn, which she hung over the flames. Into it she poured a water out of a skin that had been hanging from a hook. In a few moments she had brewed a drink, a kind of root. She poured the rogue some, served it in a clay cup, and when he drank it it tasted bitter and vaguely sweet. It seemed to quicken his mind, which had been dulled from the cold night. In a few moments the colors in the room seemed more pronounced. The girl giggled when he held his hand before him and looked at it with great curiosity in his face.

"The drink you've brewed--it's powerful. What is it?"

The girl smiled.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 11)

So, here is serial 11 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. By the way: I will never type up another novel manuscript on a typewriter. Never again. Never. This is quite boring, transcribing this. I'm glad I've found a reason to type it all up, though, because otherwise, it would have lingered in my basement, in my filing cabinet, yellowing.

As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

They graybeard climbed a kind of stone stump and announced in a loud voice something in their strange language, and then the village plaza began to empty of folk. The women who were weaving left their work unfinished, grabbed their children, and disappeared--looks of resent hanging about their faces--into their houses.

The men began to follow them, leaving the Rogue and the old graybeard in the empty plaza alone. The ones who were armed left their weapons at their portals when they went inside. And then, they were alone.

It was eerie for the Rogue, standing there in the flickering light of those strange, smoking torches, not speaking to the old man who had on his face the vague suggestion of a grin.

A moment later, out of the darkness, a beautiful, dark-haired female came up to the old man and the Rogue. She was young, barely a woman, and--in spite of the apparent custom of her tribe--she had long black hair. Her eyes, however, were painted black like the other women.

In spite of her longer hair, there were other differences about her. On her head she wore a circlet of iron, which appeared to be fashioned in the likeness of a crown of ivy. There were settings for gems, but the gems had obviously been removed. If the gems had been present, the Rogue thought, it would have been a beautiful piece of jewelry indeed. As it was, it was somewhat dull. And yet, the Rogue admitted to himself, this young one needed no jewelry to beautify her.

The old man barked an order at the girl, who nodded and answered him; but she did not hide what was obviously the resentment she felt in regards to the old man's orders. It shown clearly on the sharp features of her face in spite of her efforts to hide it. "I leave you with my granddaughter. I am as a father to her, for she has no parents else. She will properly tend to your wound. I've told her to see that you're made as comfortable as we can make you." He rubbed his brow and stroked his beard. "And so I leave you, ranger, rogue--whatever you are. I'm weary. This night has been exerting. I must sleep. Tomorrow, after you've rested and ate, we will go and fetch your comrades." The Rogue touched his head and bowed.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 10)

I've reached serial 10 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants! That's a lot of boring transcribing! I didn't realize how many words I was getting on each page.

Here are some numbers:

Word's transcribed thus far: 3984 words.
Manuscript pages transcribed: 3.5
Average words per manuscript page: 1143 words.
Updated anticipated length of the entire novel: 34290 words

As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

With a nod three of the men accompanying the graybeard came forward and began probing the Rogue's wound. After a simple poultice was prepared, they set off together in the direction from which the crowd had originally came.

As they moved, the more curious and youthful of them stole glances of the Rogue, smiled, and began whispering among themselves. This the Rogue ignored, though it irritated him. His dark past had made him come to hate being an amusement, a curiosity. Were these but patronizing smiles for a ranger who had been bested by a wildland that they flourished in? He did not know.

Later, rolling his eyes skillfully, the Rogue caught some of them behaving in a way that stirred his suspicions: some of them glanced nervously at the night sky. The Rogue was adept at reading subtle body language, and  yet, he could not understand their anxiety.

The Graybeard

Aside from an occasional mysterious grin and their propensity to look with anxiety as the night sky, the folk walked along with the Rogue, chatting in their chittering language in an honest sort of way in spite of the night's darkness that surrounded them.

The graybeard leader was followed by torch-bearers and the man who was wearing the wolf-cloak. It concerned the Rogue that wolf-cloak had a dark expression lingering on his face. He still did not know what the man had attempted to tell him.

The Rogue eventually arrived to the village of these people. Their houses were built on a flat patch of grass, shorn close by the appetite of grazing sheep. The houses were made of bent reed smeared with clay and mud and looked quite cozy. The roofs of the houses--which we made out of thick, bundles of grass--looked liked the mops of hair of some boys the Rogue had known. Each house had a small, arched portal that was covered by a piece of crudely woven cloth. And above each door, it seemed, was a small, goatish skull. Perhaps a god they worshipped?, the Rogue wondered.

The village was laid in a three-ringed circle, the center of which was a bare earthen plaza. It was about a hundred feet from the rider's edges; the black water of that river flowed softly here. Accompanied by that gang, the Rogue came into the central plaza.

In spite of it being in the middle of the night, everything here was brightly lit by torch poles and bowls of oil similar to the one that the Rogue had seen when first he countered the two guards. And like that one, these gave off the same, greasy smoke as before, which seemed to linger in the air here, making a kind of smoky "roof" that almost shielded the millions of burning stars overhead.

And the plaza was not empty: women and children were here, huddling together, talking, playing, gossiping and joking. And there was a firepit in the very center of things, ringed by stacked bricks. Sitting around the firepit there were more women--beautiful women, young and old--who seemed to be weaving baskets out of pale grass. To the Rogue--who had been traveling with sinewy and bearded merchants for weeks now--these were indeed beautiful women, a wonderful surprise to stumble upon in the night. The hair on their heads, like their men, was shaved close, and their eyes were also darkly painted, although their eyes were black. To the Rogue their bodies, in spite of being wrapped in indelicate furs, were ripe and lovely. They seemed ghostly to the Rogue, seemed to wear the night with grace.

Upon the arrival of their leader, their men, and, of course, the Rogue, some of the women were startled, squeaked, and ran for their houses, leaving their work. Others stood tall, pushed their children behind them, and gazed at the Rogue with clenched jaws and trembling eyes.

These courageous ones appeared the more beautiful to the Rogue, who, using a guile he had honed over many years, stole quick glances of their forms to his pleasure: their skin, glazed with oil, glistened beautifully in the flickering light of the firepit and the torches.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 9)

Here is serial 9 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

When the old graybeard spoke, however, some of the Rogue's fears were allayed. He spoke in the language of the Tabuns.

"We will not harm you, ranger," the graybeard said. His pronunciation was slightly flawed. It was an odd accent, vaguely familiar to the the Rogue. Something about it suggested the aristocratic and the archaic. In spite of this, the graybeard was certainly understandable.

In the globe of light
stood two figures

"You speak Tabunian!" the Rogue said, rising to his knees. "Oh, I'm lucky indeed!"

The old graybeard chuckled to himself. "We shall see, ranger. We do not think with fondness of the Tabunians and their great city to the west, though we know of it. Long ago they sought us out for taxes and attempted to make us fight in a war we did not care about against an enemy we did not know. These we killed with spears and arrows, and, surely, their skeletons and grinning skulls are still being bleached out in the scrub beyond. And so, if you come with the idea of taxes or war in your mind, consider their fate a warning."

The Rogue appreciated the old man's commentary. He, too, resented the arrogance so oft displayed by the city-dwellers he had known, by the empire-builders to the west who seemed to believe that all evil was the result of free will, and who never knew a law they did not love. The old graybeard had endeared himself to the Rogue.

"Gods, no!" the Rogue laughed. "We flee that accursed city for those very same reasons. There is a man in Tabun Stoh who has put himself above all others, who would deign place the copper coronet of a king on his brow."

The old man smiled. In his ear his advisors whispered, and then his smile became a grim frown.

"You speak beautifully," he said. He massaged his brow. "It is a rare thing for my people to entertain guests, but, if you allow us--man who ranges from Tabun Stoh--we will give you to our healers to clean your wounds and to feed you, body and eternal soul. This is in accordance with our ancient law, and though it is a brief but rigid law, it binds us." He spoke in his language to his advisors. One stalked away, calling out orders, and was followed by some of the crowd. "We would have your name, if you give it freely," the graybeard said.

"I do not have one," the Rogue said.

 The old man's eyes grew wide. He looked to his advisers and whispered to them. After they heard what the old man said, their eyes grew wide as well. They all stared at the Rogue. He felt the heat of their gaze.

The end the horrendous silence and the anxiety caused by their gazes, the Rogue averted his eyes. He spoke these words: "I would be honored to accept your hospitality, but my mind is bothered by the thought of my comrades--there are thirteen of them. I would sleep in the safety of your village tonight, in any beds you offer; and yet--I beg you to bring the sight of my companions to my eyes."

The old man assented.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 8)

Here is serial 8 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

Moments later the Rogue saw a crowd appear around a bend in the canyon. It was led by the figure wearing the bone-bead necklaces. It consisted of about thirty men, all wearing furs, all with their eyes painted red. Half of them had spears. The other half wielded crudely forged short-blades that seemed to the Rogue to be very archaic. With them were two gray wolves that were obviously domesticated. But, considering their growling and aggressive demeanor, the Rogue assumed they were no less deadly than their wild cousins.

The men of the crowd were of varying ages, but there was one among them who, unlike the rest, had a long, grey beard that was braided with ornaments, and he was obviously ancient.

As they all approached it became obvious to the Rogue this ancient one was their leader. Bone-bead spoke to him feverishly as they approached in their chittering language. When the crowd arrived to where the Rogue sat guarded, the spearman who wore the wolf-cloak shielded his eyes from the old graybeard. He even knelt on the ground in a gesture of deference. The Rogue, acknowledging this telling show of respect, emulated him, and made a show of looking away and shielding his eyes.

"Oh, most honorable wise man!" the Rogue stated, altering the tone of his voice to arouse the most empathy. "I'm a member of a waylaid group of merchants from the city of Tabun-Stoh to the east. We are road-wearied and in need of your hospitality and mercy. The wound I bear was of my own doing! No violence did I suffer at the hand of your men. Nor did they suffer any at mine. I stumbled down into your canyon after I was set upon by a wild animal--a wolf, I think. I'm lost! I'm at your mercy!"

Most of the men accompanying the graybeard were intrigued by the Rogue. To some extent they understood the Rogue's pitiful whinings, for they grinned at him. The youngest of the crowd were struck by the sight of the Rogue and let their mouths hang open. These ones had eyes wide with awe.

It must be admitted at this point that the Rogue was somewhat nervous. He was not well read himself, and so he could not identify this tribe of wild folk from any other. But he had been the companion of many educated men over his many years, and so he knew that there were some tribes in this region--ancient races of long dead empires now swallowed by dust--who were worshipers of gruesome gods; who practiced weird rites under the skull-like moons; who perpetuated perverted customs, interbred with gibbering demons, and even ate quivering human flesh and drank hot, human blood.

For a moment the idea that he had put himself at the mercy of such a tribe crossed his mind. And so, he reached into the folds of his cloak and allowed his finger to caress the pommel of his bespelled blade for comfort.

But it must be said that the Rogue enjoyed (and sometimes suffered from) a strangely accurate intuition when it came to assessing humans. Using what seemed like an extra sensory apparatus, he could usually interpret accurately if this person was dangerous, or if that person was safe. Somewhere deep inside him, the Rogue knew that those first two spearmen who he had encountered were not intrinsically dangerous. He was a stranger to them, and therefore the Rogue knew he could have easily stirred them to hostility. And yet--he did not perceive in them anything in excess of the usual cruelty that was inherent in humankind.

Rarely was his intuition wrong. And yet, in spite of its accuracy, it had been in the past. When it had been, blood had been spilt. He hoped it was not one of those times.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 7)

Here is serial 7 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

Update: I've transcribed the second page of this 30-page manuscript. That's 28 more pages to go. Word count thus far: 2119. We're probably looking more at 32,000 words for the complete story. 

At first the two men were startled. They chittered back and forth and brandished their bronze-tipped spears menacingly. But when they saw the blood, when they beheld the powerful subtleties of the Rogue's body expressions--his posture, his manner of walking, his facial expression, his empty hands--their spears lowered. A lesser actor would probably have been skewered on the spot.

Of the two figures, the one wearing the wolf-cloak was notably reluctant, however. He leaned on his spear and stayed back as his companion moved forward, timidly, cautiously, but without obvious hostility. This one seemed to curious to see who or what had interrupted his drinking party.

Although he was sure he could not speak their tongue, the Rogue implored of them, "Please! I mean no harm! I range through this wildland with folk of the city of Tabun Stoh! We pass through this land and are in need of rest and hospitality! We have gold and other ways of paying! Trinkets! Baubles of civilization! Blankets! Steel!"

In response to these words, the figure wearing the bone-bead necklaces--the curious one, that is--revealed his surprise when his eyes grew wide. The word "steel" seemed to stir him.

He jumped back, leveled his spear at the Rogue, and shouted to his wolf-cloaked companion, "Balah! Ugot Ba-lah!"

"Ba-lah!" returned wolf-cloak, in a hissing sort of speech. He obviously did not like what the one wearing the bone-bead necklaces had suggested.

Bone-bead stamped his bare foot. He then ran off into the darkness, letting his spear clatter to the ground.

The wolf-cloaked one lingered. He approached the Rogue with his spear leveled, motioned for him to do something. An astute observer, the keen intellect of the Rogue quickly realized what the wolf-cloak wanted him to do: to sit, with his hands in clear sight. This was a routine and nearly universal protocol as far as the military was concerned; wolf-cloak was within his rights to make such a request. Feeling confident in his fighting abilities and eager to befriend wolf-cloak and his people on the merchants's behalf, the Rogue complied. He knelt down, his hands held before him. He took comfort in knowing his hilt-less dagger was stowed safely away in his belt, beneath his tunic.

Afterward, wolf-cloak knelt down next to the Rogue and whispered something to him the Rogue did not understand. When the Rogue did not relply, wolf-cloak grimaced, spit on the ground with obvious disgust, and backed away.

Was wolf-cloak threatening him? The look in his eyes was all the Rogue needed for confirmation.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 6)

Here is serial 6 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to catch up with things: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

They were shorter than the merchants. The rogue was sure they were not of the city of Tabun-Stoh. Their round heads were shaved but stubbly. They wore no beards, and they had painted their eyes a bright red. They wore crudely worked furs. One wore a wolf's pelt that was thrown over his shoulder, and the other was wearing a collection of necklaces made of bone-beads. Both were leaning on long spears with bronze heads that came to sharp points. They were drinking something from a bladder, and passing it back and forth. Occasionally, they laughed.

The Rogue did not know what to do. If he approached they might attempt to attack him, and although he was confident in his fighting abilities, he did not know if they deserved death or not. The Rogue knew humans, though. Of these folk: he didn't speak their tongue, didn't dress in their manner, and surely did no pray to their God, and so their first reaction of him would of course be hostile. But this did not make them intrinsically his enemy. They would be behaving the same way many people would behave. He needed some way of assuring them that he meant no harm. And then the idea dawned on him.

He was not afraid of the sight of blood. He understood the sight of it moved many men, and he used this knowledge to his advantage. He opened a gash on his left arm with his blade, sighed in pain as the blood began to drip down his forearm. Afterwords, he ripped his right sleeve and smeared his face with dirt. He would pose as a wounded and destitute man. Humans, although they feared healthy and upright foreigners, tended to empathize with one of their own species (when it was at their mercy, of course, and appeared to be unable to cause them harm).

The Rogue was a skilled actor, and so, when he moved out from behind the rock and shambled forward, moaning with pain and gripping his bloodied arm, the subtleties of his expression, the manner of his posture, the tenor of his voice, the shaping of his eyes--all of these micro-messages speaking as powerfully and as intensely as any language--he was perceived by these two men laughing and sharing wine by the river as a traveler who was down on his luck.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 4)

Below is Serial #4 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. Here is a link to the full transcription thus far: The Rogue and the Merchants

I've transcribed exactly one page of the typed manuscript and my word count is at 999; and so I have to modify my original estimate. The manuscript is probably more around 30,000 words.

Also, today, during a visit to a coffee shop, I engaged in some scribbling. I drew a picture of the city-state of Tabun-Stoh, the homeland of our merchants and the place where this demented journey begins. I'm no artist. And yet--and yet, I'm happy to share a brief study or two.

The City-State of Tabun-Stoh

And here is serial #3:

First, they went two days without finding any settlement at all. And then the roads they were following ended abruptly. Additionally, there was a horrible deluge, and half of their stores were soaked. On the third straight day of misfortunes--they had only been on the road for two weeks--they came across a settlement nestled at the bottom of a deep and expansive canyon. From their high vantage point they could see nothing peculiar about it, and their dire circumstances made them eager to approach it. They wanted to refill their stores and perhaps enjoy food that was boiled and soft as opposed to cold, dry, and hard (such was the preference of the folk of Tabun-Stoh).

But the rogue was against it. He told Brol, "Let me scout ahead, for our own good! We are outside the law of Tabun-Stoh. Some of the villages might not have even heard of your city and its lords. I wouldn't be surprised if we've reached lands where they longer speak an understandable tongue."

The merchants, acknowledging the wisdom of the Rogue's words, agreed heartily. And their leader, Brol, loaned the rogue his horse, which was the fastest and most courageous one. The Rogue helped the merchants set up their tents and start a fire, and at sunset he set out, down into canyon, to find the settlement.

He carried with him his hilt-less short sword that, although appearing to be a humble skinner's blade--dull and black-bladed--was actually a sharp and deadly weapon bespelled with secret sorceries. Additionally, he wore a thick, leather jacket, which he was sure would protect him from blows if he came to any battles.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 3)

Below is Serial #3 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. Here is a link to the full transcription thus far: The Rogue and the Merchants

It was near a month's journey on horseback from the tyrannized city of Tabun-Stoh to Drossus, and the wilderness seperating the merchants from their city to that forest principality was not the safest. Their first difficulty was that there were only sparse roads. They were on the edge of the Empire of the Griess. The city of Tabun-Stoh was the last great population center for hundreds of miles. The lands were infested, too, with wild bandits who were related to the ancient Verdin civilization, which was lost to dust nearly a thousand years ago. On top of that, the scrub lands were not plentiful in terms of game. There were a few wild herds of bison, but they were a skittish animal. A stampede would truly mean their quick death, if they didn't watch out. They were well stocked with road rations, twice-baked biscuits, dried meat, and dried fruit, but the rains in the lands east of the city made it difficult to keep their stores dry and safe from molding. There only hope was to move along tentatively and be on the lookout for any settlement that seemed at least slightly civilized.

This worked in the first weeks outside of Tabun Stoh. The villages they came upon outside of the city at first were not much different than the city itself. The people spoke the language of the merchants. They built their houses using techniques similar to that of their homeland. And their music, drink, and food had a familiar, though slightly different, feelt to it. It was the beginning of their third week that they began to struggle.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 2)

Below is Serial #2 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. Here is a link to the full transcription thus far: The Rogue and the Merchants

The Rogue had been traveling with the merchants for three days now, and, truth be told, he liked them. Although he was technically their slave, they treated him with respect and an amount of deference. It was obvious he was the only fighting man among them, and that he was skilled with a blade. He had demonstrated his fighting ability on the auction block. They were city-bred and they were anxious at being outside of the comforts of civilization. Although the rogue knew how to navigate the complexities of a city very well--he was a rogue, after all--he felt most comfortable in the wilderness. The majority of his long life had been spent in the wilderness and on the road. And part of his nature felt most at home sleeping on damp ground, eating game meat that he himself had felled, cleaned, and cooked.

The merchants took his advice on many things. On where to set up their camps, on which mushrooms to eat, on how best to prepare this or that fish. In a week's time, they grew to rely on him. Brol and the Rogue actually became good friends.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 1)

So I've decided to serialize a novel I wrote in 2008, but I need to offer a kind of intense preamble. Think of this as an author's introduction.

A brief yet strange history of my holiday break in 2009: After I finished my M.A. in Literary History at Ohio University in 2008, I decided to take a year off as a student (I started my Ph.D. in 2009). In lieu of "studenting," I taught writing part time at a variety of colleges and universities. Most of the schools I taught at had breaks through December and January, and so--because I had no seminar papers to work on or research to undertake--I fortuitously found myself with a lot of free time that holiday break of 2009. There's more to this story: when I visited my folks that Christmas their house caught on fire and the whole family had to relocate to a hotel, which was paid for by the insurance. And so, through December and January of 2008-09, my wife and I found ourselves living in a Drury Inn in Columbus, Ohio. 

And there's more:

Recently a buddy of mine had given me a great Christmas gift. Vaguely understanding that I wanted to write pulp fiction, he gave me a 1930s era Remington typewriter as a present (also, he was cleaning out of his house). I loved it!

What does lots of free time in a hotel plus the strange gift of a 1930s era typewriter equal? A bad novel.

Yes, I spent a lot of time that break pounding typewriter keys in my hotel room. 

My goal was pretty simple: write a novel in December and finish it, no matter how bad it came out. I finished my novel, a 30 page manuscript that looks like this:

I'm not sure, precisely, how long it runs. Doing some word-counting and measuring the text, I estimate it to be approximately 35,000 words, a novella really. 

After that Christmas break I returned to Athens, Ohio and put the manuscript aside thereby quickly forgot about it. 

I always intended on transcribing it into a digital format that I could revise and edit. But, knowing how horrible it no doubt was, I could never get myself to go through the drugery of doing it.

What does this have to do with my blog?

Well, usually I'm reluctant to put my fiction up. Aside from flash fiction, I just don't like doing it. Nevertheless, I feel no scruples putting this novella up. 

I flatter myself that my readers might get a kick out of it, this truly pulpy novella, a sword and sorcery I wrote in a month that relates the adventures of a rogue, his travels with a band of merchants, and their strange encounters.

And so, I've chosen to serialize this novel, one post at a time. 

Here's the plan: I'll probably just transcribe a paragraph here, a paragraph there. Furthermore, I will not revise as I transcribe. Aside from correcting what grammatical errors I find, I give you the novel as it exists in manuscript form--as raw and lacking in style as I know it is. I have some artist friends who may or may not illustrate a serial or two. Which would be cool, I think.

If I'm feeling ambitious, I'll try to get through a page. But this is a difficult manuscript to read. A lot of the pages are very difficult to read as I only had one ribbon at the time and sometimes I didn't jam the keys as hard as I should have.

Without anymore preamble, I give you the opening paragraph of The Rogue and the Merchants:

The Rogue sold himself into slavery to pay for debts. This is why he was hanging out with a group of thirteen Tabun merchants. They had purchased him before fleeing their city-state, which was being overwhelmed with political upheaval. There a dictator had set himself above the traditional senate and had filled the city with a garrison of mercenary troops. Brol, the leader of the thirteen merchants who the Rogue now served, was a member of a family who were persecuted by the the dictator. Rather than stick around and attempt to reclaim the city in the name of the senate, Brol decided to seek new opportunity in the east. Brol was a coward, more pragmatic than idealistic. He saw little hope of a quick return of the senate's power, and he feared the seizure of his modest amount of wealth. And so he gathered a group of like-minded individuals. They pooled their money. And they decided on the east. They had heard that the Griess Empire Builders (who technically ruled the city of Tabun Stoh--their home city, the city now at the mercy of a dictator) had pushed into the frontier of the Rahael forest. There a small principality known as Drossus was just now being built. Made up of five small towns overseen by a lenient lord in the capital town of Cawsinever, it sounded just the place for a group of men with entrepreneurial spirit, capital, and the eagerness to begin an enterprise.