Heart of the Thief, Part 7 (Chapter 3)

Here's my seventh post in my epic fantasy series, The Heart of the Thief. This is the entirety of chapter three, during which our protagonists Cassilda and the Thief find themselves on a ship sailing to the ancient land of Archaea, rumored to be the land of the dead. Let's just say they don't quite make it there (thanks, barbarian raiders.) Click here to get caught up.

Chapter Three

The Thief awakens and immediately knows that he is at sea. The cabin is dark, but he feels the rocking motion of the waves, smells the salt air, hears the distant squawking of gulls flying low on strong winds. It takes his eyes only seconds to adjust to the lack of light, and then he sees her, sitting cross-legged on a chair, no longer a courtesan, but quite obviously a sorceress by her bearing and the strong aura of power radiating from her being like heat from a hot coal. She wears long black boots and leather pants with a green vest; a golden snake slithers up her right arm, its eyes glowing emeralds. Does she know I can see her wonders the Thief. By the way she stares, he knows she can see him.

“What do you remember?” asks Cassilda in the darkness.

A choice between hearts. That's all he can recall, besides the pain.

“Nothing,” he says.

“I found you in there, Thief, huddled in a corner, cradling the Heart of Rankar like a newborn babe. You did what cannot be done, as the oracle said. Only the elite of the Priesthood can enter the lower temple and gaze upon the Heart. You bypassed their enchantments, circumvented their traps, navigated the maze. You remember nothing? I understand keeping the secrets of one's trade, but really, Mr. Thief, your silence is unacceptable. You must tell me everything,” demands Cassilda.

“You have it, don't you,” he asks.

“Of course. There, by your beside, is a purse containing five-hundred sovereigns. That's what the old wizard promised you, right? We'll drop you off in Roche Harbor. It'll be a few days yet.”

“What am I to do with five-hundred sovereigns in Roche Harbor? I don't live or work there, courtesan. I want what I stole,” the Thief says, getting out of bed, steadying himself on a beam as the ship sways.

“Stole? For all we know, you simply found it lying on the ground with a big, pretty bow wrapped around it. What would you do with it, anyway? You can't sell the Heart of Rankar. It's truly priceless. It's the sort of thing you start a war over.”

“I'll take it to the Galvanians,” says the Thief.

“And they'll hang you and send it back to the Capetians. Did you really fall for Dazbog's ruse? The Galvanians have no use for religious artifacts. They have a plague to deal with as well as the beginnings of an economic collapse. Mindless propaganda to keep the masses in line. Huddle behind the big, strong shield of the Duke. Never mind the squalor of your lives, the inescapable poverty, the scourge of serfdom. No, that old wizard had something else planned. Who knows? It doesn't matter.” She sighs, snapping her fingers. A green flame appears before her, heatless, a shivering, writhing star. The Thief steps back, shielding his eyes.

“I am in debt to you, master Thief. You know some hidden sorcery, and obviously luck follows you around like a beaten dog. Five-hundred sovereigns is all I can offer you. You are but a minor player in this journey. Though you are simple, I will be sorry to see you go.”

He leans over, lifts the purse, feeling the small fortune in his hands. A pittance for the heart of a god. No, this was not enough. Whisked away from his homeland, lied to, robbed of his prize—he couldn't let such things go. Not the Thief.

“Can you read my mind, courtesan?” he whispers.

“I am no courtesan, as you well know. As for your question, I find it's in my best interests to let my powers remain ambiguous, though it takes no skill in magic to guess what you're thinking. I'm sorry, Thief. I'm sorry for Dempsey, the poor clueless sod. I'm even sorry for those mutants that I barbequed. That's the way the world is. People died because I wanted something. Want isn't even the right word. Need doesn't begin to cover it. I have my reasons, and I assure you, they are very good. But you don't need to know this. The thing about sorceresses is that they're not bound by conventions or etiquette. I don't have to tell you anything, you see. I shan't see you again.”

The green star disappears in a brief supernova, scattering light like tendrils of melting fire. The Thief steps back and shades his eyes. When he can see again, she is no longer there.

…

“You're the witch's lad,” says a one-eyed sailor with a pipe jutting from his lips as the Thief walks the deck. A motley crew of leathery men stripped to the waist and covered with fractal tattoos roam about, lean and taut, swearing in foreign tongues. Ocean all around, endlessly blue, with an infinite, stretching sky—he has never seen such a sky—accompanied by the strong odor of raw fish and salt. The sun feels stronger out here, burns hotter and brighter. He'd never been on a ship, never even left the general sprawl of his city, and now, baking in the ocean clime, he wonders why he has led such an isolated life.

“She's an ornery one, eh?” says the sailor. Like the others, his tattoos repeat in intricate geometric patterns.

“She has something of mine,” replies the Thief. He takes a seat next to the sailor, places his hand over his eyes. The endless horizon shimmers like an uncertain future.

“Your heart, right? Lemme tell you something. You don't wanna love a witch. Beauty comes at a price. Under the skin, they ain't at all what they seem. Knew a fella who slept with one. Said she had red hair and blue eyes and tits as big as your head. Lit a candle in the night so that he could use the pot. Saw her face in the light an' he dropped the candle, let out a scream like a little girl. Said it was like a skull was looking back at him. Let her have it, sir, your heart that is. You'll grow a new one.”

“Your tattoos. You all have them,” says the Thief.

“You like em? All of Archaea have them. We have our own shapes and patterns passed down from when the gods still roamed the world.”

“What do they mean?” asks the Thief.

“Buggered if I know. Does everything have to mean something?”

“No,” says the Thief, looking back towards the cabin.

“There ain't any meaning to any of it,” says the sailor suddenly, standing up. “Don't talk about your witchy friend to the others. They don't know. Superstitious lot.”

“You the captain?” asks the Thief.

“First mate. I saw you come aboard. It was like you was put together by the air. Came into being bit by bit.”

“She must've teleported us to the ship.”

“Aye, and you clutched something in your arms which the witch pried from you, and you offered little protest. I helped carry you below deck. You're a heavy fella, and you was muttering something about having to choose between hearts.” The sailor takes his pipe from his mouth and stares out at the sea. “There really ain't much choosing in it, is there? Things happen they way they do. There's work that needs tending to. I take my leave.”

The Thief watches him go, silently amused. A bow-legged cyclops giving love advice regarding witches. There was humor there, somewhere, but the feeling soon leaves him. There was the depressing matter of his stolen property, and he didn't mean to leave the ship until he possessed the Heart. He had little experience dealing with sorceresses, Dazbog being the only magician he'd ever known, and he only stole things for the old wizard, not from him. She's beyond you, burglar. Indeed, he didn't know what to do. Cassilda's powers eclipsed his imagination, and it was likely that she kept the Heart on her. His pickpocketing days were long ago, and to pickpocket a sorceress...well, it was probably impossible. I was never that great of a pickpocket anyway. 

 

Some of the sailors rig fishing lines over the side; one baits a giant hook with a rotten chunk of flesh. Their skin is tanned a deep bronze, cooked and dried free of fat by the hot sun, which shines its heat on the Thief, causing him to raise his hood. Off the port side there is the faintest suggestion of land on the horizon. 

 

Even if he did manage to steal the Heart again, how would he escape with it? He wouldn't get far in a stolen boat—the sailors seemed to be afraid of Cassilda, and would likely do her bidding—though the shore wasn't too far off. You could cut your losses he thinks. When Giles and Victorian made off with most of Lady Hearst's jewelry, leaving him with a mere pittance, he hadn't sought revenge, though he meant to find the both of them, someday. But the heart of a god is not equivalent to some doughy lady's precious stones. He suddenly thinks of the mark given to him in that ancient dungeon, imprinted atop his brand. When you deny oneself, others see nothing. Why the dying man had given him the gift, he didn't know. He thought about it often, usually at random, especially when he was thinking hard about other things. I owe everything to chance, maybe even the Heart. Though he could not fathom how he had stolen it, it didn't matter. There was no letting go. 

 

He notices the two fishing sailors pointing at something in the distance and decides to approach them. They are both small, muscular men with shaved heads and ragged black beards that curl like sheep's wool. One has a bright green tattoo of a dragon on his right shoulder, a toothy creature spouting flames.

“What do you see, dragon?” he asks. The man turns and gives him a dispassionate glance. There is a small scar on his forehead likely caused by a knife.

“Barbarosie,” he says. “They've been following us.”

“I see nothing,” replies the Thief.

“You have landlubber's eyes. I can see the blood color of their sails.”

“What are we going to do about them?” asks the Thief.

“They will either catch us or not,” says the sailor.

“What do you think?” asks the Thief.

“I think they will catch us,” says the other sailor. “Barbarosie have fast ships.”

“You don't seem too concerned about it,” says the Thief.

“What can I do about it? I have no control over the wind.”

“You don't fear death?” asks the Thief.

“No man from Archaea fears dying, for we are all dead men walking. The world grows weary and the sun fades. Look up at the sky. Can you not feel the lessening of its rays? When its fires die, darkness will swallow everything.”

“I knew a wizard that told a similar tale. What will we do when these Barbarosie overtake us? Will they rob us? Shackle us and sell us into slavery? Or will they leave us dead and sinking into the sea?” Squinting, the Thief peers in the direction the sailors were staring, and still sees nothing.

“It is no good to fight Barbarosie,” says the first sailor. “If they catch us you will see.”

“You ask too many questions. Are all Capetians so curious?” asks the other sailor.

“Are all men from Archaea dullards?” snarls the Thief, turning away from them. Their nonchalance regarding the approaching barbarians annoyed him, and if they were going to be boarded, he would rather do something about it than submit his fate to fortune. She'll be in the cabin, haughty sorceress he thinks, walking across the deck, ignoring the sailors who stare at the sea like statues, impartial observers to their own destinies. “Cassilda!” he shouts, reaching his hands towards the double doors, yet before he can thrust them open, an arc of electricity strikes his chest, knocking him off of his feet. A few of the sailors turn and laugh, saying words in their own tongue, watching as the Thief remains on his back, the odor of burnt hair lingering in the air. “Witch!” he spits, the taste of iron in his mouth.

“Did you not see the sign?” leers a mostly toothless sailor. “It says do not disturb.”

“I don't give a damn about any sign! She can deal with the marauders! We don't have to sit on our hands and roll the dice. She could sink their ships with a snap of her fingers!” shouts the Thief.

“Barbarosie are not kind to witches,” says the sailor. “It would be best for her to remain silent.”

“Oh really? What do they do to women that they find? I'm sure they extend them the proper courtesies.”

“A rape is better than a death,” says another sailor before pointing toward the sea. “Their karvi are pulling away from the drekkar. They have spotted us. There is no hope of escape now.”

“Do not cause trouble with the Barbarosie,” says the sailor with the dragon tattoo, hovering over the Thief. In his hands is a filleting knife, resembling the fang of some aquatic creature. “If you do not agree, we will throw you over.”

“Where is the captain? I will speak with him,” says the Thief, ignoring the threat.

“Men of the Shimmering Isles have no captain,” says another. “We speak with one voice.”

He sees them, finally, for what they really are, staring at the speaker, mentally removing his tattoos and scars, and then doing the same with the next, and the next, until one man remains, free of distinguishing marks, an unremarkable creature, really, having a plain peasant countenance and the marble eyes of soulless domestication. There is no such thing as an Archaean man says a voice from his childhood, coming from boys huddled around a fire. There were many far-off lands, fantastical places that spawned wild rumor and fantasy, and he had disregarded much of it, yet he suddenly remembered one of the myths of the Shimmering Isles—that the men from that misty, isolated region all wore the same face and saw through the same pair of eyes.

 

“The first mate, then. The one-eyed fellow. Where is he?”

None of them answer. Two of them come over and seize his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. In his chest where the arc struck there seems to be a smoldering wound that throbs and steams. The men are strong, with round shoulders and iron grips, and he offers no resistance as they bind him to the mast. As they tie him he tries to look in their eyes, attempting to see some evidence of communication, of telepathic ability, for no command was given, no audible verdict suddenly reached. Yet here I am. Cassilda's doors remain closed, and the men return to staring at the sea, awaiting their red-flagged pursuers. Their ships come into view quicker than he would've thought, dragon-prowed vessels, bearing rugged men draped in bear skins and animal skulls, who howl into the wind and wave spiked clubs and bastard swords stolen from their vanquished enemies. The Archaeans stand silently as hooks are thrown from the karvi and men climb up the sides of their ship, and even after the first barbarian aboard slits the throat of the first sailor he meets, they do not stir. The Thief can smell them, even from a distance—the iron scent of blood, the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies, a rotten odor of foul mead—all of these mingle to create a malodorous perfume that assaults his nostrils. Surely Cassilda can smell them and hear the ruckus. 

 

“You shivering men all look like you spawned from the same whore,” yells a massive barbarian with red hair. He seizes the closest sailor by the throat and lifts him into the air, eyes bulging, great axe hanging loosely in his free hand. “Where is your precious cargo? Tell me it is more than stinking fish and watered-down mead. Who is the leader here? That's right, you have no leaders because you shivering men are all empty vessels more akin to rocks than human beings.” Visibly annoyed, he tosses the sailor into his fellows and prowls the deck, cutting into cargo and overturning tackle boxes, making his way toward Cassilda's cabin. “Not there,” murmurs one of the sailors, but the red-headed monster continues, undeterred, waving at two of his comrades to come forth and aid in the inspection of the cabin. One of these men takes the lead, a tall, raven-haired youth with a jagged face—the Thief manages to hear the chief call him Josun—and it is he who first reaches for the handles and receives a green bolt of electricity in his chest. “Witchcraft!” shouts the chief, turning to the Archaeans. “You are harboring a witch! The penalty for such malfeasance is death! Coriver, go forth and fetch the shackles. Bring the potions so that we may dissolve this unholy barrier and destroy that which lies in wait. What madness is this, shivering men? We have raided few of your vessels and killed little of your number over the years, and how are we rewarded for our mercy? With your harboring of witches! Vile magic is to blame for the state of our world. No longer shall you be considered our friends. This boat shall sink with all of you on board, after we extract the witch and dispose of it as is proper.”

“You are harsh, Terran,” says Josun, climbing to his feet. “These men may be bewitched and harbored the creature not of their own accord.”

“Josun tenderheart, you dishonor your father when you speak such nonsense,” says Terran, shaking his head and pointing to the Archaeans, standing quietly. “These are not men; these are sheep awaiting the slaughter. Do they protest their fate? The shivering men are passive and do not try to change their destiny. We can do what we please with them, as you would do with an animal. Now see to that man there tied to the mast. More he may know about this witch, for he looks a roguish type.”

Josun crosses the deck and approaches the Thief, measuring him with a steely-eyed stare. Like all the barbarians, this raven-haired youth is muscular, with shoulders like boulders and a neck like a tree trunk. Quickly he removes a knife and cuts the Thief's bonds in one swift movement.

“Much appreciated, Barbarosie,” says the Thief, feeling his hands. “What can I do for you?”

“Move,” says Josun, pointing the knife at his belly.

“As you wish, Barbarosie,” replies the Thief, marching ahead. “I am a stranger in a strange land.”

“No one cares,” says Josun, giving him a good push. He comes to a stop against the chest of the red-bearded giant, who seizes him by the chin, a scrutinizing expression coming over his wide, battle-scarred visage.

“Who are you, black man?” he asks, squinting as though trying to see the dye in the Thief's pores.

“I am the Thief,” says the Thief, simply.

“The Thief? Not a Thief?” asks Terran.

“There is no other of my ilk in this world,” he replies, without a trace of hyperbole.

“Is that right?” says Terran, his monstrously broad face breaking into an enormous grin. “What deeds of renown has one committed to earn such a haughty moniker?”

“I am guilty of robbing the Valientice vault of a fortune of over five-thousand sovereigns. I also orchestrated the grand heist of the Royal Bank, during which my party took the heirloom jewels of Rothenbergs and the Bertrands. I stole myself from the Duke's dungeons, an incomparable feat, for no one ever escapes from that dismal place. My greatest accomplishment, however, is not yet widely known. It is likely that you shall hear of it someday.”

“You sound like a man who has written his own epitaph,” replies Terran. “The problem with thieves is that they are all tell and no show. If I ask Josun here to display his martial prowess, he will dutifully comply. If I ask you to display your talents, you cannot, for thievery depends on guile and guile is impossible when one is expecting it. We have no use for thieves in my tribe. Your life will depend on what you tell us about the witchery on this ship. What do you know of it?”

“Your suspicions are right. There is a witch in that cabin, of foul-temper, though beautiful. A strong hand is what she needs,” suggests the Thief.

“The slavers pay well for witches,” says Coriver, who has just returned aboard with a pair of shackles across his shoulder and a greenish bottle held in his hands.

“She has something that belongs to me,” says the Thief. “An organ of a dear acquaintance that she foolishly believes has magical properties. Let me to keep it and I will help you. If you break her protective spell and then march in there and try to wrestle her into submission, it will not go well for you. A softer touch is needed. A thief's touch.”

The barbarians exchange impenetrable looks impossible for any outsider to read. Josun says something to Terran, a series of high-pitched warbling that the Thief interprets as their native language, while Coriver plays with the shackles, club-like hands fingering the enchanted metal lovingly. Likely made of lead thinks the Thief, for the barbarians seems to know what they are doing. Yet Cassilda will be a surprise. He had already made up his mind what to do about her, though something tugs at his heartstrings, an odd feeling that he can't quite describe, being entirely unaccustomed to it. He had lived a selfish life, one devoted to survival by way of hedonism, a life uncomplicated with complex yearnings and now, waylaid on the sea and under the threat of death, seemed like a damned foolish time to be rethinking one's principals. Guilt can be buried with wine; unrequited love with the embrace of another. It's all interchangeable he thinks because nothing matters. With that last thought, gooseflesh prickles his skin. Does he believe it? It is essential to say one thing and then think another.

Terran slaps him on the back, says something in his barbarous tongue, and puts the shackles in his hands, motioning toward the door. He watches as Coriver tosses the mysterious contents of the green bottle across its threshold, resulting in a snap of static and a brief cloud of smoke. Go he hears in his ears, so he complies, still half-expecting an arc of electricity to come forth, hurled out of nothingness, but the bolt does not come; suddenly he is in the cabin, looking across the small room at Cassilda, the powerful sorceress, asleep in bed—snoring even!— oblivious to the ruckus outside. She is beautiful lying supine, her chestnut hair draped across her shoulders in flowing, wavy locks, her oval face like a carving of Astarte, goddess of love, perfectly symmetrical, with high cheekbones and plump crimson lips. Captivated by the striking beauty, the Thief stands dumb, hands at his sides, eyes watching the rise and fall of her breasts as they move opposite the rocking motion of the ship. Perfect Cassilda is—too perfect, of course—her appearance looking more refined since he last saw her only hours before, the sorceress having since tweaked the finer features of her visage with magical spells, a practice not without controversy. Yet he doesn't know this; he doesn't know that sorceresses and wizards often appear differently to different people, their spells modifying a nose, a brow line, or even the color of their eyes to fit the viewer's personal aesthetics. All he knows is that Cassilda is almost unbearably beautiful at this moment, and his intention to betray her and take the Heart and sate his revenge disappears in almost an instant. It happens so suddenly that he is left with a mysterious feeling of loss, as though a piece of him has as been stolen. He reaches out a hand, murmurs her name, and then clutches his head as something heavy and hard crashes against his skull, driving him to his knees. As he falls, he sees Terran push past and roughly grab Cassilda's wrists, locking the shackles around her. Emerald eyes lash open, fury brewing beneath them, yet she can do nothing as the brute hauls her to her feet. For a second the Thief thinks he sees that beautiful visage waver; it's as though the lines that make up her face shift and bend momentarily before correcting themselves. Up someone says; as he rises, they push and prod, rolling the man like a barrel of wine. They throw Cassilda into a karvi with Terran, while the Thief is left on his side as they pour oil on the deck, dousing the Archaeans as well, laughing their hearty guffaws and heaping curses on the quiet tattooed sailors, who seem serene and resigned. When the torches are thrown, he doesn't hear any screams, only the crackling sounds of the flames. Death; the word crawls out of the heat with chard limbs and sloughed skin, yet someone kicks him in the stomach, rolling the Thief toward the ocean and breaking his paralysis. Before he falls into the sea, he catches a glimpse of a one-eyed man standing on the burning vessel, a pipe seemingly jutting from his mouth, hand extended, as though to say goodbye and good luck.

The Esteemed Critic Reviews Doom

That's a nasty-looking fellow.

Ah, the Critic is not old enough to have properly appreciated the original Doom. Controversial for its unrepentant violence, as well as its Satanic imagery, Id Software's classic is held in high regard today as perhaps the definitive first person shooter, its gameplay tenets being movement (always keep moving) and ballistic slaughter (always keep shooting). Doom 2016 (just Doom from here on out) is very loyal to those ethos while being in many ways a different game.

Circumventing the story-focus of many post Half-Life shooters (man, that game came out eons ago), Doom rejects its basic plot. Early in the game, a terminal begins barking orders at you, and Doom guy can't stand it, so he just punches it until it explodes. There are a handful of characters, though none are given much screen time or development, and that's fine: this is a game that is very confident in what it is, and what it is the first-person shooter. You are given an arsenal of Doom classics: the shotgun, the supershotgun, the minigun, the rocket launcher, the plasma rifle, the BFG, etc...all of which are upgradeable with alternative firing modes. You can turn the basic shotgun into a grenade launcher, while the plasma rifle has a mode that fires a stun bomb (very handy for paralyzing Doom's frantic bestiary). In order to not turn into demon food, you must keep moving and be ready to utilize the glory kills system, a melee finisher you can activate when you're close to a staggered demon. Performing a glory kill will cause the monster's carcass to explode like pinata with ammunition and health packs. It's cheesy, but a welcomed addition to Doom, though the glory kills are a little repetitive.

After 2004's Doom 3, a dull reboot that added a horror theme that was never really present in the original titles, Doom is a return to form. It's fun, it's violent, and it's the most addictive first-person shooter I've played in years. It's not without problems, though. First off, it could've used a bit more variation in its environments. We get space stations and hell, and hell isn't particularly inventive, being an amalgam of 80's heavy-metal album cover tropes: skulls, pentagrams, rocky terrain not terribly different from Mars, where much of the game takes place. The new tech powering this iteration is impressive, though not a huge upgrade from Wolfenstein: New Order. Why first-person shooters are always on the forefront of graphical sophistication I'll never know; the action is usually so fast that you can't appreciate all the details. My other main complaint is that Doom often corners you in a arena and locks the doors, and you can't escape until you've slaughtered all of hell's denizens. I'd much rather explore and encounter demons wandering about the Mars base rather than having them teleport in by the dozen. Minor quibbles, however. If you're a fan of old-school first-person shooters (basically, anything that Id and Epic made back in the day), then definitely give Doom a try. Its campaign is pretty long, and filled with secrets and optional challenges that make it ripe for a replay.

Welcome to hell. It's not too bad a place, after you get used to it.

 

Weightlifting: Picking the Big Three

The big three is a term used by weightlifters (typically powerlifters) to refer to the back squat, deadlift, and bench press. These are the competitive lifts of powerlifting, and because powerlifting is one of the most popular strength sports in the world (especially in America), a lot of athletic and recreational training revolves around those lifts. They seemingly cover all the bases: the back squat develops the legs and glutes, the deadlift the legs and back, and the bench press the shoulders, pectorals, and triceps. However, I don't believe these are the best options for most people doing weight training. Not everyone has the desire to compete in powerlifting; most people just want to get stronger, more athletic, and more muscular. I've recently changed my training focus from powerlifting to my own big three. Below are my reasons.

Front squat vs. back squat. Above is a picture of a back squat. Notice anything? Perhaps the near horizontal back angle or her ass shoved way back? In a heavy back squat, the hips and lower back take a lot of the load. If your interested in maximally developing the quadriceps, which are essential in sprinting or jumping, the front squat is a much better choice.

In the above photo, the woman is maintaining a vertical back angle, putting more the weight of the load on her quadriceps. Because the barbell is more forward of the midfoot in the front squat, the upper back is stressed more than the lower back and the hips. I've found that front squats build very strong trapezius muscles, giving your shoulders that jacked look typical of very strong individuals. In short, if you want big quads and traps, do the front squat instead of the back squat.

Military press vs. bench press. Do you want healthy shoulders? Then you should avoid the bench press. It's a great pec builder, sure, but ask anyone who's been benching heavy for several years how their shoulders feel. I'll be willing to bet that they have rotational issues, and most have probably torn something in their rotator cuff. If we want to get into the whole functional strength debate (which is stupid, because strength by its very nature is functional), the military press is a much better choice than the bench because it builds shoulder strength while using more of the entire body. Overhead pressing works the deltoids and triceps primarily, but the muscles of the lats, traps, lower back, and legs are essential for maintaining the stability to press heavy weights. It's safer, more functional, and it'll make you look buff (big shoulders trump big pecs) while keeping your rotational integrity.

Clean vs. deadlift. I love the deadlift. It's probably the best exercise for total body strength. Yet at a certain strength level (2.5 times bodyweight), the clean is more useful. It's basically a deadlift transitioning to a front squat by way of an explosive jump (make sense?). It develops power and athleticism, and it's just plain fun to take a weight from the floor to your shoulders. Sure, it's an advanced exercise, but for those in it for the long haul, I think the clean is a better choice for strength and power. If you can't clean more than fifty percent of your deadlift, I think you need to work on your explosive strength.

If you're not focused on powerlifting, switch up your big three. You'll enjoy training more, and you'll be a more diverse lifter. Stop caring about how much you bench, and start thinking about what you really want from your training.

Feeling Safe Is the Most Important Thing in the World

It's a dangerous world out there, people. There are terrorist cells everywhere. Home-invaders, drug-dealers, religious radicals. Cat-people. Hell, the cats themselves are huge these days. There's a big one that prowls my block, has to weigh at least twenty pounds. You should see the grin on the thing. I swear it has teeth like the Cheshire cat. One of these days it's going to try to break into my house and I'll be prepared. Always be prepared for some unlikely hypothetical scenario, people. Like giant man-eating cats breaking into your house.

Because there are so many things for us to be afraid of, it is important that we feel safe in these troubling times. In fact, it's the most important thing in the world. That's why when I go on an airplane I prefer to feel the reassuring hand of Uncle Sam up my ass to make sure that I don't harm myself or anyone else. Of course, the PC Democrats want to frisk grandmas to make sure no one feels like they're being racially-profiled. Whatever, jackasses. President Trump will put in end to all of that shit. He's going to make us feel safer than we ever have before.

You know why I have an AR-15? It's because guns don't kill people; mother-fucking bullets do. I don't know what that means but it sounded good when I said it. You know there's a infinitesimal chance that a terrorist cell could decide to break into my compound and take my entire family of dogs and Fat Heads hostage. It's fucking possible, asshole. That's why I need a semiautomatic rifle, along with my AK-47, a rocket launcher, twenty hand grenades, and an uzi (don't tell anyone! It's not registered!). Also, bigfoot could turn violent and try to rape me. That's why I need a large-caliber weapon. To prevent rape by sasquatch.

It's my god-given right to be prepared for any situation, don't try to tell me otherwise. Read the Second Amendment to the Constitution, pinkos. I'm pretty sure it states that we can have all the guns we want. Hell, if they ever start selling hand-held nuclear missile launchers, I want one. I'm sure the founding fathers intended us to have all the guns in existence. Back then, you were more likely to blow off your hand than actually hit anything with a rifle, but hey, they had no idea how much technology would improve. They weren't magical sorcerers, no matter what the history books say.

Really, it doesn't matter how many people die as a result of our freedom to bear whatever arms we please. It doesn't matter that it's incredibly easy for any wackjob to get a gun. Hell, a whole classroom of children were murdered a couple years ago and nobody gave a shit. It's because we have a gun culture. We solve problems with guns. We create problems with guns. We need these guns because we're afraid of everything.

I'm fucking terrified of everything and I need my arsenal to feel safe, goddamn it. That's all that really matters. 

Heart of the Thief, Part 6

Man, this has been a crawl. After finishing my novel Apophenia (still searching for an agent to represent it), I have had significant difficulties starting a new project. Wolf, a werewolf horror story, was the book that I started on next, but half-developed characters and wavering themes made me abandon it after 20,000 or so words. I tried writing a few short stories, but I was unsuccessful in writing many, and unable to publish the few that I completed. I started three different novels: one about the son of a famous professional wrestler; another about a man stuck in hell; and The Heart of the Thief. It's been difficult to approach this book passionately; I kind of just work on it when I feel like it, which is usually right before bed, and for no more than thirty minutes. So that's why I'm still hovering around 17,000 words despite working on it for what seems like forever. The basic plot is developed, yet it really is a matter of sitting down and putting the time in. I've considered abandoning it for something else, but at some point, you just have to commit and finish it. Here's a link to part five, with links to the other chapters for anyone who wants to get caught up.

...

Chapter Two

Silas Amaro stands in front of the inner temple, his hands on his knees as he peers down at the roasted corpse of one of the Duke's Medjay. My Medjay he corrects himself silently, watching as the High Priest feebly attempts to remove the body's helmet, which seems to have bonded with its flesh. The priest is small, slender, his hands smooth and fragile like the hands of a woman. Coddled upper class trash he thinks, smiling to himself at his heresy. The High Priest was considered holy and seen as Rankar's chief emissary, his word being essentially the word of God. Silas couldn't bring himself to believe that this dainty man was anything more than another nobleman living in comfort off of the deeds of his long-dead fathers, who bled for their privilege. Now I bleed for them he concludes, finally pushing the priest aside and pulling the helmet off with one strong tug of his massive hand. The Medjay's face was blackened, the flesh peeling off in dry, crispy flakes. An improvement in appearance, to be sure he thinks, turning to Frieze, his mage consultant.

“What is this, magician? Damage from a fireball?” he asks.

“Impossible, my lord. Medjay are immune to such attacks. This is the result of massive electrical damage. Even mutations and wards are helpless against such dangerous voltage. The assassin is reckless. Few have these powers,” responds Frieze.

“Then we should have little trouble identifying our criminal,” says Silas.

“Is that so, captain? What a great relief that is! What powers of precognition you must possess! I suppose you realize that our lives are all in danger?” asks the High Priest, scowling. “Who do you think the Duke will blame when he hears that the symbol of his sovereignty has been stolen from the temple, where it has rested since time immemorial? Why, he will blame the High Priest and the captain of his guard! We shall be taken down into the dungeon where we will never see the sun, where you can hear the rats gnawing on the bones of your predecessors. They will maim us, and blind us, and throw us down there helpless to be devoured! Do you understand the gravity of our situation, captain? Do you realize that we are going to die?”

“Shouldn't death be a great joy to you? You will be reunited with your God. He is certain to reward you for you service,” replies Silas.

“Rankar is the god of all, you heathen. It is a great irony that we entrust Medjay and their ilk with protecting the very soul of the world. Look where it has gotten us! Faithless degenerate.” The High Priest spits, shaking his head. Silas takes a deep breath and quells the rage building up inside of him.

“Your watchmen, the ones who let them in, what did they have to say?” he asks.

“They said that Lord Dempsey was accompanied by a black fellow with a lute and a harlot with chestnut hair. Typical court refuse, one would think, though no one seems to know them. They likely persuaded Lord Dempsey to use his position to gain access to the temple.”

“Is Dempsey not your brother?” asks Silas.

“Yes,” says the High Priest, gritting his teeth. “He is not a traitor.”

“He's not much of anything, anymore,” replies Frieze. “I do believe I've found our missing lord.”

“Why, that's a pile of ash,” says the High Priest.

“Yes, a rather large pile. Here is your brother's signet ring. Unlike the Medjay, the late Lord Dempsey had no resistance to magical attacks,” Frieze states, handing the ring to the High Priest.

“They must've forced him,” says the High Priest. “We must not allow anyone to know.”

“So we have a powerful mage with the ability to incinerate an unarmed man through electrical discharge. Is it reasonable to assume he or she is skilled at enchantment as well?” asks Silas.

“Certainly, my lord. I would also venture to theorize that they escaped through teleportation.” Frieze opens his hand and reveals an emerald stone. “This is a periapt likely used to aid a magical user in their focus. Very careless for our sorcerer to leave such a trinket.”

“Why? It is a useless stone,” says the High Priest, kicking a rock.

“A periapt holds a lingering trace of its user's powers. Sorcerers, of course, are well aware of this fact, and usually carefully discard their instruments. Now, we are going to need one of those Medjay, whichever one looks the freshest, I suppose,” says Frieze.

“What in Rankar's name for?” asks the High Priest.

“We are going to have to perform a little necromancy,” replies Frieze, a strange gleam in his eyes.

“Necromancy? Did you just say what I think you said?” asks the High Priest, his voice rising.

“Yep. Necromancy.”

“Need I remind you that such black arts are forbidden by the Priesthood of Rankar, and all practitioners shall be burned at the stake?”

“When I said we I really meant someone else,” says Frieze. “There is a disreputable fellow in the city who we'll need to see. He's a rather eccentric person, I'm told, though I'm sure he will be quite eager to help us if we shake a big enough purse at him. Or we could just threaten to set his tower on fire, you know. It's usually not a good idea to piss off wizards, however.” Frieze smiles, displaying his uneven denture. Crooked teeth, crooked nose, crooked heart thinks Silas. Though not particularly skilled in sorcery, Frieze was a learned scholar with an unconventional mind and an undeniable eye for detail. What he lacked in magical prowess he more than made up for in cunning. Silas preferred his company to that of a battlemage because the young man was a hundred times more useful. There are only so many problems you can throw fireballs at, after all.

 

“I don't think Rankar will object to finding his heart, no matter the means,” says Silas, looking hard at the High Priest. “I swear to you that I will handle this matter personally and with great discretion. Your involvement is no longer required. For your sake as well as ours, I suggest that you keep up the ruse. The Heart is in the temple, my lord. There were no dead Medjay or vaporized lords.”

“So you expect me to sit here while you run away? I will not be your scapegoat, you brutish heathen...”

Silas seizes the priest by the throat in one quick movement, prematurely ending his sentence and effortlessly lifting him from the ground. Terror swells up in his eyes as his feeble hands paw at those of his attacker, who slowly walks toward the cliff side. Pathetic thinks Silas, noticing the urine dripping down the priest's legs.

“Let me make something very clear. Your kinsman played a role in this, and as far as I am concerned, that incriminates you. You are going to keep your mouth shut, or I am going to have you thrown in the dungeon for conspiracy and treason. Don't think the Duke would take your word over mine. I saved his life from Thenias the Brute, you soft aristocrat. I will not have you prematurely ending my investigation by causing a panic.” Silas drops the priest inches from the edge, watches as he staggers, his arms flailing about in an effort to keep from falling. Turning to Frieze, he motions towards the steps.

“Let's go meet this necromancer,” he says, already beginning the long walk.

“My lord, we could simply teleport,” suggests Frieze, struggling with the body of the dead Medjay.

“Have you gotten any better at it? The last time, we were nearly run down by a carriage.”

“I can get us off this mountain, at least,” says Frieze.

“Oh, my lord, one more thing,” says Silas to the High Priest, who sits on the ground with his head in his hands, “The initiates who discovered the bodies did not enter the temple, correct?”

“Yes, captain,” mutters the High Priest.

“I suggest having them take a vow of silence. Remove their tongues. I don't want any rumors spreading.”

“Their tongues?” asks the High Priest, baffled.

“Yes. You're not familiar with the practice? The Thorians remove the tongues of their most devout. Either do it, or throw them off the mountain. Failure to comply with my directions will tell me that you are not serious about keeping quiet. I make good on my threats, my lord. Remember that.”

…

“Does anyone want any tea?” asks the wizard of his guests. The captain and his consultant shake their heads. They had wanted to be very insistent; they were impatient and time was of the essence. Amaro was a brutish beast capable of regulating his violence to periodic outbursts; his thoughts were straight and to the point. His companion, a failed mage, was also a nasty creature, with a head full of knives and cruel schemes. Of course, he knew they were important and that they had serious business, and if left to their own devices would have resorted to some method of torture or bloody threat. It was likely that they were very confused as to why they had sat down as instructed, and why they now waited for Dazbog to pour himself a cup of tea before parleying with them. Frieze would realize what had happened after the fact if he really thought about it, but a true master of manipulation never let the puppets see the strings that controlled them. Banish your pride, machine thinks Dazbog, shaking his head. There was nothing to be proud of. He was how he was made.

“Mr. Frieze, are you a graduate of the Academy? I do detect a faint aura surrounding you, though my skills are not as sharp as they once were,” says the wizard. “Time takes much from us, and gives us nothing but feeble memories.”

“Yes, I graduated in 1369,” says Frieze. “We have a pressing matter to attend to. You see, there is this body here who was involved in an a magical altercation, and we really must speak with his shade…”

“What is your area of expertise?” interrupts the wizard. “Telekinesis? Telepathy? Pyromancy?”

“Historical studies,” replies Frieze.

“But what can you do?” asks the wizard.

“I have extensive alchemical knowledge, as well as teleportation talents,” says Frieze in a quiet voice.

“Yes, very talented you are,” says Silas. “We appeared in the air above a drainage ditch, and fell a good ten feet and landed on our asses.”

“You should never teleport, my lords. It is a death unlike any other. The loss of consciousness is like letting a fire burn out. You can start the fire again, but you must use new wood. It is a different fire, so to speak, even if it is built upon the ashes of the original. When you teleport, your atoms are disassembled in one place and reassembled in another. How do you even know that your original atoms made the trip? It is quite likely that the spell simply transmitted your particular atomic pattern and used the atoms at its disposal to create, in essence, a copy with your memories. No, I refuse to teleport. I will not die for a convenient mode of transportation,” says Dazbog. “Though many do not share my opinion.”

“Is this true?” asks Silas of Frieze, consternation on his broad face.

“Theories, my lord, unproven theories,” replies Frieze.

“There is quite the consensuses among the magical community, actually,” says Dazbog. “And even if the spell does transmit your atoms to another place, the disassembly still happens. This body that you wish for me to revive, you would not deny that it is dead, no? Yet we can give dead matter a voice, if only for a moment. What is time, gentlemen? It is a vanishing thing."

 

The wizard turns away from them, looks out his windows, tugs on his stained beard. Something had went very wrong and he had been played a fool by a harlot who hid the fact that she was a sorceress, and now he wasn't sure how to proceed, with the Duke's captain of the guard sitting in his ruined tower. They wished for him to summon the Medjay's shade, but what the dead mutant would say, the wizard could not foresee. Do not call up one that you cannot put down he remembered suddenly, the words of his old master. Necromancy had always been forbidden, but years ago, the Academy was still churning out mages of ability, and certain areas could not be neglected. I will either be saved or damned by my dilettantish dabbling he thinks with a smile.

“Enough of my rambling,” says the wizard, “This body you have brought me, I can see that it is a mutant and undoubtedly a member of the Duke's Medjay. You are aware that the dead speak frankly? That they sometimes say disturbing things? Yes? Very well. We shall proceed. Mr. Frieze, let us put your alchemical skills to use.”

Dazbog retrieves a mortar and pestle from his cluttered work table, placing them before the mage consultant. He then takes a jug of unfermented grape juice from his cupboard, sniffs its opening, and hands it to Silas. “Don't drink it,” he says, rifling through the cupboard and finally pulling out a talisman made of bone. It was a crude circle, with an x in the center, held together by dried tendons, and despite its rather common appearance, it catches Frieze's eye immediately, for he recognizes it as a symbol of the pagan god Prax, whose cult was rumored to still flourish in the Great Woods, though the Priesthood had done much to suppress and eradicate it from the Capetian's capital and the surrounding areas.

“Put this moldy bread in the mortar and pour some juice over it,” says Dazbog, removing a piece of bread from his robe. “Get it nice and wet and then mash it into a porridge. When he's finished, Captain, take your knife and draw blood from the corpse, enough to mix with our concoction.”

Both men do as asked. The wizard then takes the mortar and places the talisman above it, murmuring a few words. Blood from the knife drips over the circle of bone; fingers snap and suddenly the mixture boils and the symbol of Prax glows red. Withered hands remove the talisman and seize the bowl, raising it to wine-stained lips, wetting a ragged beard with spilled blood. The captain grimaces, turning away from the grotesque spectacle, while his companion watches with fascination as their host's eyes flutter and his body begins to shake. “The jar with the X, bring it here,” shouts the wizard in a voice not entirely his own. Frieze quickly complies, fetching the jar and putting it before Dazbog, who breaks it with his fist in apoplectic fury, revealing dozens of scattering centipedes. Silas pushes away from the table in revulsion, yet the wizard is not bothered by his disgust; he seizes as many of the insects as he can and devours them with great relish. Consuming life, death, and decay realizes Frieze, while trying not to hear the moist crunching sounds coming from the ravenous man. He is just about to ask what comes next when suddenly the necromancer collapses on the table mid-meal, a black liquid spewing from his lips, his eyes transforming into murky pools of darkness. All is silent but the insectile movements of the centipedes; the room is heavy, the air thickened, while a palpable strangeness hovers about the men, prickling their skin. The captain is the first to speak.

“Is he dead?” he whispers.

Frieze points a finger at the body, hovering inches away from the wizard's great bulbous nose.

“Touch him,” says Silas.

“He seems to be deceased,” says the mage consultant, withdrawing his finger. At that moment 

Dazbog sits up, hands clutching the edge of the table, his mouth sucking in air like a drowning man. Out of his throat comes a plaintive wail that sends a shudder through the listeners, who recognize the sound, though they do not realize it. There is a difference between the scream of the living and the howl of the dead, for the latter is not meant for human ears, and once it is heard, it cannot be unheard. In the quiet spaces they will hear it; in the middle of the night, lying in bed; in their dreams; alone in the woods. Silas hears the men he has killed, their voices growing hoarse with dirt. Frieze hears a cackle, an old woman's muffled laugh as hands clamp around her throat, and he must look away and stare down at his own hands, searching for blood on their fingers. The wailing ceases; something measures them through the wizard's eyes, which are black and lacking pupils.
 

“What do you want?” asks the creature in Dazbog's flesh.

“Whom do we speak with?” asks Frieze.

“You speak with nothing. There is no one here,” says the thing.

“Were you a Medjay, one of the Duke's royal guard?”

“Yes.”

“Who killed you?” asks Frieze.

“Cassilda of the Rock, electrician, carrier of the sea.”

“How does it know that?” asks Silas.

“There is nothing to know,” says the shade.

“Who was with her?” continues Frieze.

“The Thief. The one with the mark. Shadow-stealer.”

“We aren't getting anywhere with this,” says Silas.

“There is nowhere to go and nothing to do,” says the shade.

“Not for you, I suspect,” replies Silas. “Who knows this Cassilda?”

“Wayfarers from the Shimmering Isles. Bodies cast into the sea. Pliny the Black, who awaits her coming.”

“The Shimmering Isles, that's another name for Archaea, no?” asks Silas of Frieze.

“Yes,” replies the mage consultant. “Islands of legend, shrouded in myth. An entrance to the underworld, some say. Is that correct, shade?”

Dazbog's lips spread into an evil grin. “Nothing,” he says, spitting the word. “There is nothing after death.”

“Maybe not for you, but what about for great men?” asks Silas. “Surely their souls survive the mortal realm.”

“Let's not ask it any more questions. It has told us things that the Medjay would not have known. Some think this is because the dead know all; other believe that demons and spirits possess the lifeless bodies of men. Shade,” says Frieze, standing and pointing at Dazbog, “leave this man and return to nothingness. We have nothing more to say to you.”

“You will die in a foreign country with a knife in your belly,” says the shade.

“It lies,” says Silas, drawing his sword.

“Dazbog, banish this spirit,” says Frieze in a commanding voice. The wizard's body shakes briefly, yet his eyes remain black.

“Your father sired you with his own sister, a whore,” spits the shade, staring at Silas. “What man can come of such a union? Where do such things go? They vanish in the night and no one remembers that they were there.”

“Don't attack it! It wants you to kill him,” yells Frieze while restraining Silas's sword arm.

“I am nothing, you are nothing, there is nothing, nothing, nothing,” says the shade.

“Back to nothing the void with you,” says Frieze, reaching into his pocket and removing the periapt, showing it to the shade, feeling its power. This Cassilda is no ordinary sorceress he thinks, emboldened by the traces of her energy. Authority and knowledge swell from the green stone; he points at the shade, says the word of banishment, and the spirit flees in an instant, leaving behind an exhausted and befuddled wizard.

“Where… where did you find… that?” gasps Dazbog, reeling.

“It belonged to our sorceress,” replies Frieze. “Though I am surprised words of gratitude are not bursting from your lips. I do believe I just saved your life.”

“Give me… that periapt, you fool,” manages Dazbog, steadying himself on the table. Silas reaches across and grabs the wizard by throat, dragging him off of his feet.

“You gave us nothing, necromancer, and we grow tired of being played. That was not one of the Duke's men we spoke to, but a demon spouting lies. You've wasted enough of our time. Let us see if your magical skills extend to levitation,” says Silas, moving towards the window.

“Demon or no, we do know her name. 'Cassilda' it said. Pirates from the Shimmering Isles know her. These things, they cannot lie...” Frieze ceases speaking as he notices the look Silas throws at him.

“The periapt… I know this sorceress,” spits Dazbog, his gnarled fingers wrapped around the mighty hands of his antagonist. “I can locate her!”

 

“We were counting on it,” replies Frieze. “But one must never show all of his cards to a sorcerer. The captain and I were under your spell the moment we set foot in this tower and only regained our faculties when the shade took control of your body. The question is why would a necromancer of your talents cede consciousness to an unpredictable spirit instead of interrogating it yourself? Surely you don't count on all of your customers to be Academy graduates capable of ending a séance. You took a risk, Dazbog, because you're hiding something. Your knowing our Cassilda is no coincidence, I wager. You'd better tell us everything.”

Silas throws open the shutters and bends the old wizard over the windowsill, grimacing, feeling the grotesque man's thin, fragile neck in his hands. Born of incest, to a whore. He never knew his mother, but there were rumors that the other boys didn't let him forget, and the slinking face of Red Jack, a bitter, toothless drunk, looked too familiar to young Amaro, and Jack had a daughter that had disappeared. The weak creature that he held in his grasp bore more than a passing resemblance to that ugly bastard, which made Silas squeeze his throat harder, bringing blood to his face. You can't suffocate the past, he realizes, watching the wizard gradually turn purple. But you sure as hell can try.

 

“Captain, you might want to give him a chance to speak before you crush his throat,” suggests Frieze tentatively. He knew Amaro was on edge; the longer he went without results, the more his violence would escalate.

Silas pulls the wizard from the sill and lets him crumple to the floor where he lies, eyes fluttering, chest moving up and down with renewed vigor. “Barbarous villains,” he manages, drool oozing from the corner of his mouth. The captain gives him a good kick in the spleen for his comment. He hated wizards, particularly arrogant ones such as Dazbog, though none were as bad as the Duke's battlemages. Always messing with their trinkets and lording over their lessers like Gods.

“Cassilda...was an acquaintance, someone who was not whom she seemed,” says Dazbog, still lying on the floor. “It is obvious now that she is a sorceress of extraordinary power, a generational talent, but still raw and inexperienced. It's the Heart that she has, no? I am sure you are baffled as to how she tore it from its prison and what she plans on doing with it. Galvanian involvement is likely suspected. That periapt, however, shall give her away. Very careless to leave it abandoned, for from the stone we can draw her inner desires. More personal information can be gleaned from it than from a thousand corpses brought to a necromancer. Give it to me, and I can tell you where your thief is.”

“I don't trust you,” says Silas, looming over the wizard like a bird of doom.

“Of course, Captain, why would you? Yet you need me even after I reveal the secrets of the periapt. This sorceress is far beyond the proficiency of Mr. Frieze, and martial prowess will only get you so far. None of the Duke's battlemages are quite equipped to handle such a person as Cassilda. I was a Haliurunnae witch hunter for many years after my expulsion from the Academy.” Dazbog pulls himself to his feet, leaning heavily on an old chair. “Your mage consultant can tell you the significance of that office.”

Silas glances at Frieze impatiently.

“The Haliurunnae are extremely prejudiced against magic users, considering them an abomination, the workings of spells and such being beyond rational explanation. They are very skilled at finding mages and dealing with them. That one could be a witch hunter and a wizard is difficult to believe, frankly,” says Frieze, “though I don't doubt him in this matter. He is something of a savant despite his uncouth appearance.”

“Uncouth, pretentious, and stinking of wine,” says Silas. “No different than any bum lying in the street.”

“This is how we will proceed, oh wise and powerful Dazbog,” begins Frieze. “You are hereby conscripted into the service of the Eighteenth Duke of Massalia and renounce all of your rights and privileges as a free man. You will obey the commands of the Duke's proxies, meaning in this case Silas Amaro and myself, and will be released from your duties only when the Heart of Rankar is returned to the Temple of the Priesthood. If you break this vow, all will know of it, and you will bear the curse of kings, damning your soul to oblivion. In the name of the Duke, you are sworn.”

“The binding contract between man and civilization, cited to me as though I am a savage,” replies Dazbog. “There is no need to conscript me to your cause. I will aid the Duke of my own volition, without charge. The purpose of wizards is to serve their betters. I am at your disposal, friends.” The wizard gives a deep bow.

“That's splendid to hear! We are very much enthused!” says Frieze, handing him the periapt. “Now tell us where she is.”