The main reason I was off Steem for six months was because I was busy working on my first original novel. Now that I've finished my manuscript, I wanted to send it out here to you fine folks and see what you thought. Any feedback is appreciated, and I'll compile your suggestions once I finish posting my book to go through and make edits for the second time around.
Hope you enjoy my master work!
Measured steps brought the Triumvirate into the council room at the top floor of the turret. Stone walls echoed the sounds of clean dress shoes on the hardwood floor as the first two members of the ruling council of the Holy Order of the Silver Lance set foot through the arched doorway. The first was the youngest of the three, Caleb McKenna, a man who'd distinguished himself not only as a devout Catholic but as a dedicated warrior. Though perhaps the least diplomatic of the three, he was the most assertive, and his motto was that action came first. A fit man in his late 30's, with short blond hair and sharp green eyes, he exuded the kind of confidence that could lead men into what would certainly be a losing battle. McKenna's expediency was matched in equal parts by the diplomacy of the second man, Donald Brennan. He was significantly older, in his late sixties, and had the appearance of a bank clerk. Despite the weathered appearance, the plain suit, and the thinning, gray hair, he had clear eyes. They were eyes that belonged to a consummate negotiator, a man who'd made a career out of avoiding the worst case scenario by compromise. Moving into the room, they took their seats at their respective high-backed chairs, pulling them into the edge of the circular, red wood table in the center of the room.
They said nothing to each other, waiting for the arrival of the third member of their ruling council. Unlike the crisp, even steps of the previous men, his footsteps made a shuffling sound on the stone steps leading up to the landing and the doorway, accompanied by the recognizable click of a cane. The man who walked through the door was not much older than McKenna, but tired mahogany eyes spoke of years of wear that weren't apparent at first glance. His dark hair was still thick, and he wore it in the fashionable military style; close-cropped but long on the top, combed back away from his face. His nose was straight and his cheeks sat high, indicating some nobility at some point down his family line. His charcoal suit was plain, as was his blue tie, but he wore them with a stoic quality that was only enhanced by his dependence on his plain, but finely polished, oak cane. It was his left leg that dragged, prompting the use of the cane; some unseen injury from years past no doubt precipitated his particular gait.
"Well, good to see you two beat me upstairs,"he said, a smirk dying on his lips but the mischief making it to his eyes. McKenna rolled his, and Brennan indulged in a chuckle.
"Only by a margin, William," the older man said, reaching up to tuck a few strands of loose hair back over his scalp, "and it's a margin that narrows every day I get older."
William Sullivan shook his head and eased his way to the third chair at the round table, pulling it out and sliding into it before resting his cane across his lap. This was the third meeting they'd had this year, and the unprecedented frequency of their executive brainstorming wasn't lost on him. For centuries, the Triumvirate had met only once a year, and the matters discussed had been mostly internal issues. Even during the Great War, they'd met only twice in one year, and the second meeting firmly established that they would remain neutral in the coming conflict. It was a decision that Sullivan had never come to regret, and that was what was on his mind now. With the Nazis creating a stranglehold on the continent and now bombing England continuously, McKenna had voiced concern over the growing threat to the island, and, as the weeks and months had dragged on, his concern had only become more vocal. Hitler accepted no compromise, and he had a singular goal in mind. In many ways, it was a mindset that he was all too familiar with.
"We can't sit idly by while that German fascist destroys England and the whole of Europe," McKenna said, speaking first. "It's going to come to our doorstep soon enough. Hell, not even the Vatican is immune from the Nazis. Do you think we'll be able to repel German invaders?"
"The British were able to. The Blitz might be bad, but they're weathering it out in the tunnels and beating them in the skies," Brennan chimed in, "and if they can outlast the Germans, there's no chance for Hitler and his brown-shirt thugs to do anything to them, much less us.”
"Are you mental? You think he doesn't look at Eire like some sort of fantastic staging ground for an invasion of Britain?" McKenna kept his back against the chair, but his posture was giving away his slowly waning patience.
"Please! He can't even move forces across the Channel to England. What makes you think he'll be able to move them way up to us?"
"We don't have a fancy anti-air screen that would stop his fighters and bombers," McKenna responded, narrowing his eyes, "so yeah, I'd say we're far less prepared to repel invaders than the Brits at this point."
"Look, whether or not we have an air defense is irrelevant. We're a Catholic order, and we have a singular goal to-"
"Irrelevant my arse!" McKenna said, rising out of his chair. "Singular purpose or not, we have a real, existential threat from other people right here and right now. We either address it, or we pretend like nothing's wrong and wait for the bombs to fall!"
Brennan was taken aback by the outburst, but at this point he was less than surprised. In the previous two sessions they'd had since the Battle of Britain had begun, McKenna had repeatedly urged them to take action against the Nazi invasion of Europe. It was the same reasoning that every interventionist used; it was only a matter of time until they came after them next. Brennan had made a life out of staying out of precisely these kinds of wars, and he'd been the staunchest supporter of the Order's neutrality during the Great War. McKenna remained standing, staring down the eldest of the three with an intensity that spoke volumes. He'd fought for independence, and when that mockery of a free state was passed in 1922, he'd fought equally hard against that, despite his obligation to the Order. It turned out that his penchant for nationalism had lead to the destruction of one of the largest undercrofts that they'd ever seen, and right here under their very noses, in Tipperary.
However significant his accomplishments had been prior to becoming a Councilor, it didn't give him carte blanche to berate another member of the Triumvirate. Sullivan cleared his throat to break the silence that had fallen over the table.
"McKenna has a point, Brennan," he said, leaning forward a bit in his chair and crossing his fingers together in front of him.
"I've heard from what few contacts we still have in France that haven't gone into hiding about all sorts of strange projects the SS are trying to get into. Rewriting history, dark mythologies, and a whole crock of things I haven't even begun to catalogue."
McKenna was pleased by his agreement. It was always an uphill battle for him against the two older men, even though Sullivan didn't have him by much; the man had seen and experienced enough to set him nearly a decade ahead of McKenna. It was an experience that made him extremely reluctant to engage in affairs outside of the Order, even now, but he at least understood what was going on and saw the bigger picture.
"That being said," he continued, "we don't have the manpower to throw at the War the way you want, McKenna. There just aren't enough of us."
"I understand that, but certainly we can-"
"No. If we're going to toss our chips in, we have to do it from the sidelines. We've already had a number of our hunters give up the Order to serve, and to tell them that we're sanctioning it is going to trigger an exodus. Come up with a sustainable number, and then we'll talk."
"I already gave you a number," McKenna growled, twisting his hand into a fist. "We can't just sit around on our hands, Sullivan."
"And I'm telling you that's too many. If they die, and likely they will, it will take years to replenish our numbers."
"Sullivan's right. We're shorthanded as it is,” added Brennan, eager to defuse the conversation before McKenna lost his composure again
"Fine, you'll get a draft of my proposal tomorrow," McKenna said, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. Sullivan gave a firm nod and set his cane down beside his chair, leaning it against the left arm.
"Alright, with that piece of business on indefinite hold," Brennan said, letting out a disappointed sigh before continuing, "I have one more thing to discuss. Sullivan, the...thing, in the basement. We need to resolve this matter."
Sullivan straightened in his chair and narrowed his eyes. "I didn't think there was anything left to discuss."
"We can't have that lying dormant on our grounds! It's bordering on heresy," Brennan pleaded. "We can't possibly be entertaining this."
"The issue is resolved. Jasen remains where he is."
"But we can't entertain this notion any longer! The Vatican has already expressed concern about our continuing involvement with it."
"With him," Sullivan corrected. "And in case you haven't noticed, Brennan, the Vatican is surrounded by fascists and hasn't had any significant command authority over us for more than a year. I made a deal with him, and I stand by it."
"Stand by a deal with one of them?"
"My word is my oath. You knew this before I was made part of this council, and nothing’s changed in the interim."
Brennan sighed and hung his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, while McKenna narrowed his eyes again. This had been a point of contention for some time between them, and the problem had only been exacerbated by the outbreak of war in Europe. Maybe it was angers running hot at the prospect of not lifting a finger to help defeat a real threat. Maybe it was something else. Either way, the issue had only gotten worse as the months had passed. A moment of tense silence passed before Brennan spoke again.
"We'll discuss this later then. The meeting's adjourned. I dunno about you two, but I'm getting a pint while the pub's still there," he said, lifting himself out of his chair. McKenna responded with an affirmative grunt before pushing his out and heading for the door. Sullivan, in his measured way, eased himself out of his chair and leaned onto his cane before heading for the doorway they'd come all come in. Brennan met him at the door, opening it for him.
"You know, Will," Brennan said, "we've been friends a long time. When Edward died, I recommended you take his position. You're a good friend, and I've yet to meet a greater man. But you can't let this go on. You're not breaking your oath, least not as far as I'm concerned."
"I think I'll have a pint with you, Donald," he said, pausing in the door and leaning heavily on his cane as he smiled to himself.
Hope you enjoyed the first chapter of my book! As always, upvotes are appreciated, and I welcome any constructive criticism you'd like to send my way. Always happy for tips on how to improve my writing!
Andrei Chira is a vaper, voluntaryist, and all-around cool dude. Formerly a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division, he now spends his time between working in a vape shop, contributing to Seeds of Liberty on Facebook and Steemit, writing short fiction, and expanding his understanding of...well, everything, with an eye on obtaining a law degree in the future.
