Richard H. Stephens's Blog, page 2
October 14, 2018
Soul Forge Book Blurbs!
Scene: Pictured above: Treacher's Gorge.
The rain had found them, waiting until they stepped onto the goat path, and proceeded to assault them mercilessly for the remainder of that first day away from Redfire.
It took them four days to reach Treacher’s Gorge, a deep divide between several abutting mountains where the Spine intersected the Land’s End of the Undying Wall. The crumbling ledge they traversed, curved around the latter’s windswept peak, circling its southwest face, where the trail fell away fourteen thousand feet into the gorge.
If not for the bridge, Silurian would have believed they were the only people ever to witness this sight, so desolate was the area. He had stood upon this brink twice before, but the sheer depth of the yawning abyss still rendered him breathless.
Before them, a rickety wood and rope bridge stretched away to the center of the gap between four jagged peaks where it was bisected by a platform. From the platform, the bridge had originally split off in three directions, but they could see that the segment on the left had collapsed and a large piece of it was still attached, swirling about below the platform. Hopefully no one was on it when it fell. The bridge deck consisted of oak, cross planks, with a thick rope handrail for support. The entrance to the derelict span lay between two sickly looking trees, the left one but a stump. The handrail hawsers and the ropes supporting the decking were anchored around the two tree trunks, shooting through two large iron eyelets atop thick iron posts driven into the bedrock.
A strong wind buffeted the dilapidated span, causing it to sway in undulating waves toward the central platform, the ramshackle picket roadbed swinging wildly back and forth. The fraying ropes holding the entire structure together, creaked with the promise of failure. How anyone built the structure was a mystery, as it traversed a thousand feet of open air to the center, and again that far to the other peaks.
It was all they could do to keep their mounts from stepping away from the precipice. Any slip upon the crumbling ledge would surely prove fatal.
Avarick slid from his saddle, keeping firm hold of his horse. Confident he had the frightened animal under control; he grabbed Silurian’s reins so he could dismount also.
“Well?” Silurian asked, the bitter wind whipping his unkempt hair about. “Who’s first?” He shouted; his words whisked away almost before he spoke them.
Avarick raised his eyebrows. The bridge looked worse than he remembered. He was sure the southern span had been intact last time he was here. He didn’t think it could withstand the weight of a man, let alone a horse. “Um, I’m thinking this was your idea!”
Silurian swallowed. He scanned Avarick from head to toe. “You weigh less!”
“Even better! If you make it, I won’t have anything to worry about!” Avarick gestured with a slight bow and an outstretched hand. “After you!”
Silurian hesitated. His horse tried to pull away from the brink.
“Perhaps you should try it by yourself first, without the horse?” Avarick suggested.
“Cross it twice? Ya, right!” He pulled a small blanket from a saddlebag. The wind tried to snatch it from his grasp. With difficulty, he cinched it over his horse’s face, effectively blinding it.
Taking a deep breath, he tugged upon the reins. The horse balked at first before stepping forward. Silurian tapped the first plank with an outstretched foot. The bridge’s motion bridge beneath his probing foot did little to reassure him.
Grabbing the thrumming hawser handrail with his free hand, he closed his eyes, stepping out over the beckoning chasm. Amazed the planks actually supported him, he opened his eyes. Looking down, he froze.
“Don’t look down!”
“Ya, thanks,” Silurian grunted without looking back. Gathering his courage, he took another small step, and quickly stopped again to breathe. This was going to take a while. Wait until he tied to coax his horse onto the swaying bridge.
Wide eyed, Avarick couldn’t find his own breath. He expected at any moment to bear witness to Zephyr’s long forgotten hero plunging thousands upon thousands of feet to an unmarked grave. He should have taken the initiative himself, but his legs wouldn’t have responded even had he the courage to do so. Watching Silurian struggle with his mount, the warrior’s demise didn’t seem to be far away.
Silurian’s mount balked, feeling the bridge move beneath its hooves. With patient determination, he compelled it forward.
Once on the bridge, two remarkable things happened in quick succession. The bridge, with the considerable amount of extra weight added to it, instead of sagging further into the abyss, became tauter. The second was the horse’s reaction. The frightened beast had only one thought in mind: get off the shaking surface as quickly as possible. It began walking so quickly that Silurian found himself struggling to keep ahead of it. Should it overtake him upon the narrow span, or misstep sideways, they were lost.
To make matters worse, a light sleet began to lash at them, dampening the bridge deck.
Avarick was amazed. Silurian was actually doing it. Against all that made sense, the man was already at the junction and the bridge still held.
The Enervator almost screeched when Silurian reached the central platform and slipped upon the slick boards.
The swordsman fell to his knees, for but a moment, before reaching out to grab the far hand rope, pulling himself upright, and then they were off again, man and horse, swaying their way toward the northern peak.
Before long, far too soon for Avarick’s liking, it was his turn to cross. Silurian and his horse waited safely on the far side of Treacher’s Gorge.
He almost turned back. Almost. For some reason, he had grown a strange affinity for the wretch standing on the far side of the fourteen-thousand-foot chasm. Was he developing a respect for the man he so recently condemned? Perhaps Zephyr had hope after all. Perhaps, but the only way to find out for sure was to see the journey through. That meant crossing the bridge. If he lost the legendary man now, he would never find him again. The High Bishop would not be pleased.
Wiping the sleet from his cheeks, he followed Silurian’s example and hooded his horse. With a heavy swallow, he stepped out over the yawning abyss. The cataract at its base, lost in the mist far below.
* * *
Silurian looked at the tiny figures of the Enervator and his horse entering the far end of the rickety span. He looked at the thick ropes securing the bridge and then to the sheath upon his belt holding his fancy dagger. It would be too easy.
Scene: In the war chamber below Castle Svelte. Queen Quarrnaine is looking for answers to stop the army advancing on them. The High Bishop and High Warlord are butting heads.
The bishop cast a sidelong glance at the large man across the table. "The royal guard also returned last night, accompanying the messengers. We must expedite preparations for the inevitable siege. Local troops entrench themselves as we speak, along Lugubrius’ borders to assist the royal host’s retreat."
He studied the glum faces around the table, picking up the golden goblet on the table before him. Swallowing loudly, he wiped his pale lips with a free hand and reached into his vestment, producing a yellowed scroll. Brandishing the parchment like a weapon, he continued.
"A few months ago, amid all the despondency, my deacon uncovered a scroll from deep within the catacombs below us that may interest this council. Said scroll is in ancient text unbeknownst to most, though remarkably, its concerns recent affairs." He held out the scroll to the queen. "No offense intended your majesty, but I do not believe the script will prove intelligible to you."
She studied the scribbling briefly, turning the scroll over in her hands, examining its quality before returning it to the bishop's care. "No offense taken, your Grace," she replied. The trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I trust it is to you."
"Aye, 'tis my queen, though I must admit, even I consulted my chief archivist to fully appreciate its content.
"The scroll is dated the year of the tree, six hundred, nineteen; two years after the Battle of Lugubrious. You probably wonder why a text written seventeen years ago is transcribed in ancient script.” He paused to look around the table. Despondent faces looked back at him.
“We don’t know. Nor can we fathom how the scroll found its way into the oldest section of the vault.”
He paused, allowing his audience time to mull that over. He cleared his throat, “The text begins with the Battle of Lugubrius. I shall spare you its retelling, but the latter passages delve deeper into a powerful myth that has split the church factions for hundreds of years.
"I trust you are familiar with the Sacred Sword Voil legend?" He studied the mixed reactions while he took a sip from his goblet. He noticed a few blank looks. "For the benefit of those who are not, I shall endeavor to briefly retell it.”
Ignoring a grunt from across the table, the bishop began, "Legend has it, the Sacred Sword Voil was forged upon the fiery summit of the world's highest peak by the hands of Saint Carmichael. He intended to use the sword against the evil usurpers of his time who were intent upon turning the church upon its back by instigating internal, political strife. Alas, while placing the final touches on the blade he was ambushed, and brutally slain. Before he died, however, the legend infers he imbued within the sword a part of himself. One of his disciples snuck into the raiding party’s camp that same night, and escaped with the sword. This individual sailed to our shores, and with the aid of a cult commissioned in Saint Carmichael’s name, erected a shrine. The sword became the focus of the main alter piece.”
Across the table, the high warlord fidgeted with the goblet before him, trying to control himself. The bishop thought he heard the words, ‘Oh, come off it,’ uttered under the man’s breath. He glanced briefly at the queen for help, but was met with a stoic glance.
Sipping his wine, he continued. "The Sacred Sword Voil is reputed to have retained a measure of its magical property. The sword in question is the same sword wielded by Silurian Mintaka nineteen years ago..."
The huge warlord rose to his feet, his green surcoat unfolding around his legs. Heavy brows did little to conceal his look of utter contempt. "Forgive me my queen, but I, and I am certain everyone else assembled, grow tired listening to good bishop's children’s tales. He speaks of a sword whose magic is lost to it. I implore we stop wasting our precious time discussing some hokey religious myth. Must I point out, it is not a myth battering our good king's heels; nor is it conjecture that while we sit here fantasizing, the realm is being laid waste. Within the next fortnight, this great bastion of castle Svelte, the essence of everything we hold dear, shall fall beneath the sorcerer’s shadow. I say we stop this fairy-taling and get on with the business at hand." The high warlord pounded the table with the side of a clenched fist to emphasize his point, before easing his brawn into his protesting chair.
The bishop received the harsh criticism with practiced composure. He looked to the queen who merely raised her eyebrows.
“Thank-you, my queen.” He turned to face the council. “I am well aware of good Clavius’ concern. Time is a commodity we can ill afford to waste. It is for this very reason I insist the council hear me out.
"The scroll reveals much, much more. It recounts the story of Silurian Mintaka's personal crusade to find the resting place of the healing saint, Raphael. He believed that by locating Raphael's tomb, he could invoke the saint's spirit. The scroll states Silurian found Saint Raphael’s resting place along the banks of Saros’ Swamp. The location of this particular body of water lies somewhere deep within the Forbidden Swamp, hundreds of leagues east of the Shrine of Saint Carmichael. In return for restoring the blade's magic, Saros bade Silurian leave the sword under his protection.
"It is further written, the magic imbued in the sword cannot be utilized again until a royal member from house Svelte transports it back to its original resting place upon the altar of the Shrine of Saint Carmichael. Saros informed Silurian, that should the need ever be so great again, that only then should the sword be sought. The scroll claims, returning the blade to its sheath upon the altar will evoke an ancient magic and restore balance to the sword. And so, kingdom."
The incensed warlord spared no time getting to his feet. “Your Highness! We gain nothing listening to the prattle of religious myth. How much time must we squander entertaining the fanatical whims of our spiritual friend? Even were there credibility to the legend, we can ill afford the time pondering such an incredulous quest, let alone find the manpower needed to traverse the Forbidden swamp wastelands in search of this fabled Saros’ Swamp.” Clavius hammered the table with a clenched fist, rattling goblets, driving home his point. “The enemy will be at our doorstep before a fortnight is past. That. Is. Fact.”
The high warlord glared at the bishop, his breathing labored. “I say, go find the hallowed sword of yon, good bishop. Better yet, search out Mintaka. Convince him to lead you. But do it alone. This conjecture is nonsense; utter and complete drivel.”
The bishop put down his goblet. "Your Majesty, if you will be so kind as to let me finish. Uninterrupted if you please. I assure you, I do not waste this council's precious time."
Quarrnaine pulled at her lower lip. She gave the high warlord a stern look. "Very well, your Grace. Your council has been invaluable in the past. You deserve our undivided attention now."
She rose regally to her feet. "Further outbursts from the floor will not be tolerated." She hammered her scepter upon the table. Everyone jumped. She directed a disapproving glare at the high warlord.
"You may proceed, your Grace."
"Thank-you, my queen." The bishop said softly. His next words were strong and sure. "Only a member of royal lineage, be it by birthright or religious rite, may deliver the Sacred Sword Voil to its proper resting place. Indeed, Silurian Mintaka, being a former Defender of the Realm, falls into the latter category. In answer to my friend, I dispatched messengers weeks ago in search of the man.”
The bishop turned to the warlord. “My senior messenger arrived last night from Gritian. If Silurian is still alive, he cannot be found." He sipped from his goblet, eyeing the high warlord over the cup's brim.
"The sword must be sheathed upon the altar of Saint Carmichael, where the original scabbard still hangs. The script states, only by doing thus shall the sword’s power be released, thus denying the evil threatening the realm.
"There is one condition with this action…”
“Oh, here we go.” The high warlord muttered.
The queen cast him an ominous glance.
“Once the sword has been sheathed, its power shall be spent. The Sacred Sword Voil is the last remaining relic of the long-ago, Age of Saints. Should we elect to use it now, we shall forever more be left to our own devices if the need ever arises again.”
The high warlord stood violently. “Well I guess that settles it then!”
The queen jumped to her feet. “Clavius!”
The chamber erupted into utter pandemonium.
Scene: The deathbed of a friend.
Bregens lay quietly beneath a heavy woolen blanket, deep within the Chamber of the Wise catacombs, close to death. The right side of his head, crushed.
A sputtering candle sitting on the edge of a stained, bedside table, cast the room in flickering light. The table the only furniture in the gloomy room other than the bed. Incense burned within an ancient, tarnished thurible, set beside the stubby candle, its white vapor, thick in the stale air, smelled faintly of sandalwood.
Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io, himself a bishop, knelt upon the cold stone floor, his elbows propped on the edge of the straw mattress. He cupped his face in his hands, muttering prayers. A shiny gold chain wrapped tightly about his gnarled fingers gave him something to fiddle with as he offered prayers for the dying man.
Barely visible in the flickering light, standing in the shadows in a back corner, Silurian looked on. If Bregen’s hadn’t fended off the four horsemen in the stream, himself and Avarick would likely not have fared so well. The boy, the farmer, the green hand that recently enlisted with the Gritian militia, had slain two experienced thugs, and detained another two long enough to delay them from assisting their comrades against Silurian and Avarick.
Silurian leaned wearily against the stone wall, bent over slightly, one hand holding up his other arm by the elbow, cupping his forehead. Traces of dried tears streaked his grimy face. He wasn’t prone to cry. He’d seen gruesome things in his time. Lost many a good friend, but for some reason, Bregens’ injuries affected him more than he wanted to admit.
Avarick took one look at the stricken boy and said it didn’t matter if the healer were right there with them, but Silurian wouldn’t be put off. After plucking the lifeless boy from the stream, Silurian had located his horse, and tied him across its back. Avarick had found his own horse not far away. Together they galloped non-stop back to Gritian, which, unfortunately, was the closest place to find a healer.
They rode into Gritian near sunrise the following morning. It was now past suppertime. A lone rider had been dispatched to alert the boy’s family. Another had been sent north to inform the High Warlord, Silurian had been found. As of yet, neither had returned.
Silurian wore the same clothes he had on when they trotted into town. He had practically fallen from his horse when a squire took his reins. Others rushed to offer him aid only to realize who he was. Their concerned looks became surly, but one look from the Enervator had sent them scrambling back to their duties. Silurian shrugged off their less than enthusiastic attempts at aid. He staggered after the litter bearing the Farrier boy toward the healing chambers, on his own. A few Chambermen they passed on the way spoke of arresting him, but after a word with Avarick, they had left him alone.
The candlelight flickered more than usual. Silurian looked up. The head healer entered the room. Shooing the bishop aside, the healer examined the motionless body. He shook his head.
“He’s beyond my ken. It won’t be much longer now.” The healer whispered, brushing past Solomon into the hall.
Solomon looked at Silurian. His heart ached for the boy, but, perhaps more so for the troubled man standing silent vigil in the dark recess. He knew Silurian felt responsible for the boy. During the long hours of painful silence, Solomon tried telling him Bregens’ condition resulted from the actions of an evil band of men. Bregens had made the decision to follow Silurian.
Solomon wanted to say something more, but couldn’t. With a sigh, he knelt at the bedside to administer Bregens’ last rights.
Silurian listened absently to the bishop’s ministrations. He emerged from the shadows and squeezed into the tight space between the bed and the wall. He took Bregen’s hand.
Silurian grimaced at Bregens’ bruised face, squished beneath a heavy swath of blood soaked bandages. He didn’t recognize the young man who had faithfully followed him to his death.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He knelt upon one knee on the cold, stone floor; his baldric clanged against the granite wall. He tightened his grip on Bregens’ lifeless hand. As cold as his hands were, the boy’s were colder. He closed his eyes and wept.
How long he knelt that way, he had no idea, but he became aware of the absolute silence that had settled over the chamber. He opened his eyes to see Solomon shrouded in the last vestiges of sputtering candlelight. He looked at Bregens’ and nearly leapt from his skin.
The boy’s eyes were open. One more so than the other.
Solomon looked from boy to man to boy again.
Beneath all those wrappings, beneath all the pain he must be in, Bregens tried to smile.
Silurian smiled back, almost choking out a laugh. Tears rolling unabashedly off his face.
“We beat them, sire?”
Bregen’s pathetic voice caused Silurian’s throat to restrict so much it made it hard to breathe.
He nodded, his vision so blurred by tears he could barely see the boy’s smile grow wider. Silurian used one hand to grab the stained sheet and wiped his face. He clasped the boy’s hand to his chest.
“I knew we would, sire. You are Sir Silurian, king’s champion, and Zephyr’s savior.”
Silurian wanted to cry harder. He managed to say, “We couldn’t have done it without you. Avarick and I owe you our lives.” He raised his voice. “Now stop calling me Sir!”
Solomon glared at him aghast.
A tear welled in Bregens’ good eye, and rolled down his cheek. He recalled the night before the Enervator found them. Deep in the gully, Alhena had told him, ‘When the day comes he angrily warns you to stop calling him, Sir, you can rest assured, that only then, are you his friend.’
Bregens whispered, “Aww….” He coughed. His body convulsed. Brutal pain twisted his face. When the coughing fit passed, another agonizing pain jolted his body. His grip upon Silurian’s hands was incredible.
The seizure passed.
Bregens turned his head to look Silurian squarely in the eye. “Bregens is Silurian’s friend?” He managed a weak smile.
Silurian nodded, his throat constricting tighter, his vision blinded by tears.
Bregens’ hand released its death grip. His eyes became vacant. His shallow chest rises came no more.
High Bishop Abraham Uzziah sat bolt upright in bed, stirred from a restless nap. Muted sunlight filtered into his bedchamber via skylights carved through many feet of solid stone; evidence the day was waning. He looked about, troubled. He couldn’t shake the feeling. Someone was coming for him.
Scene: Alhena recalls where he has heard the warning before.
The evening grew late as the group discussed the recent turn of events; recalling old yarns and myths in an effort to determine the significance of the warning, ‘ware the Sentinel.’
Rook and Avarick spoke quietly alongside Longsight and Pollard who were engaged in an animated discussion, when everyone stopped in midsentence.
A look of stunned revelation gripped Alhena’s features.
“What is it?” Thorr asked.
“I know where it comes from.” Alhena whispered.
Everyone leaned closer.
“I knew I had heard that phrase at some other time in my life, but I couldn’t quite place it.” His voice dropped off as he thought about what he said.
“And?” Thorr prodded.
A lengthy silence ensued before Alhena nodded to himself. “A long time ago, long before I started running for the Chamber, I was an archivist in the royal library under castle Svelte.” He drifted off.
Suddenly he pointed at no one in particular. “Yes. Yes! That’s it!” He carried on a private conversation with himself. “The scroll. That’s where I’ve seen it before.”
“The scroll? What scroll?”
Alhena looked directly into Thorr’s eyes, but his focus lay somewhere else, far beyond. When he spoke, his words came in spurts as memories slammed into his consciousness. “It was an old scroll...Ancient scroll…Brittle. We almost weren’t able to preserve it long enough to read it…Yes. Carmichael’s scroll. That’s it!” He laughed a little insanely. “That’s what we called it, anyway.”
No one knew who we were.
“Saint Carmichael’s scroll. At least we believe he wrote it.” Alhena sat back on the rock, looking pleased with himself. When he didn’t offer anything further, the group felt like choking him.
Thorr spoke through clenched teeth. “And what, pray tell, did this scroll say.”
“Huh? Oh. Well, it’s more a song than a story. Don’t expect me to sing it, though. Hmmm? Let’s see…if I remember…”
Just when the group believed he wasn’t going to say anymore, he did. “To the best of my recollection, mind you it’s been fifty years at least, the scroll read something like this:
An eerie silence gripped the group. Everyone looked around, trying to peer beyond the reach of the fire’s glow, half expecting this ‘Sentinel’ to claim them right then and there.
They waited for Alhena to elaborate.
The old man looked directly at each member of the quest seated about the fire. To a person, their eyes displayed a wariness not present before.
“Perhaps I should not have mentioned it.” He dropped his gaze to the flames, his voice falling to a whisper. “Probably has nothing to do with us…”
None of the fidgeting people around the campfire believed that for a second.
When the shadow stabs,
the life-giving sun,”
He paused, staring vacantly past everyone watching him, trying to recall the verse correctly.
“forth shall he ride,
behind all is gone.
Freedom denied,
to those whom fall
within his shadow,
death to all.
Upon naive waves,
he unfurls his sail.
Fear ye whom live,
for only he will prevail.
We live now only to await,
our life blood courses nigh.
The Stygian Lord comes again,
blighting the land, razing the sky.
Only one hope remains,
for those foolish enough to pursue.
Onto the Under Realm,
into hell, but never through.
Venture forth to unknown power,
a cradle of evil disgorge.
A quest of unspeakable terror,
journey unto Soul Forge.
For those whom search,
death shall follow.
For those whom persist,
shall be riven hollow.
As does the Innerworld,
also does hell.
A drinker of souls,
'ware the Sentinel!” An eerie silence gripped the group. Everyone looked around, trying to peer beyond the reach of the fire’s glow, half expecting this ‘Sentinel’ to claim them right then and there.
They waited for Alhena to elaborate.
The old man looked directly at each member of the quest seated about the fire. To a person, their eyes displayed a wariness not present before.
“Perhaps I should not have mentioned it.” He dropped his gaze to the flames, his voice falling to a whisper. “Probably has nothing to do with us…”
None of the fidgeting people around the campfire believed that for a second.
The rain had found them, waiting until they stepped onto the goat path, and proceeded to assault them mercilessly for the remainder of that first day away from Redfire.
It took them four days to reach Treacher’s Gorge, a deep divide between several abutting mountains where the Spine intersected the Land’s End of the Undying Wall. The crumbling ledge they traversed, curved around the latter’s windswept peak, circling its southwest face, where the trail fell away fourteen thousand feet into the gorge.
If not for the bridge, Silurian would have believed they were the only people ever to witness this sight, so desolate was the area. He had stood upon this brink twice before, but the sheer depth of the yawning abyss still rendered him breathless.
Before them, a rickety wood and rope bridge stretched away to the center of the gap between four jagged peaks where it was bisected by a platform. From the platform, the bridge had originally split off in three directions, but they could see that the segment on the left had collapsed and a large piece of it was still attached, swirling about below the platform. Hopefully no one was on it when it fell. The bridge deck consisted of oak, cross planks, with a thick rope handrail for support. The entrance to the derelict span lay between two sickly looking trees, the left one but a stump. The handrail hawsers and the ropes supporting the decking were anchored around the two tree trunks, shooting through two large iron eyelets atop thick iron posts driven into the bedrock.
A strong wind buffeted the dilapidated span, causing it to sway in undulating waves toward the central platform, the ramshackle picket roadbed swinging wildly back and forth. The fraying ropes holding the entire structure together, creaked with the promise of failure. How anyone built the structure was a mystery, as it traversed a thousand feet of open air to the center, and again that far to the other peaks.
It was all they could do to keep their mounts from stepping away from the precipice. Any slip upon the crumbling ledge would surely prove fatal.
Avarick slid from his saddle, keeping firm hold of his horse. Confident he had the frightened animal under control; he grabbed Silurian’s reins so he could dismount also.
“Well?” Silurian asked, the bitter wind whipping his unkempt hair about. “Who’s first?” He shouted; his words whisked away almost before he spoke them.
Avarick raised his eyebrows. The bridge looked worse than he remembered. He was sure the southern span had been intact last time he was here. He didn’t think it could withstand the weight of a man, let alone a horse. “Um, I’m thinking this was your idea!”
Silurian swallowed. He scanned Avarick from head to toe. “You weigh less!”
“Even better! If you make it, I won’t have anything to worry about!” Avarick gestured with a slight bow and an outstretched hand. “After you!”
Silurian hesitated. His horse tried to pull away from the brink.
“Perhaps you should try it by yourself first, without the horse?” Avarick suggested.
“Cross it twice? Ya, right!” He pulled a small blanket from a saddlebag. The wind tried to snatch it from his grasp. With difficulty, he cinched it over his horse’s face, effectively blinding it.
Taking a deep breath, he tugged upon the reins. The horse balked at first before stepping forward. Silurian tapped the first plank with an outstretched foot. The bridge’s motion bridge beneath his probing foot did little to reassure him.
Grabbing the thrumming hawser handrail with his free hand, he closed his eyes, stepping out over the beckoning chasm. Amazed the planks actually supported him, he opened his eyes. Looking down, he froze.
“Don’t look down!”
“Ya, thanks,” Silurian grunted without looking back. Gathering his courage, he took another small step, and quickly stopped again to breathe. This was going to take a while. Wait until he tied to coax his horse onto the swaying bridge.
Wide eyed, Avarick couldn’t find his own breath. He expected at any moment to bear witness to Zephyr’s long forgotten hero plunging thousands upon thousands of feet to an unmarked grave. He should have taken the initiative himself, but his legs wouldn’t have responded even had he the courage to do so. Watching Silurian struggle with his mount, the warrior’s demise didn’t seem to be far away.
Silurian’s mount balked, feeling the bridge move beneath its hooves. With patient determination, he compelled it forward.
Once on the bridge, two remarkable things happened in quick succession. The bridge, with the considerable amount of extra weight added to it, instead of sagging further into the abyss, became tauter. The second was the horse’s reaction. The frightened beast had only one thought in mind: get off the shaking surface as quickly as possible. It began walking so quickly that Silurian found himself struggling to keep ahead of it. Should it overtake him upon the narrow span, or misstep sideways, they were lost.
To make matters worse, a light sleet began to lash at them, dampening the bridge deck.
Avarick was amazed. Silurian was actually doing it. Against all that made sense, the man was already at the junction and the bridge still held.
The Enervator almost screeched when Silurian reached the central platform and slipped upon the slick boards.
The swordsman fell to his knees, for but a moment, before reaching out to grab the far hand rope, pulling himself upright, and then they were off again, man and horse, swaying their way toward the northern peak.
Before long, far too soon for Avarick’s liking, it was his turn to cross. Silurian and his horse waited safely on the far side of Treacher’s Gorge.
He almost turned back. Almost. For some reason, he had grown a strange affinity for the wretch standing on the far side of the fourteen-thousand-foot chasm. Was he developing a respect for the man he so recently condemned? Perhaps Zephyr had hope after all. Perhaps, but the only way to find out for sure was to see the journey through. That meant crossing the bridge. If he lost the legendary man now, he would never find him again. The High Bishop would not be pleased.
Wiping the sleet from his cheeks, he followed Silurian’s example and hooded his horse. With a heavy swallow, he stepped out over the yawning abyss. The cataract at its base, lost in the mist far below.
* * *
Silurian looked at the tiny figures of the Enervator and his horse entering the far end of the rickety span. He looked at the thick ropes securing the bridge and then to the sheath upon his belt holding his fancy dagger. It would be too easy.
Scene: In the war chamber below Castle Svelte. Queen Quarrnaine is looking for answers to stop the army advancing on them. The High Bishop and High Warlord are butting heads.
The bishop cast a sidelong glance at the large man across the table. "The royal guard also returned last night, accompanying the messengers. We must expedite preparations for the inevitable siege. Local troops entrench themselves as we speak, along Lugubrius’ borders to assist the royal host’s retreat."
He studied the glum faces around the table, picking up the golden goblet on the table before him. Swallowing loudly, he wiped his pale lips with a free hand and reached into his vestment, producing a yellowed scroll. Brandishing the parchment like a weapon, he continued.
"A few months ago, amid all the despondency, my deacon uncovered a scroll from deep within the catacombs below us that may interest this council. Said scroll is in ancient text unbeknownst to most, though remarkably, its concerns recent affairs." He held out the scroll to the queen. "No offense intended your majesty, but I do not believe the script will prove intelligible to you."
She studied the scribbling briefly, turning the scroll over in her hands, examining its quality before returning it to the bishop's care. "No offense taken, your Grace," she replied. The trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I trust it is to you."
"Aye, 'tis my queen, though I must admit, even I consulted my chief archivist to fully appreciate its content.
"The scroll is dated the year of the tree, six hundred, nineteen; two years after the Battle of Lugubrious. You probably wonder why a text written seventeen years ago is transcribed in ancient script.” He paused to look around the table. Despondent faces looked back at him.
“We don’t know. Nor can we fathom how the scroll found its way into the oldest section of the vault.”
He paused, allowing his audience time to mull that over. He cleared his throat, “The text begins with the Battle of Lugubrius. I shall spare you its retelling, but the latter passages delve deeper into a powerful myth that has split the church factions for hundreds of years.
"I trust you are familiar with the Sacred Sword Voil legend?" He studied the mixed reactions while he took a sip from his goblet. He noticed a few blank looks. "For the benefit of those who are not, I shall endeavor to briefly retell it.”
Ignoring a grunt from across the table, the bishop began, "Legend has it, the Sacred Sword Voil was forged upon the fiery summit of the world's highest peak by the hands of Saint Carmichael. He intended to use the sword against the evil usurpers of his time who were intent upon turning the church upon its back by instigating internal, political strife. Alas, while placing the final touches on the blade he was ambushed, and brutally slain. Before he died, however, the legend infers he imbued within the sword a part of himself. One of his disciples snuck into the raiding party’s camp that same night, and escaped with the sword. This individual sailed to our shores, and with the aid of a cult commissioned in Saint Carmichael’s name, erected a shrine. The sword became the focus of the main alter piece.”
Across the table, the high warlord fidgeted with the goblet before him, trying to control himself. The bishop thought he heard the words, ‘Oh, come off it,’ uttered under the man’s breath. He glanced briefly at the queen for help, but was met with a stoic glance.
Sipping his wine, he continued. "The Sacred Sword Voil is reputed to have retained a measure of its magical property. The sword in question is the same sword wielded by Silurian Mintaka nineteen years ago..."
The huge warlord rose to his feet, his green surcoat unfolding around his legs. Heavy brows did little to conceal his look of utter contempt. "Forgive me my queen, but I, and I am certain everyone else assembled, grow tired listening to good bishop's children’s tales. He speaks of a sword whose magic is lost to it. I implore we stop wasting our precious time discussing some hokey religious myth. Must I point out, it is not a myth battering our good king's heels; nor is it conjecture that while we sit here fantasizing, the realm is being laid waste. Within the next fortnight, this great bastion of castle Svelte, the essence of everything we hold dear, shall fall beneath the sorcerer’s shadow. I say we stop this fairy-taling and get on with the business at hand." The high warlord pounded the table with the side of a clenched fist to emphasize his point, before easing his brawn into his protesting chair.
The bishop received the harsh criticism with practiced composure. He looked to the queen who merely raised her eyebrows.
“Thank-you, my queen.” He turned to face the council. “I am well aware of good Clavius’ concern. Time is a commodity we can ill afford to waste. It is for this very reason I insist the council hear me out.
"The scroll reveals much, much more. It recounts the story of Silurian Mintaka's personal crusade to find the resting place of the healing saint, Raphael. He believed that by locating Raphael's tomb, he could invoke the saint's spirit. The scroll states Silurian found Saint Raphael’s resting place along the banks of Saros’ Swamp. The location of this particular body of water lies somewhere deep within the Forbidden Swamp, hundreds of leagues east of the Shrine of Saint Carmichael. In return for restoring the blade's magic, Saros bade Silurian leave the sword under his protection.
"It is further written, the magic imbued in the sword cannot be utilized again until a royal member from house Svelte transports it back to its original resting place upon the altar of the Shrine of Saint Carmichael. Saros informed Silurian, that should the need ever be so great again, that only then should the sword be sought. The scroll claims, returning the blade to its sheath upon the altar will evoke an ancient magic and restore balance to the sword. And so, kingdom."
The incensed warlord spared no time getting to his feet. “Your Highness! We gain nothing listening to the prattle of religious myth. How much time must we squander entertaining the fanatical whims of our spiritual friend? Even were there credibility to the legend, we can ill afford the time pondering such an incredulous quest, let alone find the manpower needed to traverse the Forbidden swamp wastelands in search of this fabled Saros’ Swamp.” Clavius hammered the table with a clenched fist, rattling goblets, driving home his point. “The enemy will be at our doorstep before a fortnight is past. That. Is. Fact.”
The high warlord glared at the bishop, his breathing labored. “I say, go find the hallowed sword of yon, good bishop. Better yet, search out Mintaka. Convince him to lead you. But do it alone. This conjecture is nonsense; utter and complete drivel.”
The bishop put down his goblet. "Your Majesty, if you will be so kind as to let me finish. Uninterrupted if you please. I assure you, I do not waste this council's precious time."
Quarrnaine pulled at her lower lip. She gave the high warlord a stern look. "Very well, your Grace. Your council has been invaluable in the past. You deserve our undivided attention now."
She rose regally to her feet. "Further outbursts from the floor will not be tolerated." She hammered her scepter upon the table. Everyone jumped. She directed a disapproving glare at the high warlord.
"You may proceed, your Grace."
"Thank-you, my queen." The bishop said softly. His next words were strong and sure. "Only a member of royal lineage, be it by birthright or religious rite, may deliver the Sacred Sword Voil to its proper resting place. Indeed, Silurian Mintaka, being a former Defender of the Realm, falls into the latter category. In answer to my friend, I dispatched messengers weeks ago in search of the man.”
The bishop turned to the warlord. “My senior messenger arrived last night from Gritian. If Silurian is still alive, he cannot be found." He sipped from his goblet, eyeing the high warlord over the cup's brim.
"The sword must be sheathed upon the altar of Saint Carmichael, where the original scabbard still hangs. The script states, only by doing thus shall the sword’s power be released, thus denying the evil threatening the realm.
"There is one condition with this action…”
“Oh, here we go.” The high warlord muttered.
The queen cast him an ominous glance.
“Once the sword has been sheathed, its power shall be spent. The Sacred Sword Voil is the last remaining relic of the long-ago, Age of Saints. Should we elect to use it now, we shall forever more be left to our own devices if the need ever arises again.”
The high warlord stood violently. “Well I guess that settles it then!”
The queen jumped to her feet. “Clavius!”
The chamber erupted into utter pandemonium.
Scene: The deathbed of a friend.
Bregens lay quietly beneath a heavy woolen blanket, deep within the Chamber of the Wise catacombs, close to death. The right side of his head, crushed.
A sputtering candle sitting on the edge of a stained, bedside table, cast the room in flickering light. The table the only furniture in the gloomy room other than the bed. Incense burned within an ancient, tarnished thurible, set beside the stubby candle, its white vapor, thick in the stale air, smelled faintly of sandalwood.
Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io, himself a bishop, knelt upon the cold stone floor, his elbows propped on the edge of the straw mattress. He cupped his face in his hands, muttering prayers. A shiny gold chain wrapped tightly about his gnarled fingers gave him something to fiddle with as he offered prayers for the dying man.
Barely visible in the flickering light, standing in the shadows in a back corner, Silurian looked on. If Bregen’s hadn’t fended off the four horsemen in the stream, himself and Avarick would likely not have fared so well. The boy, the farmer, the green hand that recently enlisted with the Gritian militia, had slain two experienced thugs, and detained another two long enough to delay them from assisting their comrades against Silurian and Avarick.
Silurian leaned wearily against the stone wall, bent over slightly, one hand holding up his other arm by the elbow, cupping his forehead. Traces of dried tears streaked his grimy face. He wasn’t prone to cry. He’d seen gruesome things in his time. Lost many a good friend, but for some reason, Bregens’ injuries affected him more than he wanted to admit.
Avarick took one look at the stricken boy and said it didn’t matter if the healer were right there with them, but Silurian wouldn’t be put off. After plucking the lifeless boy from the stream, Silurian had located his horse, and tied him across its back. Avarick had found his own horse not far away. Together they galloped non-stop back to Gritian, which, unfortunately, was the closest place to find a healer.
They rode into Gritian near sunrise the following morning. It was now past suppertime. A lone rider had been dispatched to alert the boy’s family. Another had been sent north to inform the High Warlord, Silurian had been found. As of yet, neither had returned.
Silurian wore the same clothes he had on when they trotted into town. He had practically fallen from his horse when a squire took his reins. Others rushed to offer him aid only to realize who he was. Their concerned looks became surly, but one look from the Enervator had sent them scrambling back to their duties. Silurian shrugged off their less than enthusiastic attempts at aid. He staggered after the litter bearing the Farrier boy toward the healing chambers, on his own. A few Chambermen they passed on the way spoke of arresting him, but after a word with Avarick, they had left him alone.
The candlelight flickered more than usual. Silurian looked up. The head healer entered the room. Shooing the bishop aside, the healer examined the motionless body. He shook his head.
“He’s beyond my ken. It won’t be much longer now.” The healer whispered, brushing past Solomon into the hall.
Solomon looked at Silurian. His heart ached for the boy, but, perhaps more so for the troubled man standing silent vigil in the dark recess. He knew Silurian felt responsible for the boy. During the long hours of painful silence, Solomon tried telling him Bregens’ condition resulted from the actions of an evil band of men. Bregens had made the decision to follow Silurian.
Solomon wanted to say something more, but couldn’t. With a sigh, he knelt at the bedside to administer Bregens’ last rights.
Silurian listened absently to the bishop’s ministrations. He emerged from the shadows and squeezed into the tight space between the bed and the wall. He took Bregen’s hand.
Silurian grimaced at Bregens’ bruised face, squished beneath a heavy swath of blood soaked bandages. He didn’t recognize the young man who had faithfully followed him to his death.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He knelt upon one knee on the cold, stone floor; his baldric clanged against the granite wall. He tightened his grip on Bregens’ lifeless hand. As cold as his hands were, the boy’s were colder. He closed his eyes and wept.
How long he knelt that way, he had no idea, but he became aware of the absolute silence that had settled over the chamber. He opened his eyes to see Solomon shrouded in the last vestiges of sputtering candlelight. He looked at Bregens’ and nearly leapt from his skin.
The boy’s eyes were open. One more so than the other.
Solomon looked from boy to man to boy again.
Beneath all those wrappings, beneath all the pain he must be in, Bregens tried to smile.
Silurian smiled back, almost choking out a laugh. Tears rolling unabashedly off his face.
“We beat them, sire?”
Bregen’s pathetic voice caused Silurian’s throat to restrict so much it made it hard to breathe.
He nodded, his vision so blurred by tears he could barely see the boy’s smile grow wider. Silurian used one hand to grab the stained sheet and wiped his face. He clasped the boy’s hand to his chest.
“I knew we would, sire. You are Sir Silurian, king’s champion, and Zephyr’s savior.”
Silurian wanted to cry harder. He managed to say, “We couldn’t have done it without you. Avarick and I owe you our lives.” He raised his voice. “Now stop calling me Sir!”
Solomon glared at him aghast.
A tear welled in Bregens’ good eye, and rolled down his cheek. He recalled the night before the Enervator found them. Deep in the gully, Alhena had told him, ‘When the day comes he angrily warns you to stop calling him, Sir, you can rest assured, that only then, are you his friend.’
Bregens whispered, “Aww….” He coughed. His body convulsed. Brutal pain twisted his face. When the coughing fit passed, another agonizing pain jolted his body. His grip upon Silurian’s hands was incredible.
The seizure passed.
Bregens turned his head to look Silurian squarely in the eye. “Bregens is Silurian’s friend?” He managed a weak smile.
Silurian nodded, his throat constricting tighter, his vision blinded by tears.
Bregens’ hand released its death grip. His eyes became vacant. His shallow chest rises came no more.
High Bishop Abraham Uzziah sat bolt upright in bed, stirred from a restless nap. Muted sunlight filtered into his bedchamber via skylights carved through many feet of solid stone; evidence the day was waning. He looked about, troubled. He couldn’t shake the feeling. Someone was coming for him.
Scene: Alhena recalls where he has heard the warning before.
The evening grew late as the group discussed the recent turn of events; recalling old yarns and myths in an effort to determine the significance of the warning, ‘ware the Sentinel.’
Rook and Avarick spoke quietly alongside Longsight and Pollard who were engaged in an animated discussion, when everyone stopped in midsentence.
A look of stunned revelation gripped Alhena’s features.
“What is it?” Thorr asked.
“I know where it comes from.” Alhena whispered.
Everyone leaned closer.
“I knew I had heard that phrase at some other time in my life, but I couldn’t quite place it.” His voice dropped off as he thought about what he said.
“And?” Thorr prodded.
A lengthy silence ensued before Alhena nodded to himself. “A long time ago, long before I started running for the Chamber, I was an archivist in the royal library under castle Svelte.” He drifted off.
Suddenly he pointed at no one in particular. “Yes. Yes! That’s it!” He carried on a private conversation with himself. “The scroll. That’s where I’ve seen it before.”
“The scroll? What scroll?”
Alhena looked directly into Thorr’s eyes, but his focus lay somewhere else, far beyond. When he spoke, his words came in spurts as memories slammed into his consciousness. “It was an old scroll...Ancient scroll…Brittle. We almost weren’t able to preserve it long enough to read it…Yes. Carmichael’s scroll. That’s it!” He laughed a little insanely. “That’s what we called it, anyway.”
No one knew who we were.
“Saint Carmichael’s scroll. At least we believe he wrote it.” Alhena sat back on the rock, looking pleased with himself. When he didn’t offer anything further, the group felt like choking him.
Thorr spoke through clenched teeth. “And what, pray tell, did this scroll say.”
“Huh? Oh. Well, it’s more a song than a story. Don’t expect me to sing it, though. Hmmm? Let’s see…if I remember…”
Just when the group believed he wasn’t going to say anymore, he did. “To the best of my recollection, mind you it’s been fifty years at least, the scroll read something like this:
An eerie silence gripped the group. Everyone looked around, trying to peer beyond the reach of the fire’s glow, half expecting this ‘Sentinel’ to claim them right then and there.
They waited for Alhena to elaborate.
The old man looked directly at each member of the quest seated about the fire. To a person, their eyes displayed a wariness not present before.
“Perhaps I should not have mentioned it.” He dropped his gaze to the flames, his voice falling to a whisper. “Probably has nothing to do with us…”
None of the fidgeting people around the campfire believed that for a second.
When the shadow stabs,
the life-giving sun,”
He paused, staring vacantly past everyone watching him, trying to recall the verse correctly.
“forth shall he ride,
behind all is gone.
Freedom denied,
to those whom fall
within his shadow,
death to all.
Upon naive waves,
he unfurls his sail.
Fear ye whom live,
for only he will prevail.
We live now only to await,
our life blood courses nigh.
The Stygian Lord comes again,
blighting the land, razing the sky.
Only one hope remains,
for those foolish enough to pursue.
Onto the Under Realm,
into hell, but never through.
Venture forth to unknown power,
a cradle of evil disgorge.
A quest of unspeakable terror,
journey unto Soul Forge.
For those whom search,
death shall follow.
For those whom persist,
shall be riven hollow.
As does the Innerworld,
also does hell.
A drinker of souls,
'ware the Sentinel!” An eerie silence gripped the group. Everyone looked around, trying to peer beyond the reach of the fire’s glow, half expecting this ‘Sentinel’ to claim them right then and there.
They waited for Alhena to elaborate.
The old man looked directly at each member of the quest seated about the fire. To a person, their eyes displayed a wariness not present before.
“Perhaps I should not have mentioned it.” He dropped his gaze to the flames, his voice falling to a whisper. “Probably has nothing to do with us…”
None of the fidgeting people around the campfire believed that for a second.
September 11, 2018
Of Trolls and Evil Things Book Blurbs!
OF TROLLS AND EVIL THINGS is a stand-alone prequel to the SOUL FORGE saga trilogy. OF TROLLS AND EVIL THINGS depicts the main characters, Melody and Silurian when they were young teenagers.
Pictured below is Mount Gloom in the daytime. Imagine running through here in the dark, trying to escape from a maniac bent on killing you...or worse! Ask Silurian and Melody what that's like.
Scene: Silurian sits dejected in the marketplace
Silurian hung his head between his knees in despair, his arms slumped between his legs. How long he sat there he didn’t know, but the squeak of a young girl’s voice broke through his melancholy. A grimy-faced girl, no more than eight, clad in a simple, tattered, brown tunic cinched about her tiny waist with a frayed length of filthy twine stood before the farmer’s table. He smiled at her pretty face hidden with dirt as she shyly placed her order.
The merchant gave her a skeptical look.
The girl produced a tiny burlap pouch bound by another piece of twine. Plunking it proudly upon the table, her face beaming, she proclaimed, “I have money.”
The merchant grunted, turning to his cart to assemble her order.
While the farmer’s back was to the table, a huge man approached. He bumped into the girl, almost knocking her to the ground. The girl shrank away from the malodorous man. Silurian could smell the putrid stench of sweat from where he sat.
The farmer glanced over his shoulder, surprised to find the large man where the girl had been. Raising his eyebrows at the large man, the farmer placed part of the girl’s order on the table, gave the newcomer a slight nod, and turned back to assemble the rest of the order.
While the farmer worked away, Silurian watched the man sneak the girl’s order into his pockets, and walk away. Silurian gaped.
The farmer placed the remainder of the girl’s order upon the table and frowned, wondering what had happened to the first part. He shot her an angry glare.
“Where’d ya put it?”
The girl’s happy face transformed into panic. “But sir, I haven’t stoled yer food. I don’t know wer’d it git.”
The farmer rounded the table so fast the girl fell to her bottom in her haste to escape his advance.
“Then why do ya run?”
Frightened, she covered her face with dirty hands and began to cry.
To Silurian’s surprise, the big man reappeared out of the milling crowd and approached the table, a sadistic grin on his face. “There be a problem ‘ere, good sir?”
The farmer placed his fists on his hips. “Aye, there be a problem.” He pointed a sausage-sized finger at the weeping girl. “This lil bugger’s gone and stole me wares from ‘neath me nose.”
“That so?” the large man said to the weeping girl. He shook his head. Placing a palm on his forehead, resting his elbow upon his upturned hand at his waist, he contemplated what to do. With an exasperated grunt, he slapped his thigh. “I don’t know what I’s ta do with this girl. I send her on a simple errand and she does this. This! Probably wanting ta keep a copper for herself, me thinks, eh?”
Silurian looked to the table where the girl had placed her money. It was gone!
While the large man talked to the farmer, Silurian watched the weeping girl remove her hands from her stricken face and crab walk away from the two men, her eyes filled with terror. She would probably get a whipping, at the very least, for her transgression. Poor child.
“I tells ya what,” the big man said. “How ‘bout I look afta da bill?” He produced the very burlap money pouch the girl had placed upon the table earlier. “And I take her home an’ teach her a lesson, eh? No harm done, eh? Whadya say?”
The farmer wasn’t happy, but neither did he want trouble with the brute. Still, he had a business to run. “Thieves are to be losing a hand in these parts. I have a livin’ to see to, ya know.”
The large man held up his hands. “I hears ya. I hears ya. How’s ‘bout I throw in an extra copper fer yer troubles, eh? How’s that soundin’ t’ ya?” He raised his eyebrows, giving the farmer a wink. “That way we all come away ‘appy like.”
“Well...” It was the farmer’s turn to place a palm to his forehead. He sighed. “Okay. Just this once. Next time I give ‘er over to the law.”
The big man nodded with a grin and went to open the money pouch.
“Hey! Give that back! That’s mine!”
Both men turned in time to see the girl running at them. She swiped at the purse, grasping only air as the big man lifted the pouch above his head. She jumped at the man’s arm, but missed.
The man backhanded her across the face with his free hand, sending her sprawling to the dirt. Blood trickled from her nose.
The man began to count coppers into the farmer’s upturned palm.
The girl sprang to her feet, and grabbed at the man’s thick forearm. “You give it back!”
The brute grabbed her by the scruff of her tunic, pulling her backward. “I’ll deal with ye soon ‘nuff, lassy.” He sniggered. “Now keep yer fool yip shut.” He threw her so hard he nearly tore the shift from her body.
She landed in the path of a heavily laden wagon that had to swerve hard to miss her. The driver cussed her up one side and down the other for having the gall to be thrown in front of his cart. He could have broken a spoke.
She sat up, buried her face in her hands, and cried, “...my money...momma’s gonna flay me...dunno that man...my money...”
Silurian was heartsick. The poor girl. ‘Momma’s gonna flay her.’ ‘Doesn’t know that man.’ A creepy feeling tingled his skin. He recalled what those men wanted with Melody.
“What the...?” the big man exclaimed as Silurian snatched the pouch from his hand; the effort of doing so causing the money in the farmer’s hand to fly into the air.
Before Silurian could take two steps, or even saw the blade, he felt it thump flat against his spine. The impact threw him face first into the street, knocking the wind from his lungs. He lost his purchase on the little bag in the process, the money pouch jangling to a halt ahead of him, coming to rest in a mud puddle.
The little girl scrambled to her feet and pounced on the pouch, but before she could get up, a black leather boot stomped down hard. The large man bore his weight onto her delicate hand, forcing her to open her fingers to keep them from breaking. She screamed in pain, wriggling and pulling to no avail. Getting to her knees, she bit the man’s shin.
“Why you little—” The brute declared, raising his other foot to smash her insolent face.
“Hold!” A deep voice resonated beside the man, causing him to check his kick.
Many in the busy street had gathered around, enjoying the spectacle unfolding in the market. All eyes turned to the newcomer. Gasps escaped the lips of some, while others dropped to one knee, whispering, “The prince.”
The large man’s knuckles turned white, gripping his sword hard. His menacing glare displayed his hatred for the well-dressed man striding confidently up to him. Flowing, golden locks denoted him as Prince Malcolm Svelte, heir to the Ivory Throne.
The large man spat on the ground. “Ye have no business here, Malcolm. Why don’t ye go hunt some poor fox, or whatever helpless creatures ye Spelts prey upon?”
The prince ignored the man’s deliberate mispronunciation of his surname. He lifted his chin to indicate the girl on her knees. Tears smeared the filth coating her face; her damaged fingers cradled the remnants of the muddy pouch. “As opposed to what? Surely you can best someone bigger than she.”
Snickers rippled through the crowd.
The man cast an evil glance around him. The laughter stopped. He brought his glare to bear on the prince’s deep blue eyes. “Ye should hold yer tongue in these parts, I’d say. Ye are nae welcome amongst us lower class tripe, I’m thinkin’. If ye’re not careful, ye might find it is ye who is bested.”
Gasps rippled amongst the crowd.
Malcolm took a deliberate breath. He turned his attention to the farmer who watched on with indifference, large forearms folded across his chest.
“Hail to you, good merchant. Tell me what event has brought the good people of Cliff Face to a standstill?” Malcolm spread his arms, turning first one way, and then the other, to include the rapidly growing crowd.
The farmer gave the large man a sidelong glance before responding, “Well, me liege…” He gave an account of the events as he saw them, including the girl’s apparent theft.
The large man rocked on his heels as the farmer related the story. A smug look crossed his face at the mention of the theft, and the unsolicited intervention of the stupid whelp sitting in the street trying to catch his breath.
Prince Malcolm gave Silurian a fleeting glance.
“There ye go, Mister Zephyr.” The large man spat on the ground. “Now why don’ ye leave us common folk alone an’ go an’ raze a country or something.”
Titters filtered throughout the mob.
Prince Malcolm stroked his blonde mustache. He stepped to the girl’s side. Kneeling before her, he inspected her battered hand. “Is that how it happened, little miss?”
The girl, overwhelmed by the whole incident, pulled her hand away, shaking her head.
Prince Malcolm stood up to face the farmer. “The girl denies your story.”
The farmer unfolded his arms, spreading them wide. “Me liege, all I know is what happened. I placed her order on the table, turned me back, and it be gone.”
The prince looked from the farmer to the girl dressed in rags, barely hiding her bony frame. “And she’s hiding these vegetables, where?”
The farmer became flustered. “I don’t exactly know, me Lord. All I knows is what happened.”
“Perhaps I can help, sire.” Silurian stood up, dusting off his clothes.
The large man growled, baring his teeth. “Off with you whelp, afore I whack you with the edge of me sword!”
Wary, Silurian walked up to the prince and took a knee. Staring at the ground, he declared. “I saw everything, my Lord.”
The large man kicked Silurian in the ribs, knocking him to the ground, gasping for breath.
Before Silurian hit the street, Prince Malcolm’s sword was beneath the brute’s chin, a metallic ring slowly dissipating into the air.
The crowd held its breath.
“If you strike another one of my subjects without my consent you’ll wish you were the fox,” Malcolm snarled, his face inches from the big man’s. “Understand? Tripe?”
The man glared death at the prince.
After a few tense moments, the prince lowered his sword. With an eye on the man, he bent at the knees to offer Silurian a hand. With a menacing look at the brute fidgeting before him, the prince asked. “Are you alright, young squire?”
Silurian attempted a brave smile. “Aye, my liege. I’ll live, I reckon.” He gripped the prince’s hand and gained his feet, hugging his bruised ribs.
The large man grunted his displeasure. He spat, barely missing Silurian’s shabby boots.
The prince glared at him, as he addressed Silurian, “What is your name, son?”
“Silurian, my lord. Silurian Mintaka, son of Zorn.”
Zorn? Zorn Mintaka? He had heard that name before. Recently, in fact, but for the life of him he couldn’t place it. “It’s alright, son of Zorn. Speak your piece. You needn’t fear this man.”
Silurian’s eyes darted between the prince’s blue eyes and the ruffian’s veined glare. “I, well, I mean her.” He struggled.
The large man growled, the left side of his mouth baring chipped, yellow teeth.
Silurian gulped. “The little girl there,” he pointed, “well, she ordered vegetables from the farmer. All of a sudden, this man comes along,” he couldn’t bring himself to point, “and talks with the farmer. When the farmer turned away, he stole the vegetables.” He winced, expecting to be hit again.
The prince considered the fidgeting man in question. “What of it, man? Does the boy have the truth of the matter?”
The man spat again, discomfort twisting his expression. “I imagine ye have already decided that of yer own accord. The real truth of the matter will be put to the sword, I do nae doubt. I was guilty in yer eyes afore ya ever tried me. What good is me word to one as righteous as ye?”
The crowd exchanged astonished glances, incredulous that someone would even think of speaking to the heir of Zephyr like that.
The prince shook his head. “No. I cannot convict you on the sole testimony of a young boy.”
The large man smiled haughtily.
The prince stroked the corners of his mouth. He looked at the girl. There was no possible way she hid anything in her threadbare attire.
“Empty your pockets,” Malcolm said calmly.
The large man’s eyes gaped. “What?”
The prince regarded him coldly. “You heard me. Empty your pockets.”
The man shook his head, outraged. Eying the prince’s sword, he turned his pants pockets inside out. Dirt and lint fell to the street.
The prince smiled. “And the pockets lining your tunic.”
The man shook his head in disgust. Again, he turned out empty pockets.
The prince rubbed his lower lip with a loose fist, at a loss on to how to proceed. The large man lied, of that Malcolm held little doubt, but without evidence he had no authority to condemn him.
The large man sheathed his sword. “Now, if you don’t suspect me of witchcraft, I shall be on my way.” He shouldered past Malcolm, showing no regard for the money left on the table. He stole a quick glance at Silurian, his look promising the boy he would rue this day.
The prince pursed his lips in thought. Why would the man walk away and leave his money on the table? He considered the girl. She couldn’t have hidden the vegetables, but he knew the farmer would demand retribution. It was plain she could ill afford to pay for something she hadn’t received.
“Say, good farmer, how much—”
“Sire!” Silurian pointed to a gap in the crowd.
Malcolm turned in time to see the large man grab a bulging sack from a tall, skinny man leaning against a dun colored building across the street.
Malcolm scowled, setting off with large strides. “Hey! You two! Stop!”
The large man offered the prince a cavalier smile before bolting away.
Pictured below is Mount Gloom in the daytime. Imagine running through here in the dark, trying to escape from a maniac bent on killing you...or worse! Ask Silurian and Melody what that's like.
Scene: Silurian sits dejected in the marketplace Silurian hung his head between his knees in despair, his arms slumped between his legs. How long he sat there he didn’t know, but the squeak of a young girl’s voice broke through his melancholy. A grimy-faced girl, no more than eight, clad in a simple, tattered, brown tunic cinched about her tiny waist with a frayed length of filthy twine stood before the farmer’s table. He smiled at her pretty face hidden with dirt as she shyly placed her order.
The merchant gave her a skeptical look.
The girl produced a tiny burlap pouch bound by another piece of twine. Plunking it proudly upon the table, her face beaming, she proclaimed, “I have money.”
The merchant grunted, turning to his cart to assemble her order.
While the farmer’s back was to the table, a huge man approached. He bumped into the girl, almost knocking her to the ground. The girl shrank away from the malodorous man. Silurian could smell the putrid stench of sweat from where he sat.
The farmer glanced over his shoulder, surprised to find the large man where the girl had been. Raising his eyebrows at the large man, the farmer placed part of the girl’s order on the table, gave the newcomer a slight nod, and turned back to assemble the rest of the order.
While the farmer worked away, Silurian watched the man sneak the girl’s order into his pockets, and walk away. Silurian gaped.
The farmer placed the remainder of the girl’s order upon the table and frowned, wondering what had happened to the first part. He shot her an angry glare.
“Where’d ya put it?”
The girl’s happy face transformed into panic. “But sir, I haven’t stoled yer food. I don’t know wer’d it git.”
The farmer rounded the table so fast the girl fell to her bottom in her haste to escape his advance.
“Then why do ya run?”
Frightened, she covered her face with dirty hands and began to cry.
To Silurian’s surprise, the big man reappeared out of the milling crowd and approached the table, a sadistic grin on his face. “There be a problem ‘ere, good sir?”
The farmer placed his fists on his hips. “Aye, there be a problem.” He pointed a sausage-sized finger at the weeping girl. “This lil bugger’s gone and stole me wares from ‘neath me nose.”
“That so?” the large man said to the weeping girl. He shook his head. Placing a palm on his forehead, resting his elbow upon his upturned hand at his waist, he contemplated what to do. With an exasperated grunt, he slapped his thigh. “I don’t know what I’s ta do with this girl. I send her on a simple errand and she does this. This! Probably wanting ta keep a copper for herself, me thinks, eh?”
Silurian looked to the table where the girl had placed her money. It was gone!
While the large man talked to the farmer, Silurian watched the weeping girl remove her hands from her stricken face and crab walk away from the two men, her eyes filled with terror. She would probably get a whipping, at the very least, for her transgression. Poor child.
“I tells ya what,” the big man said. “How ‘bout I look afta da bill?” He produced the very burlap money pouch the girl had placed upon the table earlier. “And I take her home an’ teach her a lesson, eh? No harm done, eh? Whadya say?”
The farmer wasn’t happy, but neither did he want trouble with the brute. Still, he had a business to run. “Thieves are to be losing a hand in these parts. I have a livin’ to see to, ya know.”
The large man held up his hands. “I hears ya. I hears ya. How’s ‘bout I throw in an extra copper fer yer troubles, eh? How’s that soundin’ t’ ya?” He raised his eyebrows, giving the farmer a wink. “That way we all come away ‘appy like.”
“Well...” It was the farmer’s turn to place a palm to his forehead. He sighed. “Okay. Just this once. Next time I give ‘er over to the law.”
The big man nodded with a grin and went to open the money pouch.
“Hey! Give that back! That’s mine!”
Both men turned in time to see the girl running at them. She swiped at the purse, grasping only air as the big man lifted the pouch above his head. She jumped at the man’s arm, but missed.
The man backhanded her across the face with his free hand, sending her sprawling to the dirt. Blood trickled from her nose.
The man began to count coppers into the farmer’s upturned palm.
The girl sprang to her feet, and grabbed at the man’s thick forearm. “You give it back!”
The brute grabbed her by the scruff of her tunic, pulling her backward. “I’ll deal with ye soon ‘nuff, lassy.” He sniggered. “Now keep yer fool yip shut.” He threw her so hard he nearly tore the shift from her body.
She landed in the path of a heavily laden wagon that had to swerve hard to miss her. The driver cussed her up one side and down the other for having the gall to be thrown in front of his cart. He could have broken a spoke.
She sat up, buried her face in her hands, and cried, “...my money...momma’s gonna flay me...dunno that man...my money...”
Silurian was heartsick. The poor girl. ‘Momma’s gonna flay her.’ ‘Doesn’t know that man.’ A creepy feeling tingled his skin. He recalled what those men wanted with Melody.
“What the...?” the big man exclaimed as Silurian snatched the pouch from his hand; the effort of doing so causing the money in the farmer’s hand to fly into the air.
Before Silurian could take two steps, or even saw the blade, he felt it thump flat against his spine. The impact threw him face first into the street, knocking the wind from his lungs. He lost his purchase on the little bag in the process, the money pouch jangling to a halt ahead of him, coming to rest in a mud puddle.
The little girl scrambled to her feet and pounced on the pouch, but before she could get up, a black leather boot stomped down hard. The large man bore his weight onto her delicate hand, forcing her to open her fingers to keep them from breaking. She screamed in pain, wriggling and pulling to no avail. Getting to her knees, she bit the man’s shin.
“Why you little—” The brute declared, raising his other foot to smash her insolent face.
“Hold!” A deep voice resonated beside the man, causing him to check his kick.
Many in the busy street had gathered around, enjoying the spectacle unfolding in the market. All eyes turned to the newcomer. Gasps escaped the lips of some, while others dropped to one knee, whispering, “The prince.”
The large man’s knuckles turned white, gripping his sword hard. His menacing glare displayed his hatred for the well-dressed man striding confidently up to him. Flowing, golden locks denoted him as Prince Malcolm Svelte, heir to the Ivory Throne.
The large man spat on the ground. “Ye have no business here, Malcolm. Why don’t ye go hunt some poor fox, or whatever helpless creatures ye Spelts prey upon?”
The prince ignored the man’s deliberate mispronunciation of his surname. He lifted his chin to indicate the girl on her knees. Tears smeared the filth coating her face; her damaged fingers cradled the remnants of the muddy pouch. “As opposed to what? Surely you can best someone bigger than she.”
Snickers rippled through the crowd.
The man cast an evil glance around him. The laughter stopped. He brought his glare to bear on the prince’s deep blue eyes. “Ye should hold yer tongue in these parts, I’d say. Ye are nae welcome amongst us lower class tripe, I’m thinkin’. If ye’re not careful, ye might find it is ye who is bested.”
Gasps rippled amongst the crowd.
Malcolm took a deliberate breath. He turned his attention to the farmer who watched on with indifference, large forearms folded across his chest.
“Hail to you, good merchant. Tell me what event has brought the good people of Cliff Face to a standstill?” Malcolm spread his arms, turning first one way, and then the other, to include the rapidly growing crowd.
The farmer gave the large man a sidelong glance before responding, “Well, me liege…” He gave an account of the events as he saw them, including the girl’s apparent theft.
The large man rocked on his heels as the farmer related the story. A smug look crossed his face at the mention of the theft, and the unsolicited intervention of the stupid whelp sitting in the street trying to catch his breath.
Prince Malcolm gave Silurian a fleeting glance.
“There ye go, Mister Zephyr.” The large man spat on the ground. “Now why don’ ye leave us common folk alone an’ go an’ raze a country or something.”
Titters filtered throughout the mob.
Prince Malcolm stroked his blonde mustache. He stepped to the girl’s side. Kneeling before her, he inspected her battered hand. “Is that how it happened, little miss?”
The girl, overwhelmed by the whole incident, pulled her hand away, shaking her head.
Prince Malcolm stood up to face the farmer. “The girl denies your story.”
The farmer unfolded his arms, spreading them wide. “Me liege, all I know is what happened. I placed her order on the table, turned me back, and it be gone.”
The prince looked from the farmer to the girl dressed in rags, barely hiding her bony frame. “And she’s hiding these vegetables, where?”
The farmer became flustered. “I don’t exactly know, me Lord. All I knows is what happened.”
“Perhaps I can help, sire.” Silurian stood up, dusting off his clothes.
The large man growled, baring his teeth. “Off with you whelp, afore I whack you with the edge of me sword!”
Wary, Silurian walked up to the prince and took a knee. Staring at the ground, he declared. “I saw everything, my Lord.”
The large man kicked Silurian in the ribs, knocking him to the ground, gasping for breath.
Before Silurian hit the street, Prince Malcolm’s sword was beneath the brute’s chin, a metallic ring slowly dissipating into the air.
The crowd held its breath.
“If you strike another one of my subjects without my consent you’ll wish you were the fox,” Malcolm snarled, his face inches from the big man’s. “Understand? Tripe?”
The man glared death at the prince.
After a few tense moments, the prince lowered his sword. With an eye on the man, he bent at the knees to offer Silurian a hand. With a menacing look at the brute fidgeting before him, the prince asked. “Are you alright, young squire?”
Silurian attempted a brave smile. “Aye, my liege. I’ll live, I reckon.” He gripped the prince’s hand and gained his feet, hugging his bruised ribs.
The large man grunted his displeasure. He spat, barely missing Silurian’s shabby boots.
The prince glared at him, as he addressed Silurian, “What is your name, son?”
“Silurian, my lord. Silurian Mintaka, son of Zorn.”
Zorn? Zorn Mintaka? He had heard that name before. Recently, in fact, but for the life of him he couldn’t place it. “It’s alright, son of Zorn. Speak your piece. You needn’t fear this man.”
Silurian’s eyes darted between the prince’s blue eyes and the ruffian’s veined glare. “I, well, I mean her.” He struggled.
The large man growled, the left side of his mouth baring chipped, yellow teeth.
Silurian gulped. “The little girl there,” he pointed, “well, she ordered vegetables from the farmer. All of a sudden, this man comes along,” he couldn’t bring himself to point, “and talks with the farmer. When the farmer turned away, he stole the vegetables.” He winced, expecting to be hit again.
The prince considered the fidgeting man in question. “What of it, man? Does the boy have the truth of the matter?”
The man spat again, discomfort twisting his expression. “I imagine ye have already decided that of yer own accord. The real truth of the matter will be put to the sword, I do nae doubt. I was guilty in yer eyes afore ya ever tried me. What good is me word to one as righteous as ye?”
The crowd exchanged astonished glances, incredulous that someone would even think of speaking to the heir of Zephyr like that.
The prince shook his head. “No. I cannot convict you on the sole testimony of a young boy.”
The large man smiled haughtily.
The prince stroked the corners of his mouth. He looked at the girl. There was no possible way she hid anything in her threadbare attire.
“Empty your pockets,” Malcolm said calmly.
The large man’s eyes gaped. “What?”
The prince regarded him coldly. “You heard me. Empty your pockets.”
The man shook his head, outraged. Eying the prince’s sword, he turned his pants pockets inside out. Dirt and lint fell to the street.
The prince smiled. “And the pockets lining your tunic.”
The man shook his head in disgust. Again, he turned out empty pockets.
The prince rubbed his lower lip with a loose fist, at a loss on to how to proceed. The large man lied, of that Malcolm held little doubt, but without evidence he had no authority to condemn him.
The large man sheathed his sword. “Now, if you don’t suspect me of witchcraft, I shall be on my way.” He shouldered past Malcolm, showing no regard for the money left on the table. He stole a quick glance at Silurian, his look promising the boy he would rue this day.
The prince pursed his lips in thought. Why would the man walk away and leave his money on the table? He considered the girl. She couldn’t have hidden the vegetables, but he knew the farmer would demand retribution. It was plain she could ill afford to pay for something she hadn’t received.
“Say, good farmer, how much—”
“Sire!” Silurian pointed to a gap in the crowd.
Malcolm turned in time to see the large man grab a bulging sack from a tall, skinny man leaning against a dun colored building across the street.
Malcolm scowled, setting off with large strides. “Hey! You two! Stop!”
The large man offered the prince a cavalier smile before bolting away.
August 14, 2018
The Royal Tournament Book Blurbs!
Scene: Jebadiah Milford, and his son, Javen, return to their homestead after a busy day at the tournament.
On the way back to the homestead that night, Javen was unusually quiet. Jebadiah tried many times to draw his son out of the shell he had retreated into, asking him questions about the tournament, and commenting in general upon other tilts he had observed from the vantage point of the crowd. To all of his remarks, he received only distracted grunts. He frowned. Javen’s silence was out of character.
It wasn’t until they had tended the horses and were closing the barn doors that Javen spoke, his question catching Jebadiah off guard.
“Papa, why do people hate black men?” Jebadiah nearly stumbled. “What?”
“Why do people despise them?” So intense was Javen’s stare, his father felt pinned to the closed barn doors behind them.
“Why, I-I don’t rightly know, son. I suppose—”
“You saw the black man, Alcyonne, defeat that boor from Ember Breath?” Javen interrupted.
“Uh, well yes. It was quite a battle.”
“Quite a battle?” Javen was incredulous. “That knight was a cretin. Did you see how he treated Alcyonne? He wouldn’t even acknowledge him as a competitor, let alone a human being. Standing before the king, the knight treated Alcyonne like shit stuck to the bottom of his boot!”
Who are we to say what the knight was thinking…”
“And when Alcyonne ripped him from his saddle, who was the first person to his aid?”
Jebadiah had witnessed the joust, but Javen answered for him. “Alcyonne, that’s who. After being treated like vermin, Alcyonne was first to offer the fallen knight aid. In fact, I bet his actions saved the ungrateful man’s life.”
Javen turned and walked toward their farmhouse.
Jebadiah stood where he was for a moment, staring after him. He couldn’t recall a time Javen had been so riled up. He had also felt empathy toward the black man during the joust.
He hurried after his son. Catching him up, he placed his large right hand upon Javen’s left shoulder, applying enough pressure to cause Javen to stop and turn to face him, just before the step leading to the homestead’s back porch.
A full moon crested the peak of the barn, illuminating the yard sufficiently for the two men to see each other. Rusty, their sheepdog, came bolting out of the darkness from behind the barn, tail wagging, tongue hanging out, barking and circling around them, eager to go inside.
“Son, I saw what you saw.” He paused, and then added, “Why the sudden concern for someone you don’t know?”
Javen regarded his father for a time. Since his mother’s passing years before, his father had been his mentor, his idol, his disciplinarian, his teacher—his friend. The community of Millsford as a whole said the nut hadn’t fallen far from the Jebadiah tree.
“Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been told, not by you mind, but by others, that black men are savages; that black men are unclean, unlearned, uncouth, immoral creatures that would as soon rip your throat out as look at you. Why would my friends tell me something that wasn’t true? And yet, because of what others have said, although I’d never actually met one, I always thought the same.”
“But…?”
“Those rumors can’t be farther from the truth, Papa. Alcyonne is the kindest, gentlest soul I’ve ever met. All he does is smile and laugh. Even when the knight so blatantly insulted him, Alcyonne simply smiled and went on to repay the discourtesy with kindness.”
“Aye, that he did, my boy. That he did.” With an arm around his shoulder, Jebadiah steered his son onto the porch.
Rusty started barking anew, his claws clicking upon the weathered deck boards of the sagging veranda.
“How then, can people say such things? If more people were half the man Alcyonne is, our world would be a much better place.”
Jebadiah opened the back door with his free hand, and patted his son on the shoulder as Javen entered the darkened interior ahead of him. “Aye son, right you are.”
“Papa?” Javen’s voice sounded from near the unlit fireplace across the room. A spark flared into being as Javen located the flint stone and lit the lantern beside the hearth. “It sure is getting cool outside.”
“’Tis that time of year.” Jebadiah bent down beside him to attend to the barren fire mantle.
“I don’t think Alcyonne has a place to stay tonight.”
Jebadiah grunted.
“Nor do I think he has any more clothes on his back than what he wore at the tournament.”
Jebadiah, hunched over, smiled inwardly, and nodded to the cold logs. Without looking over, he replied. “Be careful with the horses. We can’t afford to have one turn a leg.”
Javen raced by his father, slowing long enough to hand him the flickering lantern, and bolted outside toward the barn. The cabin door banged noisily behind him; punctuated by Rusty’s calamitous barking as the dog followed Javen into the night.
On the way back to the homestead that night, Javen was unusually quiet. Jebadiah tried many times to draw his son out of the shell he had retreated into, asking him questions about the tournament, and commenting in general upon other tilts he had observed from the vantage point of the crowd. To all of his remarks, he received only distracted grunts. He frowned. Javen’s silence was out of character.
It wasn’t until they had tended the horses and were closing the barn doors that Javen spoke, his question catching Jebadiah off guard.
“Papa, why do people hate black men?” Jebadiah nearly stumbled. “What?”
“Why do people despise them?” So intense was Javen’s stare, his father felt pinned to the closed barn doors behind them.
“Why, I-I don’t rightly know, son. I suppose—”
“You saw the black man, Alcyonne, defeat that boor from Ember Breath?” Javen interrupted.
“Uh, well yes. It was quite a battle.”
“Quite a battle?” Javen was incredulous. “That knight was a cretin. Did you see how he treated Alcyonne? He wouldn’t even acknowledge him as a competitor, let alone a human being. Standing before the king, the knight treated Alcyonne like shit stuck to the bottom of his boot!”
Who are we to say what the knight was thinking…”
“And when Alcyonne ripped him from his saddle, who was the first person to his aid?”
Jebadiah had witnessed the joust, but Javen answered for him. “Alcyonne, that’s who. After being treated like vermin, Alcyonne was first to offer the fallen knight aid. In fact, I bet his actions saved the ungrateful man’s life.”
Javen turned and walked toward their farmhouse.
Jebadiah stood where he was for a moment, staring after him. He couldn’t recall a time Javen had been so riled up. He had also felt empathy toward the black man during the joust.
He hurried after his son. Catching him up, he placed his large right hand upon Javen’s left shoulder, applying enough pressure to cause Javen to stop and turn to face him, just before the step leading to the homestead’s back porch.
A full moon crested the peak of the barn, illuminating the yard sufficiently for the two men to see each other. Rusty, their sheepdog, came bolting out of the darkness from behind the barn, tail wagging, tongue hanging out, barking and circling around them, eager to go inside.
“Son, I saw what you saw.” He paused, and then added, “Why the sudden concern for someone you don’t know?”
Javen regarded his father for a time. Since his mother’s passing years before, his father had been his mentor, his idol, his disciplinarian, his teacher—his friend. The community of Millsford as a whole said the nut hadn’t fallen far from the Jebadiah tree.
“Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been told, not by you mind, but by others, that black men are savages; that black men are unclean, unlearned, uncouth, immoral creatures that would as soon rip your throat out as look at you. Why would my friends tell me something that wasn’t true? And yet, because of what others have said, although I’d never actually met one, I always thought the same.”
“But…?”
“Those rumors can’t be farther from the truth, Papa. Alcyonne is the kindest, gentlest soul I’ve ever met. All he does is smile and laugh. Even when the knight so blatantly insulted him, Alcyonne simply smiled and went on to repay the discourtesy with kindness.”
“Aye, that he did, my boy. That he did.” With an arm around his shoulder, Jebadiah steered his son onto the porch.
Rusty started barking anew, his claws clicking upon the weathered deck boards of the sagging veranda.
“How then, can people say such things? If more people were half the man Alcyonne is, our world would be a much better place.”
Jebadiah opened the back door with his free hand, and patted his son on the shoulder as Javen entered the darkened interior ahead of him. “Aye son, right you are.”
“Papa?” Javen’s voice sounded from near the unlit fireplace across the room. A spark flared into being as Javen located the flint stone and lit the lantern beside the hearth. “It sure is getting cool outside.”
“’Tis that time of year.” Jebadiah bent down beside him to attend to the barren fire mantle.
“I don’t think Alcyonne has a place to stay tonight.”
Jebadiah grunted.
“Nor do I think he has any more clothes on his back than what he wore at the tournament.”
Jebadiah, hunched over, smiled inwardly, and nodded to the cold logs. Without looking over, he replied. “Be careful with the horses. We can’t afford to have one turn a leg.”
Javen raced by his father, slowing long enough to hand him the flickering lantern, and bolted outside toward the barn. The cabin door banged noisily behind him; punctuated by Rusty’s calamitous barking as the dog followed Javen into the night.
July 10, 2018
Words to cut from your manuscript
Source: Diana Urban
43 Words to delete from your writing now!
Really, very. These are useless modifiers. You should be able to find stronger verbs or adjectives for whatever you’re trying to enhance. For example, “He ran very quickly along the really long field.” can be, “He sprinted across the vast field.”
That. If a sentence still makes sense after removing “that,” delete it. For example, “This is the most amazing blog post that I’ve ever read.” can be, “This is the most amazing blog post I’ve ever read.”
Just. I have a hard time removing “just,” especially in dialogue. But for the most part, you don’t need it, and too many can make your dialogue or prose repetitive.
Then. When showing a sequence of events, either remove “then” or try using “and” instead of “then.” Using “then” frequently sounds repetitive and even juvenile. “I shut the car door, then tripped over the sidewalk. Then Bob pointed and laughed, and then my cheeks flushed.” sounds better as, “I shut the car door and tripped over the sidewalk. My cheeks flushed as Bob pointed and laughed.”
Totally, completely, absolutely, literally. These words don’t add information to a sentence. For example, “The box was completely full of clothes.” reads the same as, “The box was full of clothes.” or better yet, “The box was stuffed with clothes.”
Definitely, certainly, probably, actually, basically, virtually. Again, these words don’t add information. If the sentence makes sense without these words, remove them.
Start, begin, began, begun. These words are unnecessary unless an interruption to the action soon occurs. But for the most part, you can remove these words.
Rather, quite, somewhat, somehow. A movie doesn’t have to be “rather dull,” it can just be “dull.” Delete!
Said, replied, asked, and any other dialogue tag.
Down, up. Usually, these words are unnecessary and you can remove them. For example, “I sat down on the floor.” could be, “I sat on the floor.” and “I stood up.” could be, “I stood.”
Wonder, ponder, think, thought, feel, felt, understand, realize. When you add any of these terms, you’re removing readers from the introspection and adding useless words. For example, “I wondered whether Johnny was the murderer.” could be, “Was Johnny the murderer?” If the narrator questions, “Was Johnny the murderer?” it’s self-explanatory that the narrator is wondering it. This also helps readers feel closer to your narrator, and more involved in the speculation.
Breathe, breathe, inhale, exhale. These are far too commonly used by many authors to describe character internals, including me! Instead of deleting, you’ll have to find an alternative way to describe how a character is reacting to whatever has made them breathe quickly, exhale sharply, or “Let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.” Ick! I highly recommend The Emotion Thesaurus in paperback, not digital, so you can skim through any time.
Shrug, nod, reach. Every author has her own quirks, and over time, you should become familiar with your own. These are a few of mine — in my first drafts, I have characters shrug, nod, and reach for things way too often — and I know a lot of other writers include these, too. Always have second readers, whether you’re writing a novel or blog post. They’ll be able to point out actions that happen too frequently better than you can, because you’ll usually be too close to your own writing to notice.
How to find these words in your writing
If you’re using Word, it’s easy to find these useless words. First, make sure to select a highlight color from the toolbar besides white.
Click Edit > Find > Advanced Find and Replace. Click Replace and the little down arrow.
Enter the word you’re seeking in both the Find what: and Replace with: fields. When your cursor is still in the Replace with: field, click Format > Highlight.
Click Replace All. Repeat this process for every word you want to find in your document. Then you can scroll through your writing and easily spot these words, and decide if you want to delete them. Doing a Find/Replace to delete these words isn’t a good option because there will be some instances when simply removing the word muddles the meaning of your sentence. Sometimes a sentence will need to be reworked.
43 Words to delete from your writing now!
Really, very. These are useless modifiers. You should be able to find stronger verbs or adjectives for whatever you’re trying to enhance. For example, “He ran very quickly along the really long field.” can be, “He sprinted across the vast field.”
That. If a sentence still makes sense after removing “that,” delete it. For example, “This is the most amazing blog post that I’ve ever read.” can be, “This is the most amazing blog post I’ve ever read.”
Just. I have a hard time removing “just,” especially in dialogue. But for the most part, you don’t need it, and too many can make your dialogue or prose repetitive.
Then. When showing a sequence of events, either remove “then” or try using “and” instead of “then.” Using “then” frequently sounds repetitive and even juvenile. “I shut the car door, then tripped over the sidewalk. Then Bob pointed and laughed, and then my cheeks flushed.” sounds better as, “I shut the car door and tripped over the sidewalk. My cheeks flushed as Bob pointed and laughed.”
Totally, completely, absolutely, literally. These words don’t add information to a sentence. For example, “The box was completely full of clothes.” reads the same as, “The box was full of clothes.” or better yet, “The box was stuffed with clothes.”
Definitely, certainly, probably, actually, basically, virtually. Again, these words don’t add information. If the sentence makes sense without these words, remove them.
Start, begin, began, begun. These words are unnecessary unless an interruption to the action soon occurs. But for the most part, you can remove these words.
Rather, quite, somewhat, somehow. A movie doesn’t have to be “rather dull,” it can just be “dull.” Delete!
Said, replied, asked, and any other dialogue tag.
Down, up. Usually, these words are unnecessary and you can remove them. For example, “I sat down on the floor.” could be, “I sat on the floor.” and “I stood up.” could be, “I stood.”
Wonder, ponder, think, thought, feel, felt, understand, realize. When you add any of these terms, you’re removing readers from the introspection and adding useless words. For example, “I wondered whether Johnny was the murderer.” could be, “Was Johnny the murderer?” If the narrator questions, “Was Johnny the murderer?” it’s self-explanatory that the narrator is wondering it. This also helps readers feel closer to your narrator, and more involved in the speculation.
Breathe, breathe, inhale, exhale. These are far too commonly used by many authors to describe character internals, including me! Instead of deleting, you’ll have to find an alternative way to describe how a character is reacting to whatever has made them breathe quickly, exhale sharply, or “Let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.” Ick! I highly recommend The Emotion Thesaurus in paperback, not digital, so you can skim through any time.
Shrug, nod, reach. Every author has her own quirks, and over time, you should become familiar with your own. These are a few of mine — in my first drafts, I have characters shrug, nod, and reach for things way too often — and I know a lot of other writers include these, too. Always have second readers, whether you’re writing a novel or blog post. They’ll be able to point out actions that happen too frequently better than you can, because you’ll usually be too close to your own writing to notice.
How to find these words in your writing
If you’re using Word, it’s easy to find these useless words. First, make sure to select a highlight color from the toolbar besides white.
Click Edit > Find > Advanced Find and Replace. Click Replace and the little down arrow.
Enter the word you’re seeking in both the Find what: and Replace with: fields. When your cursor is still in the Replace with: field, click Format > Highlight.
Click Replace All. Repeat this process for every word you want to find in your document. Then you can scroll through your writing and easily spot these words, and decide if you want to delete them. Doing a Find/Replace to delete these words isn’t a good option because there will be some instances when simply removing the word muddles the meaning of your sentence. Sometimes a sentence will need to be reworked.
