Chantal Boudreau's Blog - Posts Tagged "fantasy"
Out of Phase - A Magic University Teaser Tale
Ebon struggled with his telekinesis, trying to get his phantom fingers to do what he needed them to do. The quill twitched and skipped over the paper, but his fine manipulation with the spell was just not what it had to be in order for him to write out the words required. The erratic movements caused the ink to blot and instead of the simple letters he had intended, there was nothing but dashes and splotches. Ebon railed over the failure, releasing his spell and allowing the quill to drop to the table. He then snarled and unleashed a tiny ball of flame that ignited the marred parchment, turning it into a small pile of ash – one that matched the collection of others scattered atop the table.
It was a task that should be relatively easy for anyone literate, unless they lacked a physical form the way that Ebon did. He did have his telekinesis to make up for it, and could accommodate chores that asked for tangible efforts involving gross motor skills. But fine manipulation? He was not practiced enough with the spell for fine manipulation. He had oodles of strength, but lacked finesse. He hadn’t had reason to manoeuvre anything solid for quite some time, which was why his skills with the spell were not very refined.
“Bastards should have an application form accessible to all. This is discriminatory,” Ebon rasped, pushing the table away from him with a thrust from an invisible hand. “How the hell am I supposed to complete this?”
He knew one possible solution was to hire a scribe to do the work for him, but that called for money and Ebon had none. Why would he? Carrying it would be a constant inconvenience; he had no need for possessions. In this instance, the application forms had been provided by Magic University and the quill was borrowed. He didn’t have a need for shelter, clothing, food or drink – he had no problems ignoring typical animal urges because in his case such things were irrelevant. He didn’t get hot or cold, he didn’t get wet and he didn’t even need to breathe. This time, however, things were different. He did need help.
Resigning himself to finding some way of paying the scribe’s wages, Ebon left the magistrate’s office where he had been trying to complete the form and made his way to the closest scriptorium. Most people recoiled or ran away as he passed through the streets, frightened by his wraith-like appearance. At night-time or even early dawn or dusk, the shadows presented him with enough cover that he could avoid the unwanted attention, but in broad daylight his shadowy form was an obvious blight. Their reaction made him yearn for the day where he would have been ignored as uninteresting or mocked slightly for his pasty complexion and mediocre build.
Three years he had borne the accursed appearance, three years of vague memories and time lost as he wandered in search of answers that still had not all come to him. At first he had not remembered anything including who he was. Gradually, the recollections returned, one by one, but his memories prior to his transformation were spotty at best. He hoped some day that would change because he had a feeling that those memories would be important if he was ever to reclaim who he was.
It was a warm enough day that the door to the scriptorium had been propped open. Not that it mattered to Ebon if the door were open or closed, unless it was enchanted. An ordinary door could never bar his way anymore. He swept in and advanced upon the counter. Settling there, he waited for the man attending to clients to approach. He eyed Ebon warily as he did so.
“I wish to hire your services,” Ebon rasped.
“We do not serve the undead,” the scribe replied, pulling a couple of scrolls from the shelf behind him.
“I’m no phantom,” Ebon assured him. “I’m inter-dimensional. That does present a problem. I need to complete an application for Magic University, but I lack proper physical form. I would like you to complete the task for me, but since I have no way of offering money in exchange for your work, I propose bartering services of my own. I’m a very powerful spell-caster. Perhaps you can make use of my skills for your own purposes.”
It seemed like a reasonable offer to Ebon, and it was the only thing of value that he really could give. The offer was not received without interest. The scribe stood contemplating the being in front of him. Clearly, he had something in mind.
“I think we can strike a deal. Follow me to the back, and we’ll discuss our terms.”
The room that they entered was suffocatingly small, but physical walls meant nothing to Ebon anymore. He hovered on the opposite side of the table from where the scribe took a seat.
“So what do you ask of me to fulfil my end of the bargain?” Ebon demanded hoarsely.
“When I established my business, I had little in the way of capital,” the scribe admitted. “I was forced to seek out a sponsor. There was a Master wizard, Jovan Oakley, who was willing to pay a retainer, but he offered a pittance compared to the usual asking price for a scribe of my talents, and he demanded a twenty year contract. I was desperate for the money, so I signed the agreement. Five years later, my business is well-established and I should be enjoying my success. Instead I am bound by my contract with him, and spend my evenings doing repetitive and petty work for him, copying scrolls and the like. I have things I would prefer to be doing with what should be my leisure time. In exchange for my services, I want you to enter Jovan’s home and destroy the contract so that I’m no longer bound to him. The work you want would be a small price for my freedom.”
Ebon agreed to the scribe, Bartholomew Fenway’s, terms, as if he had much of a choice. After discussing the situation in detail, Ebon decided to pay a visit to Jovan’s house that day. He would be less likely to be home than if Ebon waited until evening.
The wraith-mage could not pass unhindered through the magically locked door, but Jovan had not enchanted his entire house similarly, so it was just a matter of sliding through an unprotected section of wall. Once inside the home, he quickly located Bartholomew’s contract. Getting at it was not a simple job. Jovan had the document well protected, an item of great value to him. It took a fair amount of time, but little effort, for Ebon to strip away the anti-theft spells. Once it was free of such nuisances, Ebon moved closer to snuff out the contract as easily as he had the failed application forms.
He had not been expecting the contingency spell. Apparently, Jovan had been anticipating that Bartholomew might choose unorthodox tactics to liberate his contract, which included striking deals with demons. The moment Ebon attempted to ignite the parchment, he found himself trapped within an inter-dimensional magical cage. Seconds later a middle-aged bearded and bespectacled man appeared before him bearing the slender frame and robes customary of a Master wizard.
“So, Bartholomew strikes again. Well, what have we here? You certainly are nothing like the petty thieves he has sent in the past. They did not get this far, and I dispatched of them easily enough.” Jovan scrutinized Ebon closely. “How did Bartholomew succeed in recruiting you?”
“I required his services. I need to make application to Magic University, and because of my ‘condition’ I was unable to do so on my own. This is what he asked for in exchange.”
Jovan scratched his chin.
“Ah – my alma mater. Well, I can hardly fault you for wanting to better yourself in that way, can I?”
The Master wizard paced the floor, considering his options.
“What if I told you I was willing to let you return to Bartholomew with claim of success, but I require your services in exchange as well,” he proposed. Ebon was hardly in the position to argue.
“Name your terms,” he rasped.
“A former apprentice of mine holds a series of letters that she could use to defame me and wreak scandal upon my house. I would like you to do for me what Bartholomew was having you do for him. Play purveyor of those documents, and I’ll reward you by destroying Bartholomew’s contract myself. I will need you to swear your agreement under oath, however. I want to guarantee that when I release you, you do not simply leave in search of some other scribe to do your bidding.”
Once again, Ebon was not in any position to object. He allowed himself to be bound magically to completing the task. Once freed from his cage, he took directions from Jovan, and set off to find the wizard’s former apprentice, Yvette.
While Yvette’s home was wealthier than Jovan’s, they had fewer magical protections in place. Instead, Ebon encountered a different problem. When he arrived, Yvette had the letters directly in her possession, and was poring over them tearfully. Ebon didn’t want to waste time with formalities, and presented himself unannounced before the young woman. Since he couldn’t exactly snatch the letters from her grasp, he decided to try intimidation instead.
“Jovan sent me. He wants his letters back. Give them to me.”
He let his frustration seethe through him, knowing it would darken his form and cause his eyes to flare red. That usually was enough to put the fear into the bravest of men. He expected the young woman to shrink away from him and perhaps even toss the letters his way in order to get him to leave her be. Instead, she gripped the letters with greater fervour and offered only resistance.
“No! They’re all I have left of him. He thinks I don’t love him, but I’m not marrying another by choice. I was betrothed to the cad by my parents – an arranged marriage to better business relations. I would give anything to get out of it, but my father is convinced that Terrance is a good man. He’s not, but without evidence to show otherwise, they’ll never agree to free me from the obligation to marry him.”
“If I bring you evidence to this effect, you will give me the letters?”
Yvette nodded.
“But you have to tell Jovan that I wanted to keep them, because I do still love him,” she insisted. “If you promise me that much and then bring me the evidence I need, you can have the letters.”
Ebon sighed inwardly, ruing the fact that it was such a convoluted path to obtain the scribal services that he required, entangled in some foolish love triangle.
“And this Terrance? Where can I find him?” Ebon groaned.
“He and his business associates meet regularly for revelry at the Decadent Thrush, an inn in the merchant area of town. You’ll likely find him there tonight, relaxing after a day’s work. He invited me, but I have no interest in joining him solely for appearance sake. He does not actually enjoy my company and I think he is a mean-hearted boor.”
“Fine, an evening at the Decadent Thrush it is then.”
Ebon slunk away begrudgingly. As opposed to waiting for evening, he made his way to the inn that late afternoon to wait. He had nothing better to, and it allowed him time to select an appropriate spot to position himself within the shadows where he had a complete view of the entire barroom. He was actually grateful that he had chosen to venture there early when Terrance made an appearance. At least, Ebon was fairly certain that it was him based on the description that Yvette had given him. Terrance was there long before he was scheduled to meet with his friends. And he was not alone.
The woman who joined him secretively, once the young man had seated himself in the dimmest corner of the barroom quite close to where Ebon was standing, looked like some sort of high-priced courtesan. Her “wares” were clearly on display, but the fabrics of her well-tailored clothing were expensive and the heady perfume she wore was laced with pricy exotic flowers and spices. She approached Terrance cautiously, and once she was certain that nobody was watching, albeit the wrong conclusion, she bent and whispered into his ear. The arrogant-looking young man smirked and watched her walk away, ascending the stairs to the upper level of the inn. A few minutes later, Terrance pursued her.
Ebon followed the errant fiancé up the stairs just in time to see him disappear into a room on the upper level. The wraith-mage listened at the door for a couple of seconds, and once he was sure they were well-distracted, he shifted through the closed door, into the room beyond.
The two were entangled together atop the bed, Terrance’s lips firmly attached to the jezebel’s and his tongue thrust deep within her mouth. Neither of them had noticed Ebon enter.
“I hate having to meet like this,” the woman whined, when they finally came up for air. “It’s so inconvenient and unfair...and I don’t want to share.”
“Not that much longer, Loretta. I’m to be wed in two weeks and then it is just a matter of impregnating that loathsome cow I’m expected to marry to secure her family’s favour. She might be a frigid bitch, but she’ll have to put out on our wedding night. Once she is a few months into her pregnancy, I’ll dose her with the potion the apothecary provided. Mother and babe will die apparently of natural causes, a conception gone wrong, and after a few months of playing the mournful husband, I’ll be free to return to you.” Terrance spoke the words with such evil glee, savouring the idea. Such cruel intentions would have shocked the average person, but with Ebon they fell upon a hollow heart.
Considering this revelation sufficient ammunition, Ebon departed to return to Yvette. He did not want to hang around long enough to play voyeur as the pair romped between the sheets. All that would do would be to remind him of some of the physical pleasures he might never again be capable of enjoying. He wasn’t about to put himself through that kind of torment.
Yvette was startled to see him return so soon. As she listened to Ebon’s recounting of what he had seen, her face first paled, then blotched with red, both furious and horrified at the same time. She intended on bringing the tale to her father immediately. Since Terrance would not be returning home until the wee hours of the night, his belongings would be searched for the potion he had referred to, and militia men would be sent to question the innkeeper and the apothecary. There would be enough proof to warrant postponing the wedding and eventually cancelling it altogether. There might even be criminal charges brought against Yvette’s murderous betrothed.
She allowed Ebon to take the letters in order to return them to Jovan, but once again sought affirmation that he would tell Jovan of her true feelings and explain as much of her unfortunate situation as possible.
When Ebon arrived, bearing the letters in his telekinetic grasp, the Master wizard was waiting for him. He was not expecting the wraith-mage to appeal to him on Yvette’s behalf, and while his grim expression did not change much as Ebon spoke, he seemed receptive to the story, and a smile gleamed in his bespectacled eyes.
Jovan gladly took the letters from Ebon, and without another word, before Ebon had even bothered to dismiss his spell, the Master wizard had passed him Bartholomew’s contract. Ebon accepted it into his magical grasp.
“You know, you could keep this and simply provide the services that I requested from your retained scribe yourself,” Ebon suggested. “I don’t care who completes my application form for the university for me. It’s just that circumstances dictate that it has to be someone other than myself.”
But Jovan waved him off.
“The reason I retained Bartholomew in the first place was because such things are too trivial to merit my time. I have more important things to attend to, especially now. Besides, I’ve more than profited from my contract with Bartholomew, and I think he has earned freedom from our agreement by initiating this whole chain of events. Take it back to him, and you can let him know that you are doing so by my good graces.”
Ebon didn’t wait around long enough for the wizard to change his mind. Extending his telekinesis spell, he carried the contract back to the scribe. Bartholomew was surprised to see him.
“You return? So soon? I didn’t expect to see you again. The others I hired to fetch my contract for me never came back for their fee,” the scribe said, astonished.
“Well, I am not ‘the others.’ Not only do I return to restore your contract to you, Jovan acknowledges that you have fulfilled your obligation and will not seek out any further services without appropriate recompense.”
Ebon dismissed his spell, allowing the roll of parchment to drop to the table. With an air of disbelief, Bartholomew snatched it up and unrolled it, eager to investigate. He scanned it carefully, gasping with pleasure when he was satisfied that what Ebon had brought him was the actual document he had sought.
“Now it is your turn to fulfill your end of the bargain,” the wraith-mage breathed. With another spell, he manifested a copy of the Magic University form directly from the Magistrate’s office onto the counter in front of the scribe.
There were no arguments from Bartholomew. After setting aside his contract for future disposal, he gathered the supplies he needed to fill out the form, ink and quill, and settled himself down in front of the document. Perched there, he glanced up at Ebon and grinned.
“Alright then - from the beginning. Surname...?”
It was a task that should be relatively easy for anyone literate, unless they lacked a physical form the way that Ebon did. He did have his telekinesis to make up for it, and could accommodate chores that asked for tangible efforts involving gross motor skills. But fine manipulation? He was not practiced enough with the spell for fine manipulation. He had oodles of strength, but lacked finesse. He hadn’t had reason to manoeuvre anything solid for quite some time, which was why his skills with the spell were not very refined.
“Bastards should have an application form accessible to all. This is discriminatory,” Ebon rasped, pushing the table away from him with a thrust from an invisible hand. “How the hell am I supposed to complete this?”
He knew one possible solution was to hire a scribe to do the work for him, but that called for money and Ebon had none. Why would he? Carrying it would be a constant inconvenience; he had no need for possessions. In this instance, the application forms had been provided by Magic University and the quill was borrowed. He didn’t have a need for shelter, clothing, food or drink – he had no problems ignoring typical animal urges because in his case such things were irrelevant. He didn’t get hot or cold, he didn’t get wet and he didn’t even need to breathe. This time, however, things were different. He did need help.
Resigning himself to finding some way of paying the scribe’s wages, Ebon left the magistrate’s office where he had been trying to complete the form and made his way to the closest scriptorium. Most people recoiled or ran away as he passed through the streets, frightened by his wraith-like appearance. At night-time or even early dawn or dusk, the shadows presented him with enough cover that he could avoid the unwanted attention, but in broad daylight his shadowy form was an obvious blight. Their reaction made him yearn for the day where he would have been ignored as uninteresting or mocked slightly for his pasty complexion and mediocre build.
Three years he had borne the accursed appearance, three years of vague memories and time lost as he wandered in search of answers that still had not all come to him. At first he had not remembered anything including who he was. Gradually, the recollections returned, one by one, but his memories prior to his transformation were spotty at best. He hoped some day that would change because he had a feeling that those memories would be important if he was ever to reclaim who he was.
It was a warm enough day that the door to the scriptorium had been propped open. Not that it mattered to Ebon if the door were open or closed, unless it was enchanted. An ordinary door could never bar his way anymore. He swept in and advanced upon the counter. Settling there, he waited for the man attending to clients to approach. He eyed Ebon warily as he did so.
“I wish to hire your services,” Ebon rasped.
“We do not serve the undead,” the scribe replied, pulling a couple of scrolls from the shelf behind him.
“I’m no phantom,” Ebon assured him. “I’m inter-dimensional. That does present a problem. I need to complete an application for Magic University, but I lack proper physical form. I would like you to complete the task for me, but since I have no way of offering money in exchange for your work, I propose bartering services of my own. I’m a very powerful spell-caster. Perhaps you can make use of my skills for your own purposes.”
It seemed like a reasonable offer to Ebon, and it was the only thing of value that he really could give. The offer was not received without interest. The scribe stood contemplating the being in front of him. Clearly, he had something in mind.
“I think we can strike a deal. Follow me to the back, and we’ll discuss our terms.”
The room that they entered was suffocatingly small, but physical walls meant nothing to Ebon anymore. He hovered on the opposite side of the table from where the scribe took a seat.
“So what do you ask of me to fulfil my end of the bargain?” Ebon demanded hoarsely.
“When I established my business, I had little in the way of capital,” the scribe admitted. “I was forced to seek out a sponsor. There was a Master wizard, Jovan Oakley, who was willing to pay a retainer, but he offered a pittance compared to the usual asking price for a scribe of my talents, and he demanded a twenty year contract. I was desperate for the money, so I signed the agreement. Five years later, my business is well-established and I should be enjoying my success. Instead I am bound by my contract with him, and spend my evenings doing repetitive and petty work for him, copying scrolls and the like. I have things I would prefer to be doing with what should be my leisure time. In exchange for my services, I want you to enter Jovan’s home and destroy the contract so that I’m no longer bound to him. The work you want would be a small price for my freedom.”
Ebon agreed to the scribe, Bartholomew Fenway’s, terms, as if he had much of a choice. After discussing the situation in detail, Ebon decided to pay a visit to Jovan’s house that day. He would be less likely to be home than if Ebon waited until evening.
The wraith-mage could not pass unhindered through the magically locked door, but Jovan had not enchanted his entire house similarly, so it was just a matter of sliding through an unprotected section of wall. Once inside the home, he quickly located Bartholomew’s contract. Getting at it was not a simple job. Jovan had the document well protected, an item of great value to him. It took a fair amount of time, but little effort, for Ebon to strip away the anti-theft spells. Once it was free of such nuisances, Ebon moved closer to snuff out the contract as easily as he had the failed application forms.
He had not been expecting the contingency spell. Apparently, Jovan had been anticipating that Bartholomew might choose unorthodox tactics to liberate his contract, which included striking deals with demons. The moment Ebon attempted to ignite the parchment, he found himself trapped within an inter-dimensional magical cage. Seconds later a middle-aged bearded and bespectacled man appeared before him bearing the slender frame and robes customary of a Master wizard.
“So, Bartholomew strikes again. Well, what have we here? You certainly are nothing like the petty thieves he has sent in the past. They did not get this far, and I dispatched of them easily enough.” Jovan scrutinized Ebon closely. “How did Bartholomew succeed in recruiting you?”
“I required his services. I need to make application to Magic University, and because of my ‘condition’ I was unable to do so on my own. This is what he asked for in exchange.”
Jovan scratched his chin.
“Ah – my alma mater. Well, I can hardly fault you for wanting to better yourself in that way, can I?”
The Master wizard paced the floor, considering his options.
“What if I told you I was willing to let you return to Bartholomew with claim of success, but I require your services in exchange as well,” he proposed. Ebon was hardly in the position to argue.
“Name your terms,” he rasped.
“A former apprentice of mine holds a series of letters that she could use to defame me and wreak scandal upon my house. I would like you to do for me what Bartholomew was having you do for him. Play purveyor of those documents, and I’ll reward you by destroying Bartholomew’s contract myself. I will need you to swear your agreement under oath, however. I want to guarantee that when I release you, you do not simply leave in search of some other scribe to do your bidding.”
Once again, Ebon was not in any position to object. He allowed himself to be bound magically to completing the task. Once freed from his cage, he took directions from Jovan, and set off to find the wizard’s former apprentice, Yvette.
While Yvette’s home was wealthier than Jovan’s, they had fewer magical protections in place. Instead, Ebon encountered a different problem. When he arrived, Yvette had the letters directly in her possession, and was poring over them tearfully. Ebon didn’t want to waste time with formalities, and presented himself unannounced before the young woman. Since he couldn’t exactly snatch the letters from her grasp, he decided to try intimidation instead.
“Jovan sent me. He wants his letters back. Give them to me.”
He let his frustration seethe through him, knowing it would darken his form and cause his eyes to flare red. That usually was enough to put the fear into the bravest of men. He expected the young woman to shrink away from him and perhaps even toss the letters his way in order to get him to leave her be. Instead, she gripped the letters with greater fervour and offered only resistance.
“No! They’re all I have left of him. He thinks I don’t love him, but I’m not marrying another by choice. I was betrothed to the cad by my parents – an arranged marriage to better business relations. I would give anything to get out of it, but my father is convinced that Terrance is a good man. He’s not, but without evidence to show otherwise, they’ll never agree to free me from the obligation to marry him.”
“If I bring you evidence to this effect, you will give me the letters?”
Yvette nodded.
“But you have to tell Jovan that I wanted to keep them, because I do still love him,” she insisted. “If you promise me that much and then bring me the evidence I need, you can have the letters.”
Ebon sighed inwardly, ruing the fact that it was such a convoluted path to obtain the scribal services that he required, entangled in some foolish love triangle.
“And this Terrance? Where can I find him?” Ebon groaned.
“He and his business associates meet regularly for revelry at the Decadent Thrush, an inn in the merchant area of town. You’ll likely find him there tonight, relaxing after a day’s work. He invited me, but I have no interest in joining him solely for appearance sake. He does not actually enjoy my company and I think he is a mean-hearted boor.”
“Fine, an evening at the Decadent Thrush it is then.”
Ebon slunk away begrudgingly. As opposed to waiting for evening, he made his way to the inn that late afternoon to wait. He had nothing better to, and it allowed him time to select an appropriate spot to position himself within the shadows where he had a complete view of the entire barroom. He was actually grateful that he had chosen to venture there early when Terrance made an appearance. At least, Ebon was fairly certain that it was him based on the description that Yvette had given him. Terrance was there long before he was scheduled to meet with his friends. And he was not alone.
The woman who joined him secretively, once the young man had seated himself in the dimmest corner of the barroom quite close to where Ebon was standing, looked like some sort of high-priced courtesan. Her “wares” were clearly on display, but the fabrics of her well-tailored clothing were expensive and the heady perfume she wore was laced with pricy exotic flowers and spices. She approached Terrance cautiously, and once she was certain that nobody was watching, albeit the wrong conclusion, she bent and whispered into his ear. The arrogant-looking young man smirked and watched her walk away, ascending the stairs to the upper level of the inn. A few minutes later, Terrance pursued her.
Ebon followed the errant fiancé up the stairs just in time to see him disappear into a room on the upper level. The wraith-mage listened at the door for a couple of seconds, and once he was sure they were well-distracted, he shifted through the closed door, into the room beyond.
The two were entangled together atop the bed, Terrance’s lips firmly attached to the jezebel’s and his tongue thrust deep within her mouth. Neither of them had noticed Ebon enter.
“I hate having to meet like this,” the woman whined, when they finally came up for air. “It’s so inconvenient and unfair...and I don’t want to share.”
“Not that much longer, Loretta. I’m to be wed in two weeks and then it is just a matter of impregnating that loathsome cow I’m expected to marry to secure her family’s favour. She might be a frigid bitch, but she’ll have to put out on our wedding night. Once she is a few months into her pregnancy, I’ll dose her with the potion the apothecary provided. Mother and babe will die apparently of natural causes, a conception gone wrong, and after a few months of playing the mournful husband, I’ll be free to return to you.” Terrance spoke the words with such evil glee, savouring the idea. Such cruel intentions would have shocked the average person, but with Ebon they fell upon a hollow heart.
Considering this revelation sufficient ammunition, Ebon departed to return to Yvette. He did not want to hang around long enough to play voyeur as the pair romped between the sheets. All that would do would be to remind him of some of the physical pleasures he might never again be capable of enjoying. He wasn’t about to put himself through that kind of torment.
Yvette was startled to see him return so soon. As she listened to Ebon’s recounting of what he had seen, her face first paled, then blotched with red, both furious and horrified at the same time. She intended on bringing the tale to her father immediately. Since Terrance would not be returning home until the wee hours of the night, his belongings would be searched for the potion he had referred to, and militia men would be sent to question the innkeeper and the apothecary. There would be enough proof to warrant postponing the wedding and eventually cancelling it altogether. There might even be criminal charges brought against Yvette’s murderous betrothed.
She allowed Ebon to take the letters in order to return them to Jovan, but once again sought affirmation that he would tell Jovan of her true feelings and explain as much of her unfortunate situation as possible.
When Ebon arrived, bearing the letters in his telekinetic grasp, the Master wizard was waiting for him. He was not expecting the wraith-mage to appeal to him on Yvette’s behalf, and while his grim expression did not change much as Ebon spoke, he seemed receptive to the story, and a smile gleamed in his bespectacled eyes.
Jovan gladly took the letters from Ebon, and without another word, before Ebon had even bothered to dismiss his spell, the Master wizard had passed him Bartholomew’s contract. Ebon accepted it into his magical grasp.
“You know, you could keep this and simply provide the services that I requested from your retained scribe yourself,” Ebon suggested. “I don’t care who completes my application form for the university for me. It’s just that circumstances dictate that it has to be someone other than myself.”
But Jovan waved him off.
“The reason I retained Bartholomew in the first place was because such things are too trivial to merit my time. I have more important things to attend to, especially now. Besides, I’ve more than profited from my contract with Bartholomew, and I think he has earned freedom from our agreement by initiating this whole chain of events. Take it back to him, and you can let him know that you are doing so by my good graces.”
Ebon didn’t wait around long enough for the wizard to change his mind. Extending his telekinesis spell, he carried the contract back to the scribe. Bartholomew was surprised to see him.
“You return? So soon? I didn’t expect to see you again. The others I hired to fetch my contract for me never came back for their fee,” the scribe said, astonished.
“Well, I am not ‘the others.’ Not only do I return to restore your contract to you, Jovan acknowledges that you have fulfilled your obligation and will not seek out any further services without appropriate recompense.”
Ebon dismissed his spell, allowing the roll of parchment to drop to the table. With an air of disbelief, Bartholomew snatched it up and unrolled it, eager to investigate. He scanned it carefully, gasping with pleasure when he was satisfied that what Ebon had brought him was the actual document he had sought.
“Now it is your turn to fulfill your end of the bargain,” the wraith-mage breathed. With another spell, he manifested a copy of the Magic University form directly from the Magistrate’s office onto the counter in front of the scribe.
There were no arguments from Bartholomew. After setting aside his contract for future disposal, he gathered the supplies he needed to fill out the form, ink and quill, and settled himself down in front of the document. Perched there, he glanced up at Ebon and grinned.
“Alright then - from the beginning. Surname...?”
Adventures at Hal-Con
My very first convention was a Hal-Con, back in 1986, the first time the convention existed. It was Hal-Con 9, and I was a scrawny little fourteen-year-old with a crooked smile and lopsided glasses. My mother had sewn a costume for me, a dragonrider of Pern costume in greens and golds, and I made a little red fire lizard (yes, I know they aren’t red) to sit on my wrist. I entered artwork in the art show (an utter disaster), played a few games and met Guy Gavriel Kaye for the first time.
That feels like eons ago, and I never imagined myself as a guest at a con, even as a “local celebrity”, but there I was at Hal-Con 2011, the revived version, with my table of books, my scheduled slots in panels, and my official “guest pass”. It was a first of a different kind, and one that was equally exciting and overwhelming. This time I was forty instead of fourteen, and trying to be noticed so that people might take an interest in my books, rather than to avoid being stepped on. I was nervous but ready to face the crowd.
The first challenge was lugging boxes of books to my table, bleary-eyed and a little lost. Luckily, I had the help of my trusty sidekick, Brad, and a friend who worked at the con venue, Pete, to get me loaded onto a dolly and into the Author’s Corner. The volunteers at the convention were priceless, helping me to get settled in and making me feel very welcome.
Later that morning I sat for an interview with Haligonia.ca (which were streaming live at http://live.haligonia.ca/halifax-ns/n... ). They covered a lot of the action at the con, and added some fun to the hustle and bustle.
I then sat on a panel discussing zombies in popular culture. You can catch the highlights here:
http://hexedpodcast.blogspot.com/2011...
The rest of the afternoon was a busy blur at my table, handing out business cards, pimping Ren Garcia and Arlene Radasky’s works as well as my own, and selling the occasional book. The only real low points of the con, and they were minor, was not really having the opportunity to grab a bite to eat or a coffee, and the one fellow that soured my fun for a few moments when he looked at me scornfully and berated me for having a male protagonist in Fervor instead of a female one (yeah – I’ll fix that for you...just let me get right on that *sigh*)
I was pretty hungry when I got to the Stargazer Soiree, but the food there was scrumptious, the company was delightful, and along with a lovely lady named Heather-Anne, I stole away more than an hour of Kelley Armstrong’s time (she had the coolest laptop bag ever – with a werewolf face and red bows). The three of us snuck over and stole a hug from Nicholas Brendon. I was so happy I was giddy.
The next morning I dragged myself back to the con centre for a 9:00 author Q & A panel (I was in very good company). Then I returned to tending my table, where I stayed until closing with the exception of a stolen hour at Starbucks with a strudel muffin, an eggnog latte and my NaNoWriMo project on my laptop (Sleep Escapes Us, check it out at: http://www.scribd.com/chantal_boudreau ). I shared some friendly conversation with my neighbour, Mark Oakley, a talented cartoonist. I traded a copy of Magic University for a signed copy of Stardrop for my daughter (she loved it!) Check out his great work at: http://iboxpublishing.com/index.php .
All-in-all, it was an extraordinary experience and my thanks and kudos go out to all of the organizers and volunteers. I got an invite to return in 2012, which I gladly accepted, and I’m looking forward to an even bigger and better gathering of the fandom kind next year.
That feels like eons ago, and I never imagined myself as a guest at a con, even as a “local celebrity”, but there I was at Hal-Con 2011, the revived version, with my table of books, my scheduled slots in panels, and my official “guest pass”. It was a first of a different kind, and one that was equally exciting and overwhelming. This time I was forty instead of fourteen, and trying to be noticed so that people might take an interest in my books, rather than to avoid being stepped on. I was nervous but ready to face the crowd.
The first challenge was lugging boxes of books to my table, bleary-eyed and a little lost. Luckily, I had the help of my trusty sidekick, Brad, and a friend who worked at the con venue, Pete, to get me loaded onto a dolly and into the Author’s Corner. The volunteers at the convention were priceless, helping me to get settled in and making me feel very welcome.
Later that morning I sat for an interview with Haligonia.ca (which were streaming live at http://live.haligonia.ca/halifax-ns/n... ). They covered a lot of the action at the con, and added some fun to the hustle and bustle.
I then sat on a panel discussing zombies in popular culture. You can catch the highlights here:
http://hexedpodcast.blogspot.com/2011...
The rest of the afternoon was a busy blur at my table, handing out business cards, pimping Ren Garcia and Arlene Radasky’s works as well as my own, and selling the occasional book. The only real low points of the con, and they were minor, was not really having the opportunity to grab a bite to eat or a coffee, and the one fellow that soured my fun for a few moments when he looked at me scornfully and berated me for having a male protagonist in Fervor instead of a female one (yeah – I’ll fix that for you...just let me get right on that *sigh*)
I was pretty hungry when I got to the Stargazer Soiree, but the food there was scrumptious, the company was delightful, and along with a lovely lady named Heather-Anne, I stole away more than an hour of Kelley Armstrong’s time (she had the coolest laptop bag ever – with a werewolf face and red bows). The three of us snuck over and stole a hug from Nicholas Brendon. I was so happy I was giddy.
The next morning I dragged myself back to the con centre for a 9:00 author Q & A panel (I was in very good company). Then I returned to tending my table, where I stayed until closing with the exception of a stolen hour at Starbucks with a strudel muffin, an eggnog latte and my NaNoWriMo project on my laptop (Sleep Escapes Us, check it out at: http://www.scribd.com/chantal_boudreau ). I shared some friendly conversation with my neighbour, Mark Oakley, a talented cartoonist. I traded a copy of Magic University for a signed copy of Stardrop for my daughter (she loved it!) Check out his great work at: http://iboxpublishing.com/index.php .
All-in-all, it was an extraordinary experience and my thanks and kudos go out to all of the organizers and volunteers. I got an invite to return in 2012, which I gladly accepted, and I’m looking forward to an even bigger and better gathering of the fandom kind next year.
Why I Do What I Do
How often are writers asked why they write, and better yet, why do they write a particular genre? It can be a difficult question to answer, especially without seeming trite or clichéd.
I write multiple genres, mostly leaning towards the darker side of the spectrum, but I actually began with fantasy. I had an interesting five-star review that described my fantasy work as “fantasy for non-fantasy readers” and I guess the reviewer is right. I started writing fantasy because I’m a huge fan of the genre, and I was following the “write what you want to read” doctrine. But I have to clarify this point - while I love fantasy, I also hate it.
There are fantasy writers I find enchanting and exhilarating, writers like Jack L. Chalker, Tad Williams, Lawrence Watt-Evans, and Tanith Lee, but mostly because their work is not what I consider typical of the genre. That’s exactly why I love their kind of fantasy.
Apparently, I’m not a true fantasy fan, however, because the norm for fantasy, the epic high fantasy novels with lofty ideals and super-human flawless heroes, over-descriptive by my taste, bore me to tears. I can’t stand encyclopaedic segments inserted in amongst the story to demonstrate the author’s world-building talents, or pages and pages of imagery-riddled description of the landscape or the characters’ clothing, accessories or hair-dos. I think the ardent escapists demand these things, reading fantasy to completely free themselves from their world and their troubles. If it comes into play as a legitimate part of the story, that’s great, but in most cases, I find those kinds of things superfluous at best, and often poorly integrated into the tale.
As well, I like realism to my fantasy - edgy, gritty and cruel. Things aren’t always pretty in real life, and I want that reflected in the fantasy I read. If you do something dangerous on a regular basis, someone eventually gets hurt very badly and/or dies. If people are subject to torture or more responsibility than a normal person can be expected to handle, they break down, they might snap and turn to something like alcoholism to cope, or they may even go insane. Magic doesn’t always work the way it is supposed to because spell-casters are regular people and therefore fallible. Like in Stephen King’s fantasy writing, royalty sitting unobserved alone in their throne rooms, with nothing to occupy themselves, might just pick their noses out of boredom. (Yeah – ewww – but that’s realism, folks.)
I’ve seen evidence that my kind of fantasy doesn’t appeal to the average fantasy fan, the ones who read fantasy explicitly for that extreme display of world-building and those flowery descriptions, and not for the story proper. One reviewer complained there was no world building to my Magic University (she gave me a one-star rating). There was no doubt some truth to that depending on what she was looking for in the way of world-building. The story is set in one location over a 24-hour period, which limits exposure to the world and anything outside of that setting. There is no well-defined good guy/bad guy, and all of the characters are flawed in some way. Not pretty, and not perfect.
There *are* subtle elements of world-building to the tale, carefully integrated in appropriate places, such as the differences between the Masters and the Renegades and the biases and conflicts that exist because of it, reptilian culture and what social restrictions led to Nia’s exile, Shetland’s struggle with being magically endowed when he is a member of a race that normally repels magic, just to name a few examples. If you are accustomed to preferring that “in-your-face” display of world-building, details like these that have been carefully interwoven into the plot will probably fly under your radar, and my stories aren’t for you.
On the other hand, if you want something different, story-focussed fantasy that feels like it could actually happen if magic and mythical creatures did exist, you might get a big kick out of my work.
Some readers do.
I write multiple genres, mostly leaning towards the darker side of the spectrum, but I actually began with fantasy. I had an interesting five-star review that described my fantasy work as “fantasy for non-fantasy readers” and I guess the reviewer is right. I started writing fantasy because I’m a huge fan of the genre, and I was following the “write what you want to read” doctrine. But I have to clarify this point - while I love fantasy, I also hate it.
There are fantasy writers I find enchanting and exhilarating, writers like Jack L. Chalker, Tad Williams, Lawrence Watt-Evans, and Tanith Lee, but mostly because their work is not what I consider typical of the genre. That’s exactly why I love their kind of fantasy.
Apparently, I’m not a true fantasy fan, however, because the norm for fantasy, the epic high fantasy novels with lofty ideals and super-human flawless heroes, over-descriptive by my taste, bore me to tears. I can’t stand encyclopaedic segments inserted in amongst the story to demonstrate the author’s world-building talents, or pages and pages of imagery-riddled description of the landscape or the characters’ clothing, accessories or hair-dos. I think the ardent escapists demand these things, reading fantasy to completely free themselves from their world and their troubles. If it comes into play as a legitimate part of the story, that’s great, but in most cases, I find those kinds of things superfluous at best, and often poorly integrated into the tale.
As well, I like realism to my fantasy - edgy, gritty and cruel. Things aren’t always pretty in real life, and I want that reflected in the fantasy I read. If you do something dangerous on a regular basis, someone eventually gets hurt very badly and/or dies. If people are subject to torture or more responsibility than a normal person can be expected to handle, they break down, they might snap and turn to something like alcoholism to cope, or they may even go insane. Magic doesn’t always work the way it is supposed to because spell-casters are regular people and therefore fallible. Like in Stephen King’s fantasy writing, royalty sitting unobserved alone in their throne rooms, with nothing to occupy themselves, might just pick their noses out of boredom. (Yeah – ewww – but that’s realism, folks.)
I’ve seen evidence that my kind of fantasy doesn’t appeal to the average fantasy fan, the ones who read fantasy explicitly for that extreme display of world-building and those flowery descriptions, and not for the story proper. One reviewer complained there was no world building to my Magic University (she gave me a one-star rating). There was no doubt some truth to that depending on what she was looking for in the way of world-building. The story is set in one location over a 24-hour period, which limits exposure to the world and anything outside of that setting. There is no well-defined good guy/bad guy, and all of the characters are flawed in some way. Not pretty, and not perfect.
There *are* subtle elements of world-building to the tale, carefully integrated in appropriate places, such as the differences between the Masters and the Renegades and the biases and conflicts that exist because of it, reptilian culture and what social restrictions led to Nia’s exile, Shetland’s struggle with being magically endowed when he is a member of a race that normally repels magic, just to name a few examples. If you are accustomed to preferring that “in-your-face” display of world-building, details like these that have been carefully interwoven into the plot will probably fly under your radar, and my stories aren’t for you.
On the other hand, if you want something different, story-focussed fantasy that feels like it could actually happen if magic and mythical creatures did exist, you might get a big kick out of my work.
Some readers do.
Battle of the Excerpts
I used to play this game with my writer friends, Ren and Justine, on a regular basis. So when my pal, Bruce, offered up an excerpt for my blog, I couldn’t resist (you can find his book blurb and bio on the Monday posting of Word Blurb). So here’s the excerpt he gave me and I’m countering with one from my latest fantasy novel, Casualties of War. Compare and contrast to your heart’s content. I know Bruce is wicked good, so I hope my excerpt can match his. Which is your favourite?
Excerpt: Blood of the King
Chapter 2 (Part 1)
A helm clattered off the wall walk, bouncing end over end down the stairs. It hit Khirro’s foot, startling him and sending a jolt of pain up his leg. When he looked to see what hit him, he recognized the dead eyes of a member of the king’s guard staring back at him from within the helm. A pained grimace twisted the face, blood dripped from severed tendons and ragged veins. Khirro recoiled, pain flashing down his spine. He kicked at the head, the sound of his armor scraping stone impossibly loud in his ears. His toe contacted the helmet painfully, sending it spinning across the landing. It trailed off blood spatters as it rolled to the edge then disappeared over the brink. Khirro breathed a sigh of relief.
“Help me.”
Khirro flinched. The king’s plea came again, a breathy whisper barely audible above the sounds of battle. Chickens ran about after their heads were removed, but nothing could speak without life remaining within. Khirro shifted painfully onto his side.
“My king,” he whispered.
Braymon lay in a tangled heap, hips wrenched farther than possible, one arm pinned beneath him, the other twisted behind. Blood streamed from his shaven head onto his cheeks and into his eyes, a mask of red through which little flesh showed. He blinked clearing his vision, a slow, lethargic movement, then directed his gaze toward Khirro. A pained smile twitched his lips; it quickly turned to a grimace.
“I thought you lost, lad.”
The blood drained from Khirro’s cheeks.
“No, your highness. I... I was knocked unconscious. I’ve only just woken to find you here beside me.” The lie tasted more bitter than the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.
Braymon coughed a fine spray of bloody spittle. Khirro knew it meant something inside him was bleeding.
“I’ve not much time. I need your help.”
“I owe you my life.”
“Then you can return the favor.”
Fear lumped into a mass at the back of Khirro’s throat. “What can I do?”
“The healer will know I’ve fallen,” Braymon said coughing again, face strained with the effort. “Take me to him.”
Relief. He didn’t ask to be avenged or dragged back to the battle to die a soldier’s death. Khirro glanced at the blood pooling beneath the king’s contorted body, flowing from some unseen spot under his plate mail, and pushed himself up to kneel beside Braymon to better assess his condition. The battle raged above but no one appeared on the stair.
“You shouldn’t be moved,” Khirro said after consideration. The way the king’s body twisted upon itself made him feel sick. “It would mean your life.”
Braymon shook his head minutely. “It matters not. I must get to the healer before the warmth has left my body or all is lost.”
“I don’t think--”
“Soldier,” Braymon said with a tone of command befitting a king. “If you do this thing, all else will be forgiven.”
Khirro gaped at the king’s words. He fought to keep tears at bay as guilt siphoned the strength from his limbs. His mouth moved trying to form the words to apologize for not rejoining the fight, to beg forgiveness, to explain, but his constricted throat choked them. Instead, he nodded.
“You’ll have to remove my armor to carry me.”
Khirro stripped the king’s armor as quickly and quietly as his hurts allowed. Each time he shifted the king, Braymon’s face contorted with deeper levels of pain, but he never cried out, and each piece of armor Khirro removed revealed more horror. The king’s blood-soaked underclothes stuck to him like a second skin; the jagged end of a bone punched through the flesh of one thigh; a loop of intestines protruded from a long cut in his abdomen. As he uncovered each injury, Khirro felt more grateful to be alive and whole and his own injuries seemed less significant. By the time he finished removing all the pieces, the king’s eyes were closed, his face taut with pain, cheeks pale. Khirro had to look closely to ensure he still drew breath.
“We’ve no time to lose.” Braymon said in a strained whisper. “Take me to the center keep.”
Khirro stood, teeth gritted against his own meager pain. He reached for Braymon but stopped, unsure how to proceed. He saw no way to pick up the injured man.
“Don’t concern yourself with my pain, it will end soon enough. Put me over your shoulder.”
A shudder wracked Khirro’s spine as he paused to look around. A few men ran about the courtyard below, but they were distant. Above, the fighting reached the top of the stairs. Two Kanosee soldiers—one wearing gray leather, the other the black breast plate splashed with red—hacked at soldiers of the king’s army who tried to keep them from the stairway. Khirro hoped they’d hold them long enough. He bent and hooked the king by the armpits, struggling to pull the dead weight from the ground. The king clenched his jaw, every muscle he could control straining to help.
Finally, the king’s limp form flopped over Khirro’s shoulder. He imagined he felt the soft flesh of his innards through his leather armor and his stomach flipped, forcing bile into his mouth. He swallowed it. The pain proved too much for the king and a cry tore from Braymon’s bloodied lips as his broken body pressed against Khirro’s shoulder.
Khirro looked back up the stairs, hoping no one heard. At first he thought the Gods with him as the fight continued, but one of the Erechanians fell and as the gray leather-clad Kanosee pulled his sword from the man, he leaned toward his companion and pointed down the stair.
A sword flashed and the man fell, but Khirro saw no more as he turned and rushed down the stairs, focusing on his feet hitting each one and not over-balancing under the king’s weight.
By the time he reached the bottom of the final flight, Khirro’s back and legs ached, his pulse beat in his temple as his breath came in ragged gasps. If he didn’t pause to catch his wind, he wouldn’t get much further. He stood at the foot of the switchback staircase, half-bent, and watched a pebble strike the ground near his foot. Khirro looked at it without understanding, his fatigued mind reeling from lack of oxygen, but realization came quickly. He twisted awkwardly, ignoring the pain in his back, to look up the stairs. Halfway down, the black and red mailed soldier hurried toward him, battle axe in hand.
Interestingly enough, and sheer coincidence because I wrote Reid into existence long before I knew Bruce, he and Reid, one of my main characters, actually share the same last name . Here’s my counter excerpt...let the battle begin!
Excerpt: Casualties of War
After what seemed like an eternity, the three travelers finally arrived in Anthis. As the wagon approached the school, Reid leaned forward in his seat. A solitary figure sat on the bench outside the front door. Reid recognized the short but muscular build as belonging to Nolan, one of his students. Gillis had labeled the young man as a lone wolf, and Reid considered it an apt description. Nolan offered no more friendly gestures than Dee, glaring with his black eyes through his unruly dark hair, which played mane to his bronze-skinned face. Reid drew the wagon up short.
“Wow, I didn’t expect you to be part of the welcome party,” Reid commented, trying to elicit a smile. The boy shrugged.
For the first time in hours, Dee spoke. “He would appear to be the entire welcome party,” she grunted.
Nolan glanced her way. He pursed his lips and jutted out his chin in an open sign of aggression. Typical, thought Reid. Nolan preferred to put on a tough guy show. Reid was not sure if the boy did it out of insecurity because of his small stature, or if there were underlying stresses which Nolan kept to himself. The fact was that the young man did seem to bear a chip on his shoulder. Nolan gave Dee one last cold stare then turned to speak to Reid.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. It’s dangerous. I’d rather be in my mouse-hole of a room right now as opposed to out here exposed to the elements, but a cold’s nothing compared to what I could catch in there.”
It was Reid’s turn to frown.
“What are you talking about?” Reid climbed down from the driver seat and approached the surly student. “Where is everybody, Nolan?”
Nolan crossed his arms and eyed Reid with contempt.
“If you want to know so bad, go in and see for yourself.”
Without even considering the newcomer now perched on the edge of the wagon, Reid hurried over to the door. He opened it only to find Clayton, Gillis’s brother, standing on the other side. The lanky youth looked tired, and more nerve-ridden than normal, if that were possible. What disturbed Reid more than Clayton’s anxiety and obvious fatigue was the absolute expression of horror captured in the boy’s face.
“What is it, Clay?” Reid demanded. “Where’s Gillis?”
Clayton struggled to speak, glancing out past Reid at Nolan. Abandoning his attempts to explain, he resigned himself to silence and gestured for Reid to follow.
When they entered the space that had been designated the Common Room, Reid could no longer deny that something was drastically wrong. Several of the students were there, looking severely lethargic and drawn in the face. The more shocking sight, however, was Gillis. He lay sprawled in a settee when they came in, but struggled weakly to his feet when he realized exactly who it was who had arrived. His skin was grey in color and his cheeks sunken in. He wavered where he stood, having barely managed to muster enough strength to stand in the first place.
“Tell me I’m not hallucinating, Reid,” he breathed. “You’ve been here three times already, that I can remember...I’m sorry –so sorry.”
Reid remained frozen in place, trying to grasp what exactly was going on. Finally, he faced Gillis, who was now leaning on the settee for support.
“It’s the magic plague, isn’t it?” Reid stared at his partner, his eyes filled with dread. “How?” He sat back in one of the chairs, crumpling as though he had been kicked squarely in the groin.
Gillis shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s worse than you might think. Nattie, she’s dead, Reid. She wasn’t in the best health to begin with. She only made it three days. I don’t know how long the rest of us have either.” As he spoke, he gestured towards the sickly students huddled about the room. He sat down quickly to avoid falling over.
Reid sat near catatonic in his chair, overwhelmed by the situation. His dream had been blossoming, growing. There was still a great deal of work that had been ahead of him, and he had known that there would be challenges, but he had never expected anything like this. It was like a giant foot had come out of nowhere, treading down with great force and crushing everything he had managed to build.
“What are we going to do?” Reid murmured. His head was spinning.
Gillis slumped back in the settee, his expression grim.
“You have to go to the University, Reid. They have the cure. You have to get them to sell it to you, or trade it to you, or something...and you have to get enough for all of us. If any of these students die, we’re done for. Please, even if you can’t get enough for me, you have to get some for Clayton. I promised our parents I’d take care of him. Instead, he has been taking care of me. He may not be showing any of the symptoms of the plague, but he has been exposed.”
“The University! They won’t give me anything. Do you know how happy they will be to see us out of business? What are a few fatalities for the sake of eliminating the competition?” Reid’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes, wishing he could make all of this disappear.
So there you have it! Two dark excepts from two different fantasy tales. Bruce’s book is coming soon, and if you liked the excerpt from Casualties of War, you can find it here:
http://www.amazon.com/Casualties-War-...
Let us know what you think – writers are suckers for feedback.
Excerpt: Blood of the King
Chapter 2 (Part 1)
A helm clattered off the wall walk, bouncing end over end down the stairs. It hit Khirro’s foot, startling him and sending a jolt of pain up his leg. When he looked to see what hit him, he recognized the dead eyes of a member of the king’s guard staring back at him from within the helm. A pained grimace twisted the face, blood dripped from severed tendons and ragged veins. Khirro recoiled, pain flashing down his spine. He kicked at the head, the sound of his armor scraping stone impossibly loud in his ears. His toe contacted the helmet painfully, sending it spinning across the landing. It trailed off blood spatters as it rolled to the edge then disappeared over the brink. Khirro breathed a sigh of relief.
“Help me.”
Khirro flinched. The king’s plea came again, a breathy whisper barely audible above the sounds of battle. Chickens ran about after their heads were removed, but nothing could speak without life remaining within. Khirro shifted painfully onto his side.
“My king,” he whispered.
Braymon lay in a tangled heap, hips wrenched farther than possible, one arm pinned beneath him, the other twisted behind. Blood streamed from his shaven head onto his cheeks and into his eyes, a mask of red through which little flesh showed. He blinked clearing his vision, a slow, lethargic movement, then directed his gaze toward Khirro. A pained smile twitched his lips; it quickly turned to a grimace.
“I thought you lost, lad.”
The blood drained from Khirro’s cheeks.
“No, your highness. I... I was knocked unconscious. I’ve only just woken to find you here beside me.” The lie tasted more bitter than the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.
Braymon coughed a fine spray of bloody spittle. Khirro knew it meant something inside him was bleeding.
“I’ve not much time. I need your help.”
“I owe you my life.”
“Then you can return the favor.”
Fear lumped into a mass at the back of Khirro’s throat. “What can I do?”
“The healer will know I’ve fallen,” Braymon said coughing again, face strained with the effort. “Take me to him.”
Relief. He didn’t ask to be avenged or dragged back to the battle to die a soldier’s death. Khirro glanced at the blood pooling beneath the king’s contorted body, flowing from some unseen spot under his plate mail, and pushed himself up to kneel beside Braymon to better assess his condition. The battle raged above but no one appeared on the stair.
“You shouldn’t be moved,” Khirro said after consideration. The way the king’s body twisted upon itself made him feel sick. “It would mean your life.”
Braymon shook his head minutely. “It matters not. I must get to the healer before the warmth has left my body or all is lost.”
“I don’t think--”
“Soldier,” Braymon said with a tone of command befitting a king. “If you do this thing, all else will be forgiven.”
Khirro gaped at the king’s words. He fought to keep tears at bay as guilt siphoned the strength from his limbs. His mouth moved trying to form the words to apologize for not rejoining the fight, to beg forgiveness, to explain, but his constricted throat choked them. Instead, he nodded.
“You’ll have to remove my armor to carry me.”
Khirro stripped the king’s armor as quickly and quietly as his hurts allowed. Each time he shifted the king, Braymon’s face contorted with deeper levels of pain, but he never cried out, and each piece of armor Khirro removed revealed more horror. The king’s blood-soaked underclothes stuck to him like a second skin; the jagged end of a bone punched through the flesh of one thigh; a loop of intestines protruded from a long cut in his abdomen. As he uncovered each injury, Khirro felt more grateful to be alive and whole and his own injuries seemed less significant. By the time he finished removing all the pieces, the king’s eyes were closed, his face taut with pain, cheeks pale. Khirro had to look closely to ensure he still drew breath.
“We’ve no time to lose.” Braymon said in a strained whisper. “Take me to the center keep.”
Khirro stood, teeth gritted against his own meager pain. He reached for Braymon but stopped, unsure how to proceed. He saw no way to pick up the injured man.
“Don’t concern yourself with my pain, it will end soon enough. Put me over your shoulder.”
A shudder wracked Khirro’s spine as he paused to look around. A few men ran about the courtyard below, but they were distant. Above, the fighting reached the top of the stairs. Two Kanosee soldiers—one wearing gray leather, the other the black breast plate splashed with red—hacked at soldiers of the king’s army who tried to keep them from the stairway. Khirro hoped they’d hold them long enough. He bent and hooked the king by the armpits, struggling to pull the dead weight from the ground. The king clenched his jaw, every muscle he could control straining to help.
Finally, the king’s limp form flopped over Khirro’s shoulder. He imagined he felt the soft flesh of his innards through his leather armor and his stomach flipped, forcing bile into his mouth. He swallowed it. The pain proved too much for the king and a cry tore from Braymon’s bloodied lips as his broken body pressed against Khirro’s shoulder.
Khirro looked back up the stairs, hoping no one heard. At first he thought the Gods with him as the fight continued, but one of the Erechanians fell and as the gray leather-clad Kanosee pulled his sword from the man, he leaned toward his companion and pointed down the stair.
A sword flashed and the man fell, but Khirro saw no more as he turned and rushed down the stairs, focusing on his feet hitting each one and not over-balancing under the king’s weight.
By the time he reached the bottom of the final flight, Khirro’s back and legs ached, his pulse beat in his temple as his breath came in ragged gasps. If he didn’t pause to catch his wind, he wouldn’t get much further. He stood at the foot of the switchback staircase, half-bent, and watched a pebble strike the ground near his foot. Khirro looked at it without understanding, his fatigued mind reeling from lack of oxygen, but realization came quickly. He twisted awkwardly, ignoring the pain in his back, to look up the stairs. Halfway down, the black and red mailed soldier hurried toward him, battle axe in hand.
Interestingly enough, and sheer coincidence because I wrote Reid into existence long before I knew Bruce, he and Reid, one of my main characters, actually share the same last name . Here’s my counter excerpt...let the battle begin!
Excerpt: Casualties of War
After what seemed like an eternity, the three travelers finally arrived in Anthis. As the wagon approached the school, Reid leaned forward in his seat. A solitary figure sat on the bench outside the front door. Reid recognized the short but muscular build as belonging to Nolan, one of his students. Gillis had labeled the young man as a lone wolf, and Reid considered it an apt description. Nolan offered no more friendly gestures than Dee, glaring with his black eyes through his unruly dark hair, which played mane to his bronze-skinned face. Reid drew the wagon up short.
“Wow, I didn’t expect you to be part of the welcome party,” Reid commented, trying to elicit a smile. The boy shrugged.
For the first time in hours, Dee spoke. “He would appear to be the entire welcome party,” she grunted.
Nolan glanced her way. He pursed his lips and jutted out his chin in an open sign of aggression. Typical, thought Reid. Nolan preferred to put on a tough guy show. Reid was not sure if the boy did it out of insecurity because of his small stature, or if there were underlying stresses which Nolan kept to himself. The fact was that the young man did seem to bear a chip on his shoulder. Nolan gave Dee one last cold stare then turned to speak to Reid.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. It’s dangerous. I’d rather be in my mouse-hole of a room right now as opposed to out here exposed to the elements, but a cold’s nothing compared to what I could catch in there.”
It was Reid’s turn to frown.
“What are you talking about?” Reid climbed down from the driver seat and approached the surly student. “Where is everybody, Nolan?”
Nolan crossed his arms and eyed Reid with contempt.
“If you want to know so bad, go in and see for yourself.”
Without even considering the newcomer now perched on the edge of the wagon, Reid hurried over to the door. He opened it only to find Clayton, Gillis’s brother, standing on the other side. The lanky youth looked tired, and more nerve-ridden than normal, if that were possible. What disturbed Reid more than Clayton’s anxiety and obvious fatigue was the absolute expression of horror captured in the boy’s face.
“What is it, Clay?” Reid demanded. “Where’s Gillis?”
Clayton struggled to speak, glancing out past Reid at Nolan. Abandoning his attempts to explain, he resigned himself to silence and gestured for Reid to follow.
When they entered the space that had been designated the Common Room, Reid could no longer deny that something was drastically wrong. Several of the students were there, looking severely lethargic and drawn in the face. The more shocking sight, however, was Gillis. He lay sprawled in a settee when they came in, but struggled weakly to his feet when he realized exactly who it was who had arrived. His skin was grey in color and his cheeks sunken in. He wavered where he stood, having barely managed to muster enough strength to stand in the first place.
“Tell me I’m not hallucinating, Reid,” he breathed. “You’ve been here three times already, that I can remember...I’m sorry –so sorry.”
Reid remained frozen in place, trying to grasp what exactly was going on. Finally, he faced Gillis, who was now leaning on the settee for support.
“It’s the magic plague, isn’t it?” Reid stared at his partner, his eyes filled with dread. “How?” He sat back in one of the chairs, crumpling as though he had been kicked squarely in the groin.
Gillis shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s worse than you might think. Nattie, she’s dead, Reid. She wasn’t in the best health to begin with. She only made it three days. I don’t know how long the rest of us have either.” As he spoke, he gestured towards the sickly students huddled about the room. He sat down quickly to avoid falling over.
Reid sat near catatonic in his chair, overwhelmed by the situation. His dream had been blossoming, growing. There was still a great deal of work that had been ahead of him, and he had known that there would be challenges, but he had never expected anything like this. It was like a giant foot had come out of nowhere, treading down with great force and crushing everything he had managed to build.
“What are we going to do?” Reid murmured. His head was spinning.
Gillis slumped back in the settee, his expression grim.
“You have to go to the University, Reid. They have the cure. You have to get them to sell it to you, or trade it to you, or something...and you have to get enough for all of us. If any of these students die, we’re done for. Please, even if you can’t get enough for me, you have to get some for Clayton. I promised our parents I’d take care of him. Instead, he has been taking care of me. He may not be showing any of the symptoms of the plague, but he has been exposed.”
“The University! They won’t give me anything. Do you know how happy they will be to see us out of business? What are a few fatalities for the sake of eliminating the competition?” Reid’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes, wishing he could make all of this disappear.
So there you have it! Two dark excepts from two different fantasy tales. Bruce’s book is coming soon, and if you liked the excerpt from Casualties of War, you can find it here:
http://www.amazon.com/Casualties-War-...
Let us know what you think – writers are suckers for feedback.
