Brondt Kamffer's Blog, page 3

nineth

(Previous Chapter)

My mother was a druid and an herbalist, which meant she knew a great many ways to prevent a variety of maladies, and ways to cure others. In short, though my mother was a whore, she knew how to save herself the trouble of falling pregnant to one of her clients. She had herbs and roots and teas that could close the womb of a woman or cause a woman to purge her unborn child.

I knew this because, despite the shift in my mother’s clientele from female to male, she still saw some...

eighth

(Previous Chapter)

Batur’s arms were a comfort to my aching body, and the gentle rock of his gait calmed me in a way I had never known. I cannot remember a time when either of my parents ever soothed me, and the big foreigner opened me to a world that I did not know existed.

“Little Rion,” he said to me as he ambled towards my mother’s home, “you realize that your mother calls you an idiot with good reason? Look at the forest around you. Even the smallest of her creatures knows when it is in da...

seventh

(Previous Chapter)

I turn now to my mother. My father was gone, and I suppose that left me even more vulnerable than I already was. In truth, having a father had benefitted me little, but I soon found that not having one benefitted me even less.

I have mentioned in passing already that my mother was involved with the old religion. The truth is that she was a druid, a priestess of the old gods that the Concord of Saint Zoran stole and forced to fit the seven faces of their nameless One. For the...

sixth

(Previous Chapter)

I grew up in Maluns without brother or sister. I was the lonely child of a lonely family, for despite being the miller and, therefore, a relatively important member of that small society, my father was very much outcast for the sake of my mother, whose suspect religious affiliations afforded our family few favors with those who wished to be seen as friends of the Concord.

I recall from those early days of my life that our home was not a happy one. My mother never forgave me f...

fifth

(Previous Chapter)

After the passage of a watch, Ilarion was jarred awake by a heavy hand jerking his shoulder.

“Wake up,” said the now-familiar voice of one of the many guards assigned to him over the past three days. “The lady says you must eat this.”

He shoved a scalding hot bowl of soup into Ilarion’s hands, and some of the liquid spilled over the side and into his lap.

“Bloody hell!” Ilarion shouted, his mind coming instantly to full alertness from the pain. “What did you do that for?”

“Just...

fourth

(Previous Chapter)

It was to be three days later when Ilarion finally broke his silence, as Inquisitor Varyna had promised he would. It happened like this:

After Varyna left, she sent in two soldiers and a Kaznac to keep watch over him with strict orders not to allow the prisoner even a moment’s sleep. The Kaznac seated himself behind the desk, propped open a book of his own, and began to read. The two soldiers began their watch by pacing about the room, as though they truly believed this to be...

third

(Previous Chapter)

When Ilarion came to, the carriage was still moving. He groaned, rolled his neck about, and began dry heaving. Too much excitement for one day, he decided.

“Hey, Idzi, looks like he’s waking up,” Mirche said, a definite note of relief in his voice.

“Yeah, I know. Little sod should be dead, though,” the big man commented.

“And I’m sure he will meet his end, but, God’s faces, you didn’t have to hit him like that. If the Inquisitor finds him unable to speak…”

Idzi growled. Coarse f...

second

(Previous Chapter)

It was indeed a lovely hole into which they tossed Ilarion. Complete with musty stench, old, unwashed slop bucket, and flea-infested pile of straw.

Ilarion counted himself fortunate at this stage to have avoided anything worse than a beating from the Czelnik’s finest guardsmen before being consigned to the cell where he would pretend to be half-dead until he made his escape.

For the first thing he did when the door of his cell had been shut was to settle himself in the center...

first

The Piliakilnis loomed above him. It’s ancient mass squatted along the banks of the River Balundan, a silent, hulking behemoth that promised little good for those who entered through the fort’s colossal gates with an armored guard for an escort and their hands bound together to prevent any trouble.

Such a man was Ilarion iz Balundan—Rion stas Ranka, Laros sta Spilans, or any other of a host of names by which he was known. At the age of thirty, his black hair was showing the first signs of gray...

so here’s how it goes

So, as promised, let me give a few more details regarding this upcoming serialized-as-I-write novel set to begin next week.

The story (and planned series) is a picaresque, originally a Spanish Renaissance genre that features a protagonist of humble origins forced to make his way in a corrupt world by use of his wits. The hero generally falls foul of his own bad luck as often as he does the corrupt authority figures around him, but the humor of the stories lies in how he overcomes despite it al...