A snippet of a rough draft of Book Three of the Storm-bringer Saga: The Black Knights of Crom Cruach
The wisp of smoke drifted west over the rooftops of the city, defying the southerly breeze. Gliding lower, it slipped into a high window, and into the room beyond. The small flurry of smoke slunk along the walls, hugging the carpet as it crossed the bedroom and oozed silently under the closed door, into the hallway beyond. Slowly, it descended the grand spiral staircase, coiling around magnificently crafted balusters like a cobra slipping through dense forest. The smoke, however, was even more silent and deadly.
Reaching the ground floor, the smoke changed colour, blending with the cream marble of the mansion's flooring as it made its way through the house. It passed guards and servants alike, and none noticed its passing. Finally, it eased through the open doors of the grand dining hall, where the celebrations were in high humour. Music and laughter filled the room, people dancing and eating, dressed in all their finery.
The eddy of pale smoke coiled around an immense marble pillar and slowly crept higher, coiling upwards until it reached an overhanging balcony. Here, ladies fanned themselves and old people pretended to be watching the event below, whilst secretly dozing behind their masks.
The vapour settled within the shadow of the ugly face of a gargoyle and seeped into the unseeing granite eyes.
Far, far away from the city, a slim young woman sat, shrouded in incense, chanting softly. Her features were hidden beneath the cowl of the loose robe she wore, and defied the flickering light of the solitary candle within the chamber. Only her hands were visible, revealing the coiling snakes and intricate knotwork of the multi-colour tattoos the crept up her sleeves.
Deep within the dark hood, her eyes opened, but she did not see the candle or the room in which she sat in asana pose. Instead, he eyes looked out upon the great banqueting hall of Manquay, and studied the figures upon the raised dais at the far end of the hall.
She watched the new king of the Dragons, noting how well he hid his discomfort. Her eyes briefly passed over the faces of the High King and Queen of Tir Pect, reading the sullen but silent fury within the eyes of Queen Medb Ni Béar and the tension around the eyes of the king, Conchubhar MacTíre.
Sweat broke out on her brow, and ran slowly down her cheeks. It also ran down her back as she continued the ancient chant. Exerting her will over such a great distance was difficult and tiring work, and she must finish soon before exhaustion consumed her. The shadowy eyes within the gargoyle swivelled and studied the things that others would not see; the darker shadows, within the shadows, the places where guardians lurked in silence. So it was true then. The young aspirer to the throne of the High King of Dragania was well watched. This would explain why they had come to her. They had failed and failed again. Forewarned, the young dragan was securely beyond the reach of her would-be employers. A contract had been taken and they had failed to certify his death. She wondered idly, how many men they had spent before they finally accepted the inevitable. By acting rashly, they had denied the one chance at getting close enough to kill the young man, and now, he was beyond their reach.
She had seen enough and the shadowy smoke around the gargoyle drifted off and dissipated, as she released it. She rushed across the astral plane and returned to her body, within the blink of an eye. Finally, the chanting stopped and she lay back and breathed deeply. Her mind replayed all that she had seen, analysing every detail and storing it away.
Time passed as she lay still, her mind a whirl of activity, while her body lay reposed. In one graceful movement, she rose and walked over to the candle, snuffing out the flames with her fingertips, and disappearing into the darkness. She disappeared from sight, and only the soft swish of the door announced her departure from the sacred chamber.
Some time later, a raven flew from the high tower that perched on the very edge of the castle on the peninsula of the isolated island, overlooking the vastness of the Sea of Hunger. It headed away from the sun, gaining height as it travelled towards the distant mountain range. Attached to its ebony leg, was a small silver clasp, and within the clasp, a small piece of parchment. The note contained no words, merely a number. Her would-be employers would weep and wail and gnash their teeth when they read the note, but they would not be surprised at the cost. They would have known the cost before they contacted her. Eventually, they would pay and the young king would die. In the meantime, the king would live, breathe another day and perhaps spawn another generation of Dragan kings, if he was lucky. It would take time to gather such an enormous amount of hard cash, even for the most wealthy, and the price was always paid, in advance. The legendary Shadowy Hand of Macha did not preform her art on the mere word of a merchant, or even that of a king. Gold and precious gems were her only bond of trust. She would wait patiently and prepare herself, waiting for the galley to deliver her price, in full, to her little dock at the edge of the known world.
In the meantime, she had more important things to consider. She had a children's birthday party to prepare for. She had promised her oldest girl something special this year. Her daughter was growing fast, and soon would be old enough to begin her training. It would soon be time to put away the dolls and toys, and take up the family business, just like she had done and her mother before her, going back over countless generations.
Reaching the ground floor, the smoke changed colour, blending with the cream marble of the mansion's flooring as it made its way through the house. It passed guards and servants alike, and none noticed its passing. Finally, it eased through the open doors of the grand dining hall, where the celebrations were in high humour. Music and laughter filled the room, people dancing and eating, dressed in all their finery.
The eddy of pale smoke coiled around an immense marble pillar and slowly crept higher, coiling upwards until it reached an overhanging balcony. Here, ladies fanned themselves and old people pretended to be watching the event below, whilst secretly dozing behind their masks.
The vapour settled within the shadow of the ugly face of a gargoyle and seeped into the unseeing granite eyes.
Far, far away from the city, a slim young woman sat, shrouded in incense, chanting softly. Her features were hidden beneath the cowl of the loose robe she wore, and defied the flickering light of the solitary candle within the chamber. Only her hands were visible, revealing the coiling snakes and intricate knotwork of the multi-colour tattoos the crept up her sleeves.
Deep within the dark hood, her eyes opened, but she did not see the candle or the room in which she sat in asana pose. Instead, he eyes looked out upon the great banqueting hall of Manquay, and studied the figures upon the raised dais at the far end of the hall.
She watched the new king of the Dragons, noting how well he hid his discomfort. Her eyes briefly passed over the faces of the High King and Queen of Tir Pect, reading the sullen but silent fury within the eyes of Queen Medb Ni Béar and the tension around the eyes of the king, Conchubhar MacTíre.
Sweat broke out on her brow, and ran slowly down her cheeks. It also ran down her back as she continued the ancient chant. Exerting her will over such a great distance was difficult and tiring work, and she must finish soon before exhaustion consumed her. The shadowy eyes within the gargoyle swivelled and studied the things that others would not see; the darker shadows, within the shadows, the places where guardians lurked in silence. So it was true then. The young aspirer to the throne of the High King of Dragania was well watched. This would explain why they had come to her. They had failed and failed again. Forewarned, the young dragan was securely beyond the reach of her would-be employers. A contract had been taken and they had failed to certify his death. She wondered idly, how many men they had spent before they finally accepted the inevitable. By acting rashly, they had denied the one chance at getting close enough to kill the young man, and now, he was beyond their reach.
She had seen enough and the shadowy smoke around the gargoyle drifted off and dissipated, as she released it. She rushed across the astral plane and returned to her body, within the blink of an eye. Finally, the chanting stopped and she lay back and breathed deeply. Her mind replayed all that she had seen, analysing every detail and storing it away.
Time passed as she lay still, her mind a whirl of activity, while her body lay reposed. In one graceful movement, she rose and walked over to the candle, snuffing out the flames with her fingertips, and disappearing into the darkness. She disappeared from sight, and only the soft swish of the door announced her departure from the sacred chamber.
Some time later, a raven flew from the high tower that perched on the very edge of the castle on the peninsula of the isolated island, overlooking the vastness of the Sea of Hunger. It headed away from the sun, gaining height as it travelled towards the distant mountain range. Attached to its ebony leg, was a small silver clasp, and within the clasp, a small piece of parchment. The note contained no words, merely a number. Her would-be employers would weep and wail and gnash their teeth when they read the note, but they would not be surprised at the cost. They would have known the cost before they contacted her. Eventually, they would pay and the young king would die. In the meantime, the king would live, breathe another day and perhaps spawn another generation of Dragan kings, if he was lucky. It would take time to gather such an enormous amount of hard cash, even for the most wealthy, and the price was always paid, in advance. The legendary Shadowy Hand of Macha did not preform her art on the mere word of a merchant, or even that of a king. Gold and precious gems were her only bond of trust. She would wait patiently and prepare herself, waiting for the galley to deliver her price, in full, to her little dock at the edge of the known world.
In the meantime, she had more important things to consider. She had a children's birthday party to prepare for. She had promised her oldest girl something special this year. Her daughter was growing fast, and soon would be old enough to begin her training. It would soon be time to put away the dolls and toys, and take up the family business, just like she had done and her mother before her, going back over countless generations.
Published on January 15, 2014 02:47
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Tags:
fantasy
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