You all know that in spring a young man's thoughts turn to merriment and dalliance. It is the nature of nature during spring break, when school work is set aside for tender, playful moments of love and affection. Or, in the case of many of my friends and colleagues, we relish grabbing a few moments to write.
And so, having nothing more to say on the matter of spring break, love, or nature, I shall simply offer you the opening scenes of my current work-in-progress titled EPIC FANTASY *With Dragons - because that is what it is. To read more about why I am "suddenly" writing an epic fantasy and why it involves dragons, click here and/or here. Or possibly here, as well. This excerpt is a bit more polished than what I offered up at Edgewise Words Inn and I've dared include much of chapter 2. Enjoy!
EPIC FANTASY
*With Dragons
1
The
dragons were a given, as ubiquitous as rainbows after rainstorms. The aerial
beasts had developed such a vile temperament in their endless quest for dinner
that Corlan had no choice but to rip the lead winger out of the formation. It
wasn’t that he enjoyed culling the herd; it was his job. And he didn’t much
care how he came to be employed in such a capacity. He would say to anyone who
asked: “Politics, mere social squabbling, was all it was, not at all what
people assume!”
One
day he was the son of a king; the next day, an outcast making his way across
the battlefields of the realm, offering his services where he could. He fought
in the Battle of Green Mountain on the side of the Chusets, then in the Battle
of the Two Rivers near Banay, rewarded by the prince of Nerk. Then, retiring
from conflict, he had taken up the dragonslinger, a weapon as long as he was
tall, and hired himself out. Fear gripped the land in those days so it was
lucrative, more than the mercenary work. He was employed by the young, sniveling
prince of the Burg, who feared dragons more than anyone Corlan had ever met.
However,
Corlan knew ripping the lead winger from the formation would compel the
lieutenants to turn upon him with the full fury of all gods and demons
united in flesh-ripping horror. Like dragonslayers before him, their lives were
often measured in minutes. A toasty end to regrets imagined and mostly
unfulfilled.
“Come
on! I’ve got a gift for you!” he shouted at the dragon trying to locate him on
the side of the mountain.
Corlan
refitted his weapon with another iron bolt, the metal dart as long as his arm,
trident-barbed. For good measure, the tip included the best poisons man could
create encased in a capsule which would burst upon impact and spill its rotten juice
within the body of the beast—in case the wound itself did not take down the
creature.
As
he prepared to fire the weapon again, he kneed his broad-shouldered muscular
mount, the hefty hippor, into the
shadows of the cliffs where they would be safe a moment longer than in full
view. The hippor grunted its disagreement but complied. The quivers of bolts
hanging from each side of the hippor rattled like chains on the guests in Hell.
As heavy as the collection of metal was, it required a hippor to carry them.
Corlan
scanned the sky, measured the distance with his well-trained eyes. It might be
a good day, he decided. The more dragons dropping from the sky, thought Corlan,
the better the sky. The better the ground, as well. And his fine clothes! He
hated stepping in dragon shit.
Pressing
his foot against the side of the cliff, Corlan dismounted, dropping to the dirt
beside the red-brown hippor he rode as did anyone who needed to range far and
wide through the mountains. The hippor was a slow-footed, wide-shouldered
creature yet the only means of travel left to his people other than by foot.
Fat
and easily guided, the hippor yawned. Its broad throat opened for a full minute,
flashing its long twin tusks before closing and firing a snort out of its long
nostrils.
Corlan
cursed, kicking dirt over the toes of his boots to dry the mucus sprayed from
the hippor’s slimy nose. He tore a cloth from his saddlebag and wiped his leg
from knee to hip. Keeping his eyes on the incoming dragons, he let out a long
breath. If only horses still existed.
The last horse was already dead more than a hundred years. It had been kept in
a small pen on the palace grounds where the prince’s grandfather thought it
would be safe from hungry peasants. In the end, it was not safe.
The
wizards in their long white robes used Clona magic to create this new riding
beast, he had heard. It was a long, expensive process so he felt special that
the prince would offer him one. To begin, the wizards took dust from a dead animal
that had been kept in a jar and locked in a secret vault. Then they mixed in many
potions and set it all into an oven. What came out of the oven was placed into
a larger container and fed many liquids until, after many days, a beast could
be seen. It grew from a thimble of flesh into a full-sized baby animal in a few
weeks. The animal then grew normally within the confines of a farm pen. Or, in
the case of the hippor, in the marshes below the palace walls.
Some
people said dragons came into being the same way. A few deviant wizards chose
to mix potions and create the flying reptiles. That happened a few hundred
years past. They came into being either as the result of a rogue element of
magical turpitude or as an accidental outcome of attempting to produce a new
food source for a starving populace. “What starving fool would dare eat the
flesh of a dragon?” Corlan mused whenever anyone sought to discuss such
history. It was now well-known that dragon flesh was awful. No matter how they
entered the world, from that initial creation they had grown into nine distinct
species roaming all regions of the world, some of them with viable subspecies.
Overhead
the dragons were circling, locating their prey against the side of the
mountain, as Corlan’s red-brown clothing merged into the red-brown cliffside—as
did the red-brown hippor.
The
familiar cries did not alarm Corlan, an expert in this necessary occupation. With
boots planted, he leaned back against the hippor, urging it to move tighter
against the cliffside. Then Corlan took his stance, the bolt loaded, another leaning
against his knee, ready to load next.
A
large gray bull with teal throat markings came in first, wings open and talons drawn,
making a ridiculous spectacle.
Corlan’s
shot went through the dragon’s throat and the beast instantly dropped from the
sky, falling past the human’s position on the cliffside, down to the valley floor.
In
went the next iron bolt, prepared, aimed.
The
second, a tan female with orange wing tips, came at him, apparently upset about
loosing her mate. He could tell that by her fluttering throat skin and the high-pitched
cry of anguish. She gave Corlan an exhale of noxious air which, with a deliberate
hiccough, caught fire. The dragon blew the fireball at the cliffside and Corlan
crouched quickly under the hippor’s head.
Squealing,
the hippor bumbled forward, its bulbous rump and hairless tail lit and burning.
There was nothing Corlan could do. A canteen of water would not be enough. And
he needed the water for the journey back to the city. He had ridden the hippor
for the past season. Lent to him by his employer, the prince, it was an
expensive accommodation. Corlan stood, staring hard at the tan female dragon
approaching the cliffside for further vengeance, making an arc in the sky and
returning.
The
iron bolt was set into the weapon, Corlan’s hands working without thought. He
raised the weapon, released the bolt, and struck the dragon under its lower
jaw.
The
beast crashed into the cliffside, one wingtip scraping along the trail that
hugged the rocks. Corlan dove aside—as his eyes caught the last of the hippor
disappearing over the edge of the cliff, its rear end well-burnt and smelling
almost delicious.
In
the same moment, a large beige dragon swooped up from below Corlan and snatched
the fat animal in its mouth. The dragon sailed high into the sky—boasting of
its prize, it seemed. With a quick upward toss, the dragon caught the hippor in
its mouth and bit off half, letting the other half fall. The dragon then swooped
down and caught the second half, downing it in a second tremendous gulp. Taking
on the extra weight forced the dragon into a lower course than the clan. Others
seemed to scream at him to keep up. The dragon only burped in response and a
cloud of black smoke spilled from its mouth and trailed the beast as it flew
on.
The
formation decided to continue, he saw. They couldn’t spare more time or energy to
deal with another pesky gamekeeper. Three of them already lost on this passage
through the mountains. They should count themselves fortunate. Beyond the
mountains, Corlan knew, was the valley where they would settle for the cold
season and do their mating. After the cold season, the nests would be full of
little dragons.
If
only he could make his way there and destroy all the nests before they hatched.
Then the kingdom would be safe for humankind. And the less he had to step
around dragon droppings, the better. He was already into his third pair of
boots this year!
Now
he had no beast to carry him and his supply of the heavy iron bolts through the
mountains and back to the city. It would be a hard journey on foot.
The
hippor was a sturdy animal with thick legs and large three-toed feet, with a
back wide enough for a large man like him to have lunch on. The animal’s small
eyes were set far apart above a cavernous mouth full of large, rounded teeth
designed for chomping the stalks of river plants, an activity which occupied
them most of their days. Until they were tasked for travel.
Corlan
brushed off his sleeves, straightened his leather jerkin, blithely ran his
fingers through his long auburn hair as though he were about to step into the private
chamber of a certain lady of the Court, a lady whose attentions he had garnered
in recent weeks—yes, her! the lovely
blond buxom Petula!—and not merely setting himself on the road back home. He
could not continue his culling without more supplies.
His
boots had gotten scuffed and the snot of the hippor made every particle of dust
cling to them. He sat on a rock and pulled off his boots to clean them
properly. As he worked, the winds picked up and he could hear the fading cries
of the dragon clan as they winged their way west. It was a smaller clan than he
usually saw so perhaps his work was actually reducing their number.
“Pity,”
he grunted, examining the results of his cleaning.
When
the dragons were all gone, he would be out of a job. No more enjoying the Prince’s
favor. No more the ladies at Court to dabble with after the feasts. They loved
being with a dragonslayer. He was the only true man in the Great Hall—or in any
tavern.
He
shook his head. No more the steep hikes up into the mountains on the back of a hippor
to hunt dragons at their own elevation,
either.
“Pity….”
Rebooted,
Corlan set out at a brisk pace, arms swinging, the heavy spring-loaded dragonslinger,
one last bolt fixed, dangling from a
strap over his shoulder. It would become heavier as he hiked. A sideblade swung
at his hip for lessor dangers.
He
decided to whistle a tune as he walked the trail, the cliff rising to his right,
dropping to his left, the space for footwork only double the width of his
shoulders. Likely the hippor would not have fit this section of the trail and
they both would have tumbled over the side. Then where would he spend the
night?
“Lucky
day,” Corlan snorted, clapping his hands.
2
After
he descended from the mountain, two days making his way along narrow, dangerous
trails, Corlan arrived in the Valley of Death.
He
tsked, kicking dirt from his boots,
daring to stride in the open with his dragonslinger held at the ready.
No
secret to the name of this valley, once upon a time flowing with a mighty
river. Even in the days of the history scrolls a river flowed down the valley. Now
the canyon, empty of its water, had over time widened further, filled only with
rock and dirt and dragon droppings. It was a major conduit between the nesting
grounds in the west and the hunting grounds in the east—where all the kingdoms
of humans lay. No trees, no plant life of any kind to hide under. After the
last of the river had flowed away, it seemed as if all the life in the valley
had been scraped away, leaving a long, jagged desert: one end butting against
the border of his kingdom, the opposite end eventually falling into a swamp
that slid into open sea. Nothing grew in the valley and anyone who ventured
into it often left in the maw of a passing dragon. Hence its name.
Corlan
kept to the shadows of the cliffs. He ducked behind boulders whenever the skies
darkened with dragons winging their path either west or east depending on their
feeding cycle.
He
breathed deeply, sucking in the coarse red dust of the valley, then scanned the
skies. He knew them by sight: the long-tails, the tri-wings, the curlies, the
drapers, the two-feets, the red-bulls, the green-horns, the blue-lightnings,
the grey-bellies, the sag-throats, the fang-masters, the flat-heads, the
featherbacks, the tree-eaters, the mountain-masters, the sea-serpents, the
desert-crispers, the free-sails, the nomad-bearers, the double-hornchins, the
mud-crackers. There were likely more types living in distant regions he had never
visited. And he had never read reports of other dragon species from distant
lands, either. It might be good for dragonslayers to share their knowledge, he
considered.
And
yet his mind was much more consumed by his current predicament than any
idealistic future.
Without
the hippor, Corlan alternated short runs and lengthy walks along what used to
be the river bed, now gravel and dirt. A beam of light broke through the gray sky
ahead and showed him the way home. Three days. Three long days and short nights
dodging the dragons passing overhead.
And
the hippor lost. He wondered how to explain to the prince. How could he pay
back the prince? Not even a record slaughter of dragons—thirty-three this trip—would
likely keep the prince from expressing his anger. Hippors were not easy to come
by, after all. It took a good six months to make one, the wizards mixing
potions in their vats, then a couple years of growth to be able to use the
beast as a mount. The wizards were always trying to speed along the procedure.
Corlan
chuckled to himself, stepping around a low rock that threatened to introduce
itself to his toe.
At
the end of the Valley of Death, he saw the spires of the city, rising above its
encompassing yellow stone walls. A pang of joy burst within him, embarrassed
him, but he was alone and quickly dismissed the momentary lapse of virility.
He
made his way among the broken cliffsides and located the ancient device that
people once used to go foraging in the valley. Long ago, when plants still grew
there, the people would harvest them for food. He thought they called the
device a lift—which is what it did. However, there was no magic spark remaining
in the magical ropes, so he was forced to pull himself up, hand over hand, grabbing
the ropes himself. The pulley system still moved freely, he was thankful to
see.
A
full hour of pulling himself up and Corlan finally stood on the wide veranda
that members of the Court used for evening gatherings. The rich folk laughed
and sang, drank and ate, danced and exchanged acts of affection—all while he
stood watch with his dragonslinger ready to knock any hungry beast out of the
sky should it come too close. He stood watch over them—all of them, the weak courtesans
who thought they lorded over him.
He
laughed, recognized his tendency to do so when a thought about his life
flittered through his mind, letting go a drop of memory, the smell of it
halting him in his tracks. The smell of death? The scent of baby skin? The
caustic odor of dragon breath? He knew them well, dismissed them casually. In
his mind they always mixed, one linked to the next.
And
he went through the gardens, stepping around the pink and purple flowerbeds,
ducking under low tree branches, then carefully passing through an arched gate.
Maneuvering the large dragonslinger through the flora was aggravating. He slipped
along the west side of the palace out to the open plaza full of merchant stands
and guild houses, dozens of citizens going about their business with no thought
to the dragons that would return tomorrow or the next day or sometime the
following week or month.
He
pulled up his cowl, secured it over his head, not wanting to be engaged by anyone
who might recognize him.
Despite
his attempt at disguise, Corlan was not three blocks down the lane before a
young man wearing a scriber’s rough brown robe with the red carnation breast
badge stalked up to him, hand outstretched to halt his progress.
“Sir
Corlan,” the young man spoke, “you are requested to attend the chambers of Sir
Damian.”
Corlan
scowled. “He is still alive?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“I’m
no sir. Not for many years now.”
“I
apologize.”
“What’s
the trouble now?”
“Sir
Damian requests to see you.”
“How
does he know I’ve returned? I only this morning arrived.”
“As
soon as you return is all he commanded.”
“So
you’ve been waiting for me?”
“For
fifteen days.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes,
sir.” The young man frowned at Corlan’s sour face. “Yes, uh, how shall I
address you?”
“My
name is Corlan.” He glared at the scriber; he seemed puzzled. “Of the Burg—this
very city. Corlan Daburg, if you must address me. Or call me Dragonslayer.
I’m first-class, by the way. If you are concerned with my skill level.”
“Yes,
sir—err, Mister…err, Dragonslayer Daburg.”
“A
bit better….”
With
a wave of his hand, Corlan sent the young man ahead. Corlan followed him back
through the market and up to the front gate of the palace, the part of the city
he most dreaded. There, they turned sharply left and went down a side lane and
entered the Legany Lodge, a home for the infirm.
The
old man blinked, showing he remained alive, resting like a statue on the wooden
bench, covered with a thread-bare blanket. Light from the side window struck
his throat and chin, the remainder of his body in shadow. Corlan set down the
dragonslinger, leaning the heavy weapon against the corner of the room. He
dropped the bag of iron bolts beside it, rubbed his shoulder roughly, realizing
the old man had already begin speaking.
Corlan
watched the jiggle of wattle as the old man spoke.
“It’s
not like it used to be,” said the old man in a low, gravelly voice, as though
the words might be his last. His long gray moustache shook, almost covering his
mouth. The longer, grayer beard lay like a second blanket over his chest. “Not
like in the olden days.”
“When
you were young?” Corlan asked in a weary voice.
He
clapped his hands, shaking dust off them, and dropped onto the bench across the
room.
“By
the gods! When I was half your age. When the princes ruled the five kingdoms.”
“Old
man, you are lame in the head. Don’t recite to me the Book of the Princes. Had
too much of that in my school days.”
“Then
you learned it!”
“And
you are not nearly as old as you claim to be.”
The
old man shifted, trying to roll onto a shoulder to better regard his visitor.
“Corlan,
my boy,” he said with a quick wave of his hand, “you are as old now as I was
when I took ill, a useful length of time. No need for you to speak further, for
you have spoken the limits of your brain.”
Corlan
laughed. “Grandfather, you are the one who’s lame in the head.”
“Don’t
let your mother hear you say that…especially in my dying days. She will never
forgive you.”
“Grandfather,
she—”
Corlan
turned away, coughing like he had swallowed the wrong words. Outside the
window, the sky was black with smoke, dragons tussling once more, dueling above
the town.
“Tell
me of your mother.” The old man grinned, his eyes full of hope. “I want to know
everything about my daughter. Is she still a lovely lass, a mild maiden
traipsing through the daffodil meadows under a pale blue sky? Are her cheeks
rosy? Is her flaming red hair tied back as a horse’s tail? Does she bathe in
the clear stream run from the eastern hills of Daburg? Tell me of my Merilla.”
Corlan
nodded slowly, trying to recall the face of the woman who had pushed him out
from between her thighs. She must have nursed him, anyway, at least in the
first hours. Perhaps at other times. There were flashes in his mind of a red-haired
woman patting his head, fingers tossing his auburn hair, or giving him a spank
to his backside, sometimes dressing him like a girl and giggling at him,
setting him on the floor like a pet puppy while she ate her dinner. There was a
man, too, intruding on his memories. He was
big and burly, had a long black beard that went to the floor, it seemed.
Long beard yet high forehead, almost bald. And large hands that swatted him
regularly and ignored his cries. And then darkness would fill his head.
“Grandfather,
it has been many years, too many, and she has now passed on to the Dark World.
You know that. Have you forgotten her?”
“Merilla
lives on, you know...in my brain.”
“That’s
all you have, I understand. Hold fast to it, if you wish. I assure you she is
dead. Dead and burned. I watched the smoke rise to the heavens myself. Even a
few dragons came to suck in the smoke to better make their way in search of
small humans to gather for supper.”
“Such
small talk!” The old man chuckled, broke into a coughing fit.
Corlan
waited. He wondered if he should slap the old man’s back. The coughing cleared.
“You’ve
a gift for it,” the old man finished.
Corlan
stood, brushed off his jerkin, and moved to the side of the bed, gazing down.
“Not
much time remains for you, Grandfather.”
The
old man’s eyes widened. “Are you the one come to end me? Is that the reason
you’ve come to see me? How cruel to send my own kin to do the deed.”
“No,
Grandfather. It’s not me.”
“Then
you came seeking amusement on me?”
“Neither
that.”
“State
your business with an old man then!”
“I
said you have little time remaining. I thought now may be a good moment for you
to give me your secrets.”
“Secrets?”
“Yes,
the location of your treasure, for one. The trick of slaying dragons, for
another. The message to take to the next generation.”
“Yes,
I see. You wish to honor my ghost by stealing the only thing I have left.”
“We
are kin in flesh and blood. We both have been in employ as dragonslayers. You
should want to help me. And I shall pass on your wisdom to my sons.”
“You
have sons?” He laughed and spittle ran from his mouth. “I don’t believe you.
What are their names? Their ages? The color of their eyes?”
“It’s
true I haven’t seen them for many years…but I’m sure they are well and brought
up by their mothers.”
“Mothers?
How much of a cad have you become?”
“I’ve
met a few ladies, it’s not a lie. And with them a few sons were made. Not a
foul thing to do, Grandfather.”
“So
tell me of them.”
Corlan had to think a moment. “Harral
is likely twenty by now, black eyes like his mother. Oring is likely sixteen,
brown eyes. Young Tevar is yellow-haired with green eyes, perhaps twelve. The
eight-year-old redhead is Urix, and he has blue eyes.”
“You
named your son after me?”
“Yes,
Grandfather.”
“Is
that for my honor or for a favor you’ll be asking?”
“After
three sons I could think of no more names. That’s the truth of it. Yet if you
wish to believe I honor you with the name, I bow to your claim. Young Urix has
the look of you and the strength of me, the wisdom of his mother, and the
toughness of the mountains where he was born, under the dragon-dense sky!”
“He
is my great-grandson! I bless him!”
“Thank
you, grandfather.”
“It’s
not only me. I was named after my grandfather, naturally, and he was named
after his grandfather. We go back many generations.”
“Yes,
I know. You never forget to remind me of your heritage.”
“Your
heritage, too!”
“So
you are named—all of your line are named for Prince Urix, the Great Loser.”
“He
was not! How dare you!”
“He
was, Grandfather. It’s so long ago you’ve forgotten. He died during the War of
the Five Princes. He was killed by his own hand. He was the weakest of them.”
“No,
you take it back! Cut your words!”
“It’s
true. Ancient history now. Everyone knows. And the other brother executed.
Another killed in the final siege. The last a mournful reign full of torment. I
cannot recall the fate of the remaining brother. He went east, I think. Became
a religious fanatic. Ancient history, as I said.”
The
old man coughed, waited to see if Corlan would be a dear and catch his spittle,
perhaps slap his back. Corlan remained stiffly at attention, unmoving.
“Now
I’ve need of expense,” said Corlan in a soft voice.
“Whoring
again?”
“Not
that. I mean, the expense is not for that.”
“State
it then.”
“I
ventured to the Valley of Death on a dragonslaying expedition.”
“You
excel at that sport, I hear.”
“More
than sport, Grandfather. The prince employees me. And he provided a hippor to
carry me forth. As you might guess, a dragon got to the hippor and it was
lost.”
“The
prince will punish you?”
“I
should be prepared to pay the prince if he insists.”
“What
punishment might he lay upon you?”
“Slaying
dragons is all I’m good for, so he could cut off my employment.”
“So
you would be left to rummage through the trash heaps…. Is that your fear?”
“We
have many fears among us.”
“Yet
we do not have many coin among us.”
“I
thought you had wealth hidden away. Mother always said so.”
“Merilla
needed to know we were a good family, a clan worthy of marriage, her dowry
secure. The truth, however, is much different.”
“There
is no wealth? No treasure hidden away?”
“What
would you classify as treasure?”
“Coins,
gold, jewels—the usual items people value and trade.”
“Not
food? Not drink?”
“Those
are easy to obtain.”
“Are
they?” He blinked as if opening a new set of eyes, a pair designed for serious
staring. “You forgot that part of your studies: the generations of famine
following the great plague.”
“You
are full of stories today!”
“Not
stories but truth. Mankind killed mankind, and the lonely few remain. The story
is often repeated, but with different colors, textures, and scents.”
“Yes,
yes, we progeny of the survivors. A sad tale of woe, made more pathetic by your
wagging tongue. Tell it to your jailers, not me. An old man has only stories to
offer on his dying bed. I need to know where you have hidden your wealth. The
prince will demand payment. Without a fresh hippor I cannot continue my
employment. Then you will have no one to visit you.”
“There
is treasure. You may not think about it the same as do I. It is…a secret.”
“I
know. It’s hidden, though you deny it.”
“Not
hidden. Not as a box of jewels might be buried in a desert. Yet hidden, as you
seem to believe, in a place where none may access it.”
Corlan
frowned. “You’re teasing me.”
“You
are the teaser.”
“What
is it and where is it?”
“It
is a secret.” The old man tapped his temple twice. “It is hidden in here.”
“Then
none will find it.”
“Do
you want it?”
“What
value does a secret have for me this week?”
“Perhaps
not this week, yet it could pay you well in time.”
Corlan
shook his head. “What is the secret?”
“You
cannot guess?”
“By
the gods, do not make me guess!”
The
old man glared at him.
“Come,
tell it,” insisted Corlan.
“Very
well, I will.”
Corlan
waited. His eyes fought against the stare of his grandfather. Several minutes
came and went. The air hardened. Hearts slowed.
The
old man opened his mouth: “It is the secret of dragons.”
Corlan
rolled his eyes against his will, noticed the caretaker grinning in the corner
of the room.
“Grandfather,
why have you withheld such a secret if you knew I need it? Are you lame in the
head, as I suspect?”
The
old man pursed his lips like he was thinking of a worthy answer, then uttered:
“No.”
“Then
tell it.”
“You
must do something for me first.”
Corlan
nodded. “Of course there must be some condition!”
“First
you must refill my medicine. I’ve been without for nearly a week.”
“So
you are lame in the head? From lack of medicine?”
“You
judge me so harshly!”
Corlan
threw his hand in the direction of the caretaker. “Send the boy to fetch your
medicine then. I’ve more important tasks to tend to. I’m a dragonslayer, after
all.”
“The
boy wouldn’t know where to go. He wouldn’t stand watch to be sure it is made
properly. He wouldn’t be able to assure payment was not inflated by the
apothecary.”
“That’s
true,” Corlan said with a nod. “Very well. I’ll fetch your medicine. Then you
must tell me that precious secret you hang over my head like a sword.”
“I
knew you would understand.”
Corlan
waved at the boy. “Come, we have a mission.”
“Make
it soon,” said the old man. "I'm dying, you know."
“Certainly.”
Corlan turned to the boy. “I’ll show you where to get the medicine and you bring it back here
and give it to him.”
The
boy nodded, his face unsure what he was being asked to do but knowing it was
his duty to fulfill whatever request was made of him by a guest of the lodge.
“You
able to assist us?” Corlan asked the boy.
He
nodded. “I am.”
“Then
let us be gone,”said Corlan, taking a step toward the door. He glanced back at
the old man. “I shall expect your great secret when I return.” He pointed to
the corner. “I’m leaving my dragonslinger here. I trust you won’t be using it
in my absence.”
“I
doubt I could lift it at my age.”
“Then
I’ll trust you.”
[In the next scene, Corlan encounters his rival in the dragonslaying business and a snarky conversation ensues, one which precipitates the main action of the story: a quest.]
Presently, I am in chapter 15, having crossed the 65,000 word threshold on the way to 275,000 - as all truly epic fantasy novels must aspire! If epic fantasy is not your cup of tea - and that is quite all right - I also have novels in other genre from which to choose. After all, Spring is an excellent time to read a good book from any author you've not read previously, either mine or those of my friends at Myrddin Publishing.
I shall blog about serious matters as they arise, or as I feel worthy of lecturing on them.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(C) Copyright 2010-2016 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog.
Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.
%20med.jpg)
