Jackarandajam
Maester
Sorry it's a bit long, I just really liked how that villain intro came out and couldn't figure out where to cut it.
-
Welcome to the Fantasy Writing Forums. Register Now to join us!
Favorite excerpts from your novels.
- Thread starter Super Fantasy
- Start date
Jackarandajam
Maester
Love this line.
Jackarandajam
Maester
This is a great line!
- Thread starter
- #124
Super Fantasy
Inkling
thanks
JBCrowson
Sage
I think the idea of a successful writer, like success in anything else in life, is one that requires refinement - definition or context if you prefer. Some people regard the size of their financial return as their measure of success. Some people take happiness or work - life balance. For some people it's giving it their best shot or even just finishing some task they set themself to. I am not trying to say that any of these - or any other measure of success a person might use - is any better or worse, just that people will, and do, use different ones. I would offer the observation that as a psychiatrist I see a lot more people who exclusively use a financial yardstick.
I'm a self taught piano player and have (entirely arbitrarily) decided my measure of success will be when I can play the ballad in G minor. After 20 minutes 3 times a week for two years I'm about 75% of the way there. Will I ever be a concert pianist? No. Do I enjoy it enormously? yes, as do many others on the rare occasions I play in front of them. With my writing It's similar. I would consider writing books that some people enjoy reading and which I'm happy with having written, to be my goal. Neither music nor writing will be my career; perhaps that makes me fortunate - to have something less fickle as my livelihood.
The Dark One
Auror
So important to have a Plan B. It breaks my heart the number of aspiring writers who come to me for advice, and when I ask about their motivation it's (just about) always a career. And they haven't even written Word One yet!!!
Do it for the love of it, and if you become good enough you'll find an audience - but it takes years.
I suppose I'd better add another favourite excerpt to stay on thread...
The Dark One
Auror
This is a longish section - the beginning of Part 2 of my historical novel (set in 1060 - 1066). It achieves a lot while blending info dump with ambience...
Chapter 13 – The Last Words of Ygrene
The bale of fire was hurled into the night sky, struck the keep tower in a spectacular display of burning shards and then sank out of sight behind the stockade wall.
The stockade was the fastness of Dafydd ap Rhiwallon, one of Gruffydd ap Llewellyn’s cousins, but Dafydd was absent, at Gruffydd’s camp no doubt, and it would cost him.
His family were within and nearly a hundred men had defended the stockade, but it was going to fall – like all the others had fallen in Harold’s spring and summer campaign against the Welsh. Gruffydd called himself a king, but that was not to Edward’s liking so the Godwinsons had brought their housecarls – Harold from the south, Tostig from the north – and had raised the fyrd.
As the rightful thegn of Stybbor, I should have been among Harold’s closest, but by virtue of Malgard’s treachery I had been outlawed, so was hidden in the fyrd. But in the three years since I had come into Harold’s service, I had learned to fight and had seen much violence. At 17, I was taller than most and almost in the fullness of my strength. Indeed, I found fighting to be simple. Carl had been right when he’d taught me the importance of sword strength – he with the strength to hold up a shield and use a heavy sword for longer would always prevail.
I had even developed my own style of fighting – keeping my foe at bay by holding the point of my sword towards his face and waiting for him to tire himself with slashes which I simply avoided or fended with my limewood shield. Inevitably, my foe would stumble, or overextend, and then I would strike – at sword arm or throat – whichever presented itself.
Another bale of fire rose sparking into the night, soared over the wall and burst in a great wash of light which then faded to a sombre flickering red. Again the throwing machine was righted and its winches squealed as the ropes were tightened, forcing the great lever downwards until the scoop might be loaded with another burning bale.
I could fight in the shield wall, but I preferred open combat where strength and speed and cunning were more likely to be rewarded. The shield wall, for all its honour, was more prone to chance. One could be felled by a stray spear or sword thrust deflecting off the poorly held shield of a neighbour, or even have one’s feet pulled from under by peasants with long hooked bills reaching from behind the enemy shield wall.
Fortunately, in battles of greater renown, I was forbidden to stand with the housecarls in order to prevent my recognition during the shouting of names and lineages prior to engagement. My battles were fought on the edges of the shield wall, but these were bloody affairs and could have a major impact on the outcome. If the enemy’s shield wall could be threatened from the flank, it would quickly fall apart, and I had never been beaten in such a battle. Harold and Tostig valued my prowess and bade me wait until my name could be cleared.
‘Harold will be king after Edward,’ Tostig frequently declared, ‘…and Edward grows old. When he is gone you can confront Malgard, but please allow me to be present when you do. I would love to see his face when he realises you still live and that he no longer enjoys the king’s protection.’
Harold, Tostig and Elric had spread the rumour that I had perished in the burning house where I had defeated Malgard’s assassins and killed my first man in battle – whose head had been crushed with the poker I’d wrested from Gorik’s hand. My scars had been grievous, and slow to heal, but heal they had and by strange coincidence, the men of the fyrd named me Branded Hands (or Brand for short) without ever connecting me with the outlawed thegn of Stybbor.
Elric also fought at my side in Harold’s battles. At first he had been my mentor, but in the new fighting season of 1063 I had felt my prowess and confidence grow, and now I had emerged as a natural leader. As a servant, Elric’s place should not have been in the battle, but such was his own prowess with sword, spear and bow that no-one questioned the matter. In fact, I had freed him but he stayed for the adventure and to be close to his daughter.
As for that, my relationship with my ‘wife’ had strengthened and deepened in the three years since I had saved her from rape in a stinking cellar on the banks of the Temes, but it was yet to deepen in the way I wanted it to. To the world we appeared to live as man and wife, but in private she retained her maidenhood despite the many tricks she devised for satisfying my lust. There were also times, she told me, when she could barely contain her own powerful urges, but if she were to become with child, the source of her magic would pass to the daughter in her womb.
Not that she displayed much in the way of magic, except in the manner of healing, and her herbs and ointments were much sought after by the men of the fyrd. Even Harold’s physician would at times consult her in the use of herbs or the making of balms, and she travelled with the fyrd, refusing to leave my side and making me happy in the process. Although there was no denying that I looked forward impatiently to the full consummation of our ‘marriage’.
Flames suddenly leapt up and brightened the night beyond the stockade wall and Harold raised his hands to cease the battle. He stood before the gate under his twin banners – the Red Dragon of Wessex and The Fighting Man (his personal standard) and called for Dafydd to surrender before he burn with all his household.
‘Dafydd! Yield the fort and your family will be spared!’
‘Dafydd isn’t here!’ called a strangely accented voice. ‘He is with the king.’
‘There is no king,’ returned Harold, ‘save King Edward in Lundene. Swear allegiance to him now and I may spare you.’
There was an eerie silence for a few moments, but then flames became visible over the wall and some screaming could be heard. Suddenly the gate was thrust open and Harold’s men fell back. A large man appeared in the doorway holding a huge axe, which he flung down and walked forward, palms raised and empty. Harold inclined his head and bade the man stand next to him as dozens of his followers darted out of the burning fort, throwing their weapons onto a rapidly growing pile as they came.
The leader’s name was Garryd and he walked back towards the flames, shouting: ‘Ygrene! Come quickly and bring your child!’
There were more screams, but no further fugitives ran from the flames.
‘Ygrene!’ shouted Garryd, his eyes filling with tears as he was forced back by the heat.
Then a woman appeared at the gate bearing a child, the fire all about her and licking at her clothes and hair. As we watched, her long red mane kindled and she pointed at Harold, calling loudly in the strange tongue of the Welsh. Then she spat in his direction, turned her back and walked calmly back into the boiling horror of flame.
‘What did she say?’ asked Harold, as Garryd stared stricken with grief at the roaring bonfire that had been home for over a hundred people.
Garryd would not translate Ygrene’s last words, but he didn’t really need to – and over the next hours her words were repeated a thousand times.
‘I see your doom invader...when a new star lights the sky then all that is yours will be taken away. Your house will be burned as mine burns, and all your deeds forgotten. Only your death will be remembered.’
PART TWO
Chapter 13 – The Last Words of Ygrene
The bale of fire was hurled into the night sky, struck the keep tower in a spectacular display of burning shards and then sank out of sight behind the stockade wall.
The stockade was the fastness of Dafydd ap Rhiwallon, one of Gruffydd ap Llewellyn’s cousins, but Dafydd was absent, at Gruffydd’s camp no doubt, and it would cost him.
His family were within and nearly a hundred men had defended the stockade, but it was going to fall – like all the others had fallen in Harold’s spring and summer campaign against the Welsh. Gruffydd called himself a king, but that was not to Edward’s liking so the Godwinsons had brought their housecarls – Harold from the south, Tostig from the north – and had raised the fyrd.
As the rightful thegn of Stybbor, I should have been among Harold’s closest, but by virtue of Malgard’s treachery I had been outlawed, so was hidden in the fyrd. But in the three years since I had come into Harold’s service, I had learned to fight and had seen much violence. At 17, I was taller than most and almost in the fullness of my strength. Indeed, I found fighting to be simple. Carl had been right when he’d taught me the importance of sword strength – he with the strength to hold up a shield and use a heavy sword for longer would always prevail.
I had even developed my own style of fighting – keeping my foe at bay by holding the point of my sword towards his face and waiting for him to tire himself with slashes which I simply avoided or fended with my limewood shield. Inevitably, my foe would stumble, or overextend, and then I would strike – at sword arm or throat – whichever presented itself.
Another bale of fire rose sparking into the night, soared over the wall and burst in a great wash of light which then faded to a sombre flickering red. Again the throwing machine was righted and its winches squealed as the ropes were tightened, forcing the great lever downwards until the scoop might be loaded with another burning bale.
I could fight in the shield wall, but I preferred open combat where strength and speed and cunning were more likely to be rewarded. The shield wall, for all its honour, was more prone to chance. One could be felled by a stray spear or sword thrust deflecting off the poorly held shield of a neighbour, or even have one’s feet pulled from under by peasants with long hooked bills reaching from behind the enemy shield wall.
Fortunately, in battles of greater renown, I was forbidden to stand with the housecarls in order to prevent my recognition during the shouting of names and lineages prior to engagement. My battles were fought on the edges of the shield wall, but these were bloody affairs and could have a major impact on the outcome. If the enemy’s shield wall could be threatened from the flank, it would quickly fall apart, and I had never been beaten in such a battle. Harold and Tostig valued my prowess and bade me wait until my name could be cleared.
‘Harold will be king after Edward,’ Tostig frequently declared, ‘…and Edward grows old. When he is gone you can confront Malgard, but please allow me to be present when you do. I would love to see his face when he realises you still live and that he no longer enjoys the king’s protection.’
Harold, Tostig and Elric had spread the rumour that I had perished in the burning house where I had defeated Malgard’s assassins and killed my first man in battle – whose head had been crushed with the poker I’d wrested from Gorik’s hand. My scars had been grievous, and slow to heal, but heal they had and by strange coincidence, the men of the fyrd named me Branded Hands (or Brand for short) without ever connecting me with the outlawed thegn of Stybbor.
Elric also fought at my side in Harold’s battles. At first he had been my mentor, but in the new fighting season of 1063 I had felt my prowess and confidence grow, and now I had emerged as a natural leader. As a servant, Elric’s place should not have been in the battle, but such was his own prowess with sword, spear and bow that no-one questioned the matter. In fact, I had freed him but he stayed for the adventure and to be close to his daughter.
As for that, my relationship with my ‘wife’ had strengthened and deepened in the three years since I had saved her from rape in a stinking cellar on the banks of the Temes, but it was yet to deepen in the way I wanted it to. To the world we appeared to live as man and wife, but in private she retained her maidenhood despite the many tricks she devised for satisfying my lust. There were also times, she told me, when she could barely contain her own powerful urges, but if she were to become with child, the source of her magic would pass to the daughter in her womb.
Not that she displayed much in the way of magic, except in the manner of healing, and her herbs and ointments were much sought after by the men of the fyrd. Even Harold’s physician would at times consult her in the use of herbs or the making of balms, and she travelled with the fyrd, refusing to leave my side and making me happy in the process. Although there was no denying that I looked forward impatiently to the full consummation of our ‘marriage’.
Flames suddenly leapt up and brightened the night beyond the stockade wall and Harold raised his hands to cease the battle. He stood before the gate under his twin banners – the Red Dragon of Wessex and The Fighting Man (his personal standard) and called for Dafydd to surrender before he burn with all his household.
‘Dafydd! Yield the fort and your family will be spared!’
‘Dafydd isn’t here!’ called a strangely accented voice. ‘He is with the king.’
‘There is no king,’ returned Harold, ‘save King Edward in Lundene. Swear allegiance to him now and I may spare you.’
There was an eerie silence for a few moments, but then flames became visible over the wall and some screaming could be heard. Suddenly the gate was thrust open and Harold’s men fell back. A large man appeared in the doorway holding a huge axe, which he flung down and walked forward, palms raised and empty. Harold inclined his head and bade the man stand next to him as dozens of his followers darted out of the burning fort, throwing their weapons onto a rapidly growing pile as they came.
The leader’s name was Garryd and he walked back towards the flames, shouting: ‘Ygrene! Come quickly and bring your child!’
There were more screams, but no further fugitives ran from the flames.
‘Ygrene!’ shouted Garryd, his eyes filling with tears as he was forced back by the heat.
Then a woman appeared at the gate bearing a child, the fire all about her and licking at her clothes and hair. As we watched, her long red mane kindled and she pointed at Harold, calling loudly in the strange tongue of the Welsh. Then she spat in his direction, turned her back and walked calmly back into the boiling horror of flame.
‘What did she say?’ asked Harold, as Garryd stared stricken with grief at the roaring bonfire that had been home for over a hundred people.
Garryd would not translate Ygrene’s last words, but he didn’t really need to – and over the next hours her words were repeated a thousand times.
‘I see your doom invader...when a new star lights the sky then all that is yours will be taken away. Your house will be burned as mine burns, and all your deeds forgotten. Only your death will be remembered.’
AcolyteAndressa’s old servant m, Amos, returns with magic he learned at university and helps her overthrow her brother. This follows just after he massacres her brother, his wife and children and a room full of thirty armed men right in front of her. Her niece he for some reason mind-wiped instead of killing.
“Well, well,” he said to Andressa. “Now that that’s settled I suppose you’re our new grand princess. How does it feel?”
“Amos,” she said a haunted expression on her face, “what the hell did you do to my niece?”
Amos looked her in the eyes. “I killed her. Just like the rest of these finely dressed fools. Only, her death is going to take slightly longer and it will be a delicate and complicated affair. A sort of dying process, if you will. I’ll spare you the details. The important thing is that you are grand princess now and none of your brother’s family will ever trouble you again.”
“But Amos, what did you do to… everyone?”
“I killed them. Quickly but not too quickly. You didn’t specify, so I thought I’d take a middle route. Efficient, effective, and most importantly, permanent. All dead, nothing left to worry about but the bodies.” He drew a cigar from his pocket. “Smoke?” he asked.
“No thank you,” Andressa replied.
Amos popped the cigar in his mouth, focused his eyes on the other end, and it soon fell off in a clean cut and ignited itself. Puffing and blowing he said, “You really ought to consider it, highness. I find it’s the only way to relax after a hard day’s work. Now, let’s find that royal bedchamber. I promise you you’ll feel much calmer after a nice change of scenery. I’m told the view from the balcony is to die for. Plus you and I have some catching up to do.”
“Y-yes,” said the new grand princess.
“We’ll let the boys fix this place up, oh and you will remember to pay that indemnity on time, of course.”
“O-of course,” the grand princess stammered.
“And that scholarship you were going to set up for your subjects to attend Eindon University?”
“Yes, well that, naturally, too.”
“I apologize, your highness, but I know the memory of royals can be short. How would you feel about a foot massage once we’re in private? You always used to love my massages!” And Amos took Andressa by the arm and led her stumbling out of the throne room, now littered with the bodies of her brother’s family and retainers.
“Well, well,” he said to Andressa. “Now that that’s settled I suppose you’re our new grand princess. How does it feel?”
“Amos,” she said a haunted expression on her face, “what the hell did you do to my niece?”
Amos looked her in the eyes. “I killed her. Just like the rest of these finely dressed fools. Only, her death is going to take slightly longer and it will be a delicate and complicated affair. A sort of dying process, if you will. I’ll spare you the details. The important thing is that you are grand princess now and none of your brother’s family will ever trouble you again.”
“But Amos, what did you do to… everyone?”
“I killed them. Quickly but not too quickly. You didn’t specify, so I thought I’d take a middle route. Efficient, effective, and most importantly, permanent. All dead, nothing left to worry about but the bodies.” He drew a cigar from his pocket. “Smoke?” he asked.
“No thank you,” Andressa replied.
Amos popped the cigar in his mouth, focused his eyes on the other end, and it soon fell off in a clean cut and ignited itself. Puffing and blowing he said, “You really ought to consider it, highness. I find it’s the only way to relax after a hard day’s work. Now, let’s find that royal bedchamber. I promise you you’ll feel much calmer after a nice change of scenery. I’m told the view from the balcony is to die for. Plus you and I have some catching up to do.”
“Y-yes,” said the new grand princess.
“We’ll let the boys fix this place up, oh and you will remember to pay that indemnity on time, of course.”
“O-of course,” the grand princess stammered.
“And that scholarship you were going to set up for your subjects to attend Eindon University?”
“Yes, well that, naturally, too.”
“I apologize, your highness, but I know the memory of royals can be short. How would you feel about a foot massage once we’re in private? You always used to love my massages!” And Amos took Andressa by the arm and led her stumbling out of the throne room, now littered with the bodies of her brother’s family and retainers.
Last edited:
Similar threads
