I was kind of in shock after I completed editing the final chapter of Wyldling Snare this afternoon. I didn’t know what to feel. I just…sat there for a minute. I said to myself: “Well, there’s Revision Number Two.” I certainly never thought: “Yippee! This is actually done, now. Who wants a cupcake to celebrate?”
This was after I spent nearly three hours writing an alternative prologue that I believe is okay but doesn’t really fit into the narrative that follows. The original prologue takes place about fourteen years before the events of the novel and is roughly ten pages long (double-spaced.) It is from the point of view of a character that does not play a role in the events of the Wyldling series, but it introduces several important characters that you meet at some point early in the series, if not in the first book. The action takes place during an evacuation from a garrison town that’s about to be overrun by a vicious enemy, so the narrative is gritty, fast-paced and reeks of desperation.
The new prologue is three pages long (double-spaced) and takes place concurrently with the first chapter. It is a dream sequence from the point of view of an important character that you meet in the middle of the first novel. No names are used. It is almost the antithesis of the original prologue. There is no sense of danger or violence, only curiosity and vague yearning. I portray the scene in a mysterious fashion – the narrator is dreaming, and realizes it – but I’m not sure that it really adds anything to the story, or that the prose is compelling enough to encourage someone to read further.
Why, you ask, would I waste my time writing a different prologue – especially something I consider so-so at best? Because two out of three people who read my original prologue said it was too “dark” or “sad.” One of them – whom I shall refer to as R.M. – did not want to read any further because he claimed it made him feel depressed.
I wanted to try a different approach with the new prologue. Make it less “deathy,” or something. Well, I’m not sure that’s going to work. I’m writing a sword and sorcery type fantasy novel for young adults, not a chapter book for young children about a magic tree house. Now, I’m not dissing the Magic Tree House series – far from it; I think they’re great books – but that isn’t the sort of audience I’m writing for at the moment.
Perhaps the new prologue served its purpose, after all: now R.M. has decided that the original prologue is actually okay. Or, at least, he thinks the original is more suitable for the novel than the new one – the three pages that I worked so hard on this afternoon and enjoyed writing because I thought I was being so mysterious and clever with my descriptions without actually naming the characters.
When it comes to critiquing and editing, I am definitely my own worst enemy.
Oh well. I’ll ask the beta readers to read both of them. They can tell me which works best for the book.
Or maybe neither will make the cut. Who says that I need to have a prologue, anyway? Jim Butcher doesn’t include a prologue in any of the Dresden Files novels and people still love reading them.
Speaking of which, I can hardly wait for Peace Talks to come out…
Apropos of nothing, here is a picture of a cat sitting on my Bible study questions so that I can no longer work on them.
Okay, so this whole process is turning out to take longer than I hoped it would!
Yes, I suppose I can say that I completed the first draft by the end of last month. Woohoo! Yay me?
I thought that I would be done with the first round of edits/revision by the middle of February, and then I could ask the few folks who volunteered to read through it. You know, beta readers (just like Jim Butcher.) I figured, the way I was constantly revising my work almost as soon as I wrote it – which I do NOT recommend and counsel sternly against doing – that it should be “pretty okay,” as my eldest son would say.
Currently, we are a quarter of the way into the month and I have plowed through “editing” only eight out of twenty-three “chapters.” Things are…complicated. There were some areas where the narrative was inconsistent. That’s what happens when you revise at the same time that you are “creating,” people! You get this cool idea to include in the first chapter and then you forget to carry it through down the road. For example, you change one major detail about a character and suddenly the scenes you already wrote including him/her that take place a hundred pages later suddenly don’t work. Or you decide to cut out a bunch of exposition from chapter three (because you decide it’s boring) and realize that the actions that the characters take (or don’t take, in this case) in chapter seven no longer makes sense.
Now, I would never rank the complexity of my story on the same level as, say, Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time, but the Wyldling series is still a complicated enough story that I probably need a spreadsheet to keep track of character arcs and objects and whatnot. Unlike the late, great Robert Jordan -may he rest in peace (and thank you to Brandon Sanderson for finishing that wonderfully rich behemoth of a series!)- I decided to limit the point-of-view narrative in Wyldling Snare to three main characters (two Wyldling protagonists and a villain). That will change later on in the series, because (spoilers!) I will introduce more Wyldling characters as the story marches on. Eventually there will be more than three storylines. So maybe I end up emulating Mr. Robert Jordan, after all? I can’t remember how many storylines he wove into the fabric of his magnum opus, but it was definitely more than three! Probably more like twenty – some of which EVENTUALLY converge – and only three or four of the storylines were actually resolved. But don’t quote me on that; it’s been a while since I read The Wheel of Time. Like, years. Man, but that was a good, long series. All the books are still sitting on my shelf…
But I digress! Which shouldn’t be possible in a blog, right? Most people would edit that stuff out, right? Not me! I am saving all of that editorial power for my book. This is all just rambling, now, so I should shut up and get back to work. Okay, self, back to the first order of business: the revision process!
Yes, I just paraphrased Star Wars: A New Hope. So sue me. I love that movie. It inspires me.
In any event, I think that I am finally getting somewhere with Wyldling Snare!
As I mentioned in a previous post, this novel is to be the first installment of a five or six book series – all of which will have “Wyldling” in the title. I had a large part of this series already written in a ponderous tome entitled The Grand Illusion, but I felt that I needed to rework that behemoth into a series of separate books. This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth century. No one wants to slog through my rendition of Tolstoy’s War and Peace (no, I haven’t actually read it – although I have read Anna Karenina.)
Right now, I am still in this writing/reworking phase. My goal is to have the first draft completed by the New Year – and I believe that this is an attainable goal. There, I defined my goal. I set a deadline. I even wrote it down and shared it with other people…in this blog. Hooray! I made a few baby steps toward accomplishing something! Even if it turns out to be utter malarkey!
If I had to quantify my progress, I would have to venture a guess. Three-quarters done? Perhaps even more, since much of the book is already written. Five out of roughly twenty-five chapters left to rework, and one earlier chapter that requires additional prose.
I suppose I have to ask the question: technically speaking, is this a first draft or a second draft that I am currently working on? Part of me responds “who cares?” but another part of me likes to be accurate and precise. I could call the manuscript a second draft in the sense that much of it was already written. However, it is a first draft in the sense that other eyes have not yet critiqued it.
Mea culpa! I am guilty of trying to edit and revise simultaneously as I craft the story -which is a big no-no for a writer who actually wants to finish a novel.
My advice: write everything down – without judgment! – and then go back to revise it. You are your own worst critic. Stop listening to that nasty, paranoid voice and just WRITE.
“The innocent must be protected,” Sir Frederick said.
5 Turnings prior to the events in Wyldling Snare…
Night had fallen like a black curtain over the tall copse of ancient lilac bushes behind him. Although their branches were almost barren, the silent watcher could easily envision the gnarled and twisted boughs of ancient bushes – many grown as tall as trees over many Cycles – verdant with foliage and laden with purple blossoms as they were in the late springtime. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine that he smelled their sharp fragrance in the autumn air. Unconsciously, his gloved fingers stroked the lilacs embroidered on his tabard.
Lilacs – the symbol of his order.
From his perch on his mount, the armored man gazed down into the rocky defile as if he was capable of seeing into its depths. His breath steamed in the chill autumn moonlight, but he was otherwise perfectly still – an equestrian statue.
The spell was shattered a moment later when his destrier snorted and backed away from the brink at a twitch of the reigns in the man’s hands. Chain mail jingled softly as he returned to the copse of ancient lilac bushes. Dead and dry leaves rattled as a breeze plucked them away from nearly denuded branches.
“What did you see, down there?” another man spoke from beneath the spreading limbs of a nearby oak, where he stood holding the bridle of his own horse. He had been the first to arrive at the copse over an hour ago. For the past ten minutes he had been watching the mounted man in perfect silence, expressionless as a toy soldier clad in lacquered scale armor over his silk garments. He wore a strangely shaped helm with a wide neck guard and a crest on the forehead piece that resembled moth antennae.
The mounted man showed no surprise; despite his preoccupation he had been aware of the other man’s presence for some time. He merely turned in the saddle to address his comrade. “Only darkness.” And then he spat on the ground in punctuation. “Wondered if you were ever going to speak up. How’s the bride, Nicolas?”
“She is well, I thank you.” Sir Nicolas inclined his head politely. “We are expecting a child during the Wolf Moon.”
“Congratulations!” The mounted man said. “May the Threefold One bless your growing family.” He grinned. “Didn’t waste any time, did you?”
“I thank you, Frederick.” Sir Nicolas bowed to his colleague. His wry smile was evident in his tone. “We saw no reason to wait.”
Hoofbeats interrupted their conversation. “Ah,” the mounted man said. “I reckon that’s Mordegaard.”
“The approach is from the South,” came his companion’s mild reply.
“Aye.” Sir Frederick chuckled as he removed his plain round helmet. “Commander Storm will not be coming, for he had more pressing concerns in the County of Mirrors. I will tell you more once the others arrive. And I suppose Clint will be late, as usual.”
“He does have the farthest to come, Frederick,” Sir Nicolas gently rebuked him. He took off his heavy helm and glanced up, past the branches of the ancient lilacs bushes clawing at the sky. “And the moon is not yet above us.”
Sir Frederick’s bearded face split into a grin. “At least we can be assured of a good smoke when he comes.”
Several more minutes brought with them the appearance of a tall, dark-skinned man astride a white stallion from around the bend. He wore lamellar leather armor reinforced with steel scales and a helm with a long feathery crest. A hooded raptor perched on the pommel of his saddle.
“Praise the Threefold One!” Sir Frederick dismounted to approach the new arrival. “Good to see you’re still among the living, Mordegaard.”
Sir Nicolas emerged from the gloom under the oak into the moonlight and bowed to the dark-skinned man. “Lord Yshua be with you, Mordegaard,” he said.
“Frederick. Nicolas.” Sir Mordegaard removed his crested helm and nodded to both of his comrades. “Salutations, my friends, and rich blessings from the Almighty Yshua. It is good to see you both, as well.”
His stallion was a young, spirited animal, and danced a few steps, whickering, as he pulled up on the reins. The hooded falcon shifted its talons but showed no signs of distress. The dark-skinned man patted the horse’s neck and then dismounted. He stroked the wing feathers of his bird, murmuring reassurances. It was then that they all detected the hoof-beats of a horse approaching from the west at a brisk trot.
Sir Mordegaard led his mount over to another tree on the edge of the lilac copse and loosely looped the reins around a branch. “Do not stray, Zebulun,” he murmured, placing a sword-callused hand upon its nose.
Just as the moon reached its zenith, the fourth man rode into the clearing ringed by lilac bushes on a coal-black destrier with a white blaze on his forehead. Although he was over average height and broad-shouldered, the man’s figure seemed slight when compared with his comrades, for he wore no armor other than a tough leather coat with fringes along the sleeves. His long dark hair was bound back in a queue – in the style of the Western Plains Skraeling folk – and he wore no helmet, only a wide-brimmed hat that would have concealed his face even in daylight. As it was, the moon revealed little of his features, but the three other men recognized him easily.
“What ho, Clint!” Sir Frederick raised a hand in greeting, chain mail jingling
“What ho, Rick!” Sir Clinton called back. His voice sounded eager. “I see the three of you have beat me, as usual.” He raised the brim of his hat to reveal the cocky grin on his handsome, high cheek-boned features and then slid off his horse with the grace of one practically born in the saddle.
“As an apology,” he said, dark eyes twinkling, “I have brought smokeleaf.”
“Good man,” Sir Nicolas murmured, bowing to him. “You have rkindled the spirit of forgiveness in my breast.”
Sir Clinton laughed as he withdrew an oilskin sack from a saddlebag. The four men brought out their pipes and filled them with crushed dry leaves that the young man offered them. For several moments, they puffed away in companionable silence. Fragrant smoke wreathed their heads and rose into the star-spangled blackness above them. They all waited, Sir Clinton fidgeting, the others more patiently, watching the moon slowly trace its silvery path across the heavens.
Finally, Sir Frederick tapped the dottle out of the bowl of his pipe and crushed out the embers beneath his booted heel. He tucked his pipe into a belt pouch. The others followed suit. The older man sighed. Moonlight shimmered like hoarfrost on the numerous gray hairs on his head and in his short beard. “I suppose you all have heard the rumors by now,” he said, “so what I have to say will be no mystery to any of you. A week following the Resurrection Festival, scouts reported activity along the walls of Gan’golorum. Commander Storm, himself, has gone to investigate.”
“Ah.” Sir Mordegaard nodded his head in understanding. “That explains the Commander’s absence tonight. As the Nehmwights muster for war in the North,” he said, “Banditry is on the rise in the Southern Marches. The southern caravan route has become even more perilous for honest folk to travel. I suspect that the Human League is behind all the trouble.” He turned to Sir Nicolas, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.
“Assuredly, something foul is afoot in Rang Shadah,” was all the taciturn Sir Nicolas would contribute, his dark eyes a mystery. He waved a hand to indicate that he would elaborate later, and then turned to the young Baron-Knight of the Western Marches, who looked as though he would fly apart at the seams if he did not speak soon.
“Someone’s buying up all the mining rights in the Spine,” said Sir Clinton in a rush. “And the Pacifica manufactories have increased their production sevenfold.” The young man, barely out of his teens, contained his excitement like a tightly-coiled spring. He lowered his voice. “And with my own eyes I saw Koshmar.”
The other three men exchanged uneasy glances. “Are you sure, lad?” Sir Frederick inquired, placing one large hand on Sir Clinton’s shoulder. “One Nehmwight pretty much looks like another.”
The youth stiffened and his eyes flashed. “I would not have mentioned it, otherwise.”
“Peace, Sir Clinton,” rumbled Sir Mordegaard. “Continue, my brother. The hour grows later than we hoped, and that which we swore to protect may soon be in peril.”
“Too right on that count,” muttered the youngest of their Order. Irritably, he rolled his shoulders, stretching them under the taut leather vest. “I only saw him at a distance, but I heard the Third Consul of the Western Pact – Reese Devonian, that is, a fellow I’ve been suspicious of for a while – address him by name.”
“A thousand curses upon the head of Devonian,” Sir Nicolas whispered, his dark eyes fierce.
“And a thousand more upon the Nehmwight who subverted him,” Sir Mordegaard added. “Almighty preserve us!”
Sir Frederick, the most senior among them, chuckled humorlessly. “Go ahead and curse the bastards all you want, but it’s cold steel, rather than words, that’ll be the undoing of them.”
“That, or an arrow from the shadows,” Sir Clinton said, glancing at the strung bow and quiver hanging from his saddle horn.
“I doubt the Council would countenance assassination,” said Sir Mordegaard.
Sir Frederick smiled grimly. “The Commander would,” he said. “And it is to him that we report, not the Council.”
“The night grows old,” said Sir Nicolas, who had been watching the moon.
Swiftly, the young man told the rest of his tale, and the others added details to flesh out their own findings. It was no difficulty to perceive that all these disparate activities were interconnected. Grimly, the four men concluded that that which they guarded was in danger and the time had come to prepare for war. They discussed the possibility that the stirring of the enemy in all Four Quarters was a ruse to flush out the remnants of their Order and thus determine the whereabouts of that which they safeguarded. The uneasy consensus was that they report their findings to their commander and remain vigilant of any traps as they mustered troops for the inevitable conflict.
Sir Nicolas, especially, was reluctant to commit to hostile actions. “It might be a ruse in a different manner,” he suggested, uncharacteristically verbose. “A means of utterly annihilating us and leaving our sacred charge naked to every threat.”
Sir Frederick clenched his bearded jaw. “Not on my watch.”
Sir Mordegaard’s dark eyes glittered. “It is clear, to me, what our next move must be to ensure the safety of our ward. We must each ensure that our successors are fully trained and prepared for investiture. We must await orders from Commander Storm to engage. Then, and only then, shall we carry the fight to our foes.”
Sir Clinton grinned ironically. “This from the man who claims that time is so short. But hey,” he said, doffing his wide-brimmed hat. His dark eyes shone with excitement in the moonlight. “Since we’re talking war, I reckon it’s high time I found me an apprentice!”
“No girls, Clint.” Sir Nicolas smiled. “Remember what Commander Storm said about that at the last Convocation.”
Sir Clinton’s mouth snapped shut, and his dusky cheeks darkened in a blush.
“Never mind, lad,” laughed Sir Frederick, slapping him on the back. “No matter who you choose, you’ll do old Sir Ferdinand proud.” He sobered. “May he rest in peace.”
“May he rest in peace,” intoned the other three. The young man found that he had a lump in his throat as he recalled his master, and hastily popped his hat back on his head so that the others did not see the moisture in his eyes.
“Now then,” Sir Frederick said, and cleared his throat. “According to tradition, during the full moon at the birth of each season, we have convened here in the place where our Order was founded to share the news of our realms and to speak our oath anew.”
As the most senior knight of the Lilac Order, Sir Frederick knew his duty well. He stepped back and drew his broadsword, Borealis. Placing both hands upon the hilt, he held it with the blade pointing skyward, the flat of it touching his bowed head. His voice was calm and steady as he spoke, but his heart beat with paternal love behind his armored breastplate as he conjured the image of their ward into the view of his mind’s eye.
“I, Frederick jes Ursanovir, Baron of the Northern Marches and Knight of the Lilac Order, in the presence of my brothers, hereby reaffirm my vow to protect and serve the selDrayven clan with my every breath and beat of my heart until life has fled from me. Threefold One bear witness.”
One by one, the others mimicked him.
Sir Mordegaard LeMaurior was next, pressing the flat of his cutlass, Meridialis, against his bald pate. His voice shook with his fervent vow, but the hands of the finest swordsman in the Southern Marches were as steady as his devotion to their ward’s safety.
Sir Nicolas Terayama was calm, as usual, and his voice was firm as he spoke his dedication to the selDrayven family. The blade of Orientalis, his katana, flashed in the moonlight like quicksilver. Although he loved his young wife and their unborn child passionately, the Baron-Knight of the Eastern Marches knew that he was prepared to die in the defense of the one they all served.
Sir Clinton Rodriguez, the newly invested Baron-Knight of the Western Marches, removed his hat so that the narrow blade of his saber, Occidentalis, would not slice its brim as he solemnly swore his oath. Even though he had never personally met the one he was sworn to protect, the young Skraeling was no less dedicated to the cause than his elder companions.
After he fell silent, the four Baron-Knights, each standing at one of the cardinal arrows etched into the stones at their feet, raised their chosen blades until the points met at the center. They spoke in unison ancient words passed down from baron-knight to apprentice since the inception of the Lilac Order. Perhaps it was only the moonlight, flashing off of the metal of the blades as they flicked them up, but it seemed that sparks leaped from the tips of their weapons. There was no visual or audible signal, but after a moment, the four men simultaneously lowered their disparate blades, and then sheathed them in one fluid movement.
“Lord Yshua go with you, my brothers.” Sir Frederick locked eyes with each of his comrades in turn. “The innocent must be protected,” he said. Slamming their right fists against their chests, the others echoed his words.
Without speaking further, the grim-faced men turned away and retrieved their mounts. Within moments, they were riding off to opposite points of the compass. Although they were disparate in appearance and separated by vast distances, the four Baron-Knights were united by the same cold resolve burning within their hearts.
“How the crimson tide burned inside of him, wracking him! He must feed it, and soon.”
I removed the following excerpt from Wyldling Snare because I wanted to restrict the narrative to three points-of-view. However, I feel that it provides a taste of this novel without revealing too much of the plot. Enjoy, and feel free to comment.
The golden shafts of suns-light streaming through the interrupted canopy deep in the untamed depths of the Darkenwood Forest remained unappreciated by the panting, dark-featured figure that creeped across the drawbridge of the ancient fortress. Once inside the castle walls, a pair of sinewy arms applied themselves to the wheel that lowered the gate over the entrance. Wraithlike, the dark figure darted down a passageway when the fortress was barred against the outside world, relieved to be out of the daytime light and heat.
Although he detested the necessity to venture underground, the assassin was grateful to be deep in the hollow heart of the fortress where the shadows lay thickest, coiling sinuously like living things, so that he could finally remove the talisman that maintained his disguise. Torches seemed to march along with him in an eerie procession down the chilly, winding corridors, nearly stifled in the pulsing, oily blackness. And yet, life dwelled there within the stronghold, though a fusty odor of mildew and decay clung to its walls, its many chambers and its tunnels and dungeons. A colossal survivor of a long-forgotten age, the castle clung to its molding foundation, whereas its kin had long since declined into the ruined, crumbling corpses of an extinct race.
Running his tongue over his fangs, the assassin slunk along the narrow, dank hallway that led to a heavy oak door pitted with gouges and reinforced with steel bands. Hackles raised and pelt rippling with anxiety, he tried not to think about the foul denizens inhabiting the lower levels of the fortress, the ones who whispered and taunted and promised delights. He set his jaws into a terrifying rictus to scare off the shadows around him; however, they would approach, and test his control yet again. After what seemed an age to the assassin, he stood before the huge door, motionless, uncertain of his welcome. He had not yet succeeded in his primary objective. In the dimness behind him, he could hear the steady drip of water as it seeped through cracks in the superstructure. He twitched his whiskery mustache and raised a hand to scratch at the door.
“Well, enter, you idiot! You’ve been standing out there long enough.”
The assassin’s tail went rigid behind him, and his fur stood on end at the sound of the angry voice, loud and clear even behind the huge door. He snarled at himself, gathering his courage, and then shoved a shoulder against the door, pushing it open with enormous effort. He had been sent to gather intelligence and he would report the information he had gleaned – just as he had been instructed. It was good to serve a master; in addition to the talisman that allowed him to move unregarded amongst the Kadorei, Milord gave him potions that kept the crimson madness at bay.
At least, they had used to.
Slipping through the opening, he yanked his tail inside as the door slammed shut like the valve of a diseased heart. He wrinkled his snout at the mingled scent of burnt candle wicks, ancient mildew and rancid sweat laced with rotgut spirits as he blinked his dark eyes at the unaccustomed light, dim though it was. Guttering tapers held the deepest shadows at bay in the corners, held upright in pockets of their own melted wax.
A tall, dark-bearded man with a thin face and sharply pointed ears hunched over a huge, leather-bound tome that covered the entire surface of the wax-smeared worktable. Candles of varying thickness and heights surrounded him, the light they provided tumbling down and around the folds of his silky, blue-black robe like water off a waterfowl’s wings. Even in the dim, golden light it was easy to see that his skin was not simply corpse-pale, but as gray as old ashes. He smelled of persimmons and frustrated rage.
Off in a dark corner, the assassin perceived a figure in dirty gray robes sprawled out upon a shabby divan, drinking out of a bottle and swaying in time with the ribald ditty that he softly sung. He smelled sour, of rotgut whisky, festering secrets and bitterness. The assassin’s eyes passed over him; that one was no threat in his present condition and was easily dismissed.
Now that he was within the confines of the chamber and away from the whispering, beguiling shadows, the assassin could wait patiently, even if he was uncomfortable deep in the bowels of the moldering fortress. It had been almost a fortnight, and the crimson madness was stirring again. He could feel it burning like acid at the back of his throat and tickling at the base of his skull. And the shadows kept whispering…whispering…
His fingers twitched. Joints popped and crackled. He felt his claws lengthen.
The tall, dark-robed man continued to ignore him for a moment longer, obviously intent on his reading, seemingly a harmless scholar. Weak and vulnerable. Easy prey.
The assassin knew better. Oh yes, for his sins, he did know better.
Trembling, the assassin cleared his throat. “Milord?” he said.
Now the man turned from his volume and regarded him imperiously down his nose, one dark eyebrow raised. “You have news to report?” he replied in the assassin’s natal language.
The assassin hated that little tickle of dread at the base of his skull, but he would endure much worse in order maintain his tentative grasp on sanity. “Yes, milord,” he said. “As instructed, I have been watching and listening.” He avoided looking directly into the man’s eyes. To do so would be to challenge him. It was much the same amongst his own people.
“Good,” the man said without a trace of emotion in his voice. “Continue.”
“The boy is in the woods now,” he rasped. “He is on his way to that…that wall…but he is not alone this time.” Dare he trust that calm tone? The quiet mien?
“He returns to it,” the tall man said, one hand absently stroking his short, spade-shaped beard. His eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Yes. I can profit from this…”
Gathering courage, the assassin stepped closer. How the crimson tide burned inside of him, wracking him! He must feed it, and soon. “Milord…” he said. “Perhaps I overpower the companion, bring the boy to you…and when you are done with him, I devour him?”
“Silence!” With a casual wave of his hand, the tall man sent the assassin flying into the wall, knocking off his wide-brimmed hat. He had not physically touched him, but the tattoos on his hands were writhing like a tangle of black, spiny worms.
“Your orders,” he continued in his resonant voice, “are – as they have always been – to watch and listen. You have done well in eliminating the old man. When the time comes, I will give you further instructions regarding his ward.”
Suddenly the thin face – twisted with rage and black symbols crawling across ashen skin – and its fierce eyes filled the assassin’s entire field of vision. A visceral pain clawed through the assassin’s insides, and in spite of himself he doubled over, whimpering and groaning. After what seemed to be seasons passed, the agony disappeared as if it had never been. He straightened up again, his yellow eyes flashing with indignation and resentment.
“This is the order of the Dreadlord,” the man said, once he saw that he had the brute’s full attention. “You are not to molest the boy in any way. Do not disobey me in this. You have caused enough trouble already in sating your…hungers. If you compromise your mission, there will be a very object lesson in store for you. Do I make myself clear, eresh’gulkah?”
Eyes wide, the assassin choked down his terror and mortified anger at the Nehmwight appellation for slave. He managed a curt nod. “I am your eyes and ears, milord,” he choked out. “Your very obedient…slave.”
The tall man rewarded him with an enormous, shark-like grin. “Very good,” he purred, tossing a small metal flask to the assassin. “Here is your medicine. Now, leave us.” Seemingly of its own accord, the huge door creaked open behind the assassin.
Trembling, the assassin clutched the potion to his chest. Backing away, he snatched his hat off the floor and scuttled out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him and narrowly missed crushing his tail as he fled.