Hail, Rockbrothers and Rocksisters, and people of the Land! I've been away a long time, but wanted to reconnect with Kevin's Watch as I get ready for the climactic release of THE LAST DARK. I've missed having SRD fans to share the anticipation with. Other than that . . . life happened, depression happened, and I hid my face from the Watch because I doubted my welcome. I hope I didn't need to doubt. It feels like I've been away since the Viles built the Lost Deep.
I'm making this post in The Hall of Gifts because I have a gift to offer you all. Years ago, at the first Elohimfest, I circulated a manuscript copy of a tale of mine called LORD TALON'S REVENGE. Duchess of Malfi was one who thought highly of it. Alas, I did not connect with Tor at that time; the editor I was dealing with requested another manuscript, sat on it for three solid years, and when I pressed him for a decision, rejected it (as far as I can tell) sight unseen. I have since heard from other writers that this editor is, shall we say, less than diligent in that aspect of his work.
I then put the manuscript aside for a long time, but have now revived and revised it for an experiment in self-publishing. It is now available on Smashwords, and at the moment, you can download it for free with a coupon code. Here's where you can find the book:
Lord Talon's Revenge:
A Comedy of Greed, War, Hatred, Betrayal, and Other Desirable Things
When you go to check out your cart, enter this coupon code to get the free download:
SL59T
The coupon is valid until this Friday, August 10.
I hope some of you will accept this gift for the sake of the friendship the Watch has borne me in years past.
Lord Talon's Revenge (a Giant's tale later)
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Variol Farseer
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Variol Farseer
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- Joined: Sun Nov 10, 2002 11:43 am
- Contact:
Now, for those of you who have not the patience to hear a Giantish tale, here is a very short gift: an excerpt from Lord Talon's Revenge, in which we meet the title character for the first time.
The man in the black metal mask entered Ilberion in the first light of a rain-grey morning, forty-one days after the death of Lord Vauntjoy. The southern frontier passed through the oak forest of Orlian, dense but not impassable, crisscrossed by narrow trails. Oak-trees told no tales; acorns did not speak; neither did the pigs that grew fat on the acorns; and the swineherds who watched them spoke to no one but the pigs. It was the perfect place for a secret arrival, as generations of smugglers could attest. Orlian was not a large or important fief, but it was a profitable one: thanks to their share of the smuggling trade, the barons of the place had grown fatter than their pigs. The masked man carried no contraband except himself, but he was glad enough to be an hour’s ride past the border before he was stopped by one of the baron’s patrols.
The patrol consisted of four men on horseback, armed with sabres and short bows, wearing their lord’s livery: on a surcoat of scarlet, a white boar couchant, with its snout in a golden trough. ‘You there!’ cried the leader. ‘Halt and dismount!’
The masked man reined in his mount but remained in the saddle. The leader of the patrol bristled his moustache, and his fat red face turned redder. ‘Hoy! I said dismount, you dog! And uncover for your betters!’
‘I always do,’ said the masked man drily. His hat remained defiantly on his head.
One of the other riders gave a low whistle while the leader’s face turned from red to purple. The youngest of the four edged his horse up to flank the intruder and reached for his face with a yellow-gloved hand. ‘What’s under the mask?’
The masked man batted the hand away with sudden savagery. ‘Nothing for you to see,’ he snarled. The young rider answered in the same temper. With a single fluid motion, he drew his sword and swung it at the exposed neck beneath the mask. But before the blade bit home, or he quite knew what was happening, the intruder had drawn, his own sword was on the ground, his sword hand was stinging, and the flat of the masked man’s blade had whacked him soundly on the ear.
‘Next time you’ll get the edge, boy.’
The young rider dropped back, but the leader was obstinate. ‘Show your face, outlander, or get you hence. His Lordship’s orders.’
A long pause, then: ‘Come round on my left. I’ll show you if I must, but not these puling infants. They haven’t the guts.’
‘No tricks,’ said the leader, riding slowly round to the masked man’s side. The latter removed his hat with a mock-courtly flourish, revealing a half-bald head with a long, puckered scar trickling down from the crown like melted tallow. The tails of two thinner scars framed the sour smirk on his lips. Slowly he lifted the black metal away from his face.
The red-faced man turned ghastly white and dropped from the saddle in a heap. His horse looked down at him and whickered sadly.
When the intruder turned back to face the patrol, his mask was firmly in place and his hat was on his head. ‘Take me to your master’s castle,’ he told them. ‘I think you’ll find he wants to see me. Oh, and here’s a word of wisdom if your thick heads will hold it: Be careful what you ask for.’
The man in the black metal mask entered Ilberion in the first light of a rain-grey morning, forty-one days after the death of Lord Vauntjoy. The southern frontier passed through the oak forest of Orlian, dense but not impassable, crisscrossed by narrow trails. Oak-trees told no tales; acorns did not speak; neither did the pigs that grew fat on the acorns; and the swineherds who watched them spoke to no one but the pigs. It was the perfect place for a secret arrival, as generations of smugglers could attest. Orlian was not a large or important fief, but it was a profitable one: thanks to their share of the smuggling trade, the barons of the place had grown fatter than their pigs. The masked man carried no contraband except himself, but he was glad enough to be an hour’s ride past the border before he was stopped by one of the baron’s patrols.
The patrol consisted of four men on horseback, armed with sabres and short bows, wearing their lord’s livery: on a surcoat of scarlet, a white boar couchant, with its snout in a golden trough. ‘You there!’ cried the leader. ‘Halt and dismount!’
The masked man reined in his mount but remained in the saddle. The leader of the patrol bristled his moustache, and his fat red face turned redder. ‘Hoy! I said dismount, you dog! And uncover for your betters!’
‘I always do,’ said the masked man drily. His hat remained defiantly on his head.
One of the other riders gave a low whistle while the leader’s face turned from red to purple. The youngest of the four edged his horse up to flank the intruder and reached for his face with a yellow-gloved hand. ‘What’s under the mask?’
The masked man batted the hand away with sudden savagery. ‘Nothing for you to see,’ he snarled. The young rider answered in the same temper. With a single fluid motion, he drew his sword and swung it at the exposed neck beneath the mask. But before the blade bit home, or he quite knew what was happening, the intruder had drawn, his own sword was on the ground, his sword hand was stinging, and the flat of the masked man’s blade had whacked him soundly on the ear.
‘Next time you’ll get the edge, boy.’
The young rider dropped back, but the leader was obstinate. ‘Show your face, outlander, or get you hence. His Lordship’s orders.’
A long pause, then: ‘Come round on my left. I’ll show you if I must, but not these puling infants. They haven’t the guts.’
‘No tricks,’ said the leader, riding slowly round to the masked man’s side. The latter removed his hat with a mock-courtly flourish, revealing a half-bald head with a long, puckered scar trickling down from the crown like melted tallow. The tails of two thinner scars framed the sour smirk on his lips. Slowly he lifted the black metal away from his face.
The red-faced man turned ghastly white and dropped from the saddle in a heap. His horse looked down at him and whickered sadly.
When the intruder turned back to face the patrol, his mask was firmly in place and his hat was on his head. ‘Take me to your master’s castle,’ he told them. ‘I think you’ll find he wants to see me. Oh, and here’s a word of wisdom if your thick heads will hold it: Be careful what you ask for.’
Without the Quest, our lives will be wasted.
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Lefdmae Deemalr Effaeldm
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Right, "Be careful what you ask for." is perhaps one of the most important things to know in this world)
Thank you. The Hall is quiet recently, and even the Watch in general - likely people are spending the last weeks of summer not exactly on the Internet, and the Hall in particular requires thought and attention, I think many don't even check for anything new here all that often. Maybe talking directly to the people you know could let them see this, most likely they're not aware what you posted here.
Good luck with your writing)
Thank you. The Hall is quiet recently, and even the Watch in general - likely people are spending the last weeks of summer not exactly on the Internet, and the Hall in particular requires thought and attention, I think many don't even check for anything new here all that often. Maybe talking directly to the people you know could let them see this, most likely they're not aware what you posted here.
Good luck with your writing)
A role-player, beware
