Ha! Do you really think the NaNo novels are the only unfinished novels in my repertoire? I may have to go digging for some of them, but trust me, I’ve got several more up my sleeve. ;-)
But in any case, today brings us up to NaNo 2020 where I chose one of my older story ideas, a straight fantasy adventure called Firestorm. This actually started out as a rather long short story called The Unmasking of Brand, more swords and sorcery than anything else. I had hoped to incorporate or expand on this original story, reworking it for NaNo, but I never got that far. I got bogged down in backstory, so much so that I’d say a good 80% of the book is back story.
Anyway, the excerpt I’ve chosen is from the very beginning and tells the tale of how the main character’s parents met. As always, this is unedited.
They say the people of Witch Hills were created when Beauty mated with Magic. But it could also be said they were too ugly to be borne, hidden as they were behind their masks and veils. To be sure they had little use for outsiders, and rarely ventured beyond their own borders.
So it was with surprise the warlord Rankin received a summons to the city of Alandria, the largest of the cities of Witch Hills. He went, accompanied by twelve of his best knights, curious to see what the people of Witch Hills would need from a warrior. From all accounts, the Witchers, as they were called, were fierce themselves and needed no one’s protection.
Even the cities of Witch Hills were beautiful to behold. They were built of white stone – tall, slender towers, graceful arches spanning deep crevasse, gardens spilling over low walls and waterfalls misting the air. While the men accompanying him looked around in wonder, muttering to themselves, Rankin remained impassive.
The audience room was not overly large, made of the same white stone as the rest of the city, only this stone sparkled with flecks of silver. It was brightly lit, but the source for that light was unseen. The men with Rankin muttered nervously about magic, but quieted with a glance from their leader. The walls were hung with finely woven tapestries, the brilliant colours showing mostly landscapes and fantastical beasts.
King Theron sat at one end of the room on a throne made of blue glass. Even seated he gave the impression of being tall. His shoulders were broad and his long dark hair was threaded with silver. He was dressed in black armour that shone in the light.
Two smaller thrones flanked him. The one on the left was of a dark rose, and held a tall, slender woman. She wore a stiffly formal dress of blue, the same colour as the king’s throne. Her hair was unadorned, falling in an inky waterfall past her waist, almost to the floor.
The throne on the right was of smoky grey and had a younger seeming man. He, too, had black hair, although his only brushed past his shoulders, and was dressed all in black, but in leather armour and silk. The two men wore masks, the woman wore a veil.
“Welcome, Rankin of Varellia,” the king said when Rankin was halfway to the throne. “You prompt response to our request is met with gratitude.”
Rankin waited until he was only a few feet from the throne before stopping to answer. He bowed and said, “I am grateful for your summons, and I admit to some curiosity as to its purpose.”
“I am a man of few words, so I’ll get right to the point. The nomads of the wastelands to the north have long harried our borders. For years they have been insignificant, a minor irritation like fleas on a dog. However there has been a cult rising in their midst, one dedicated to the Ice Lords.”
“I have heard of this cult,” Rankin said. “I agree that it is becoming a growing concern to many of the surrounding kingdoms.”
“I wish to form an alliance to deal with this matter.”
“An alliance you say?” Rankin’s gaze narrowed. “And what have you to offer in exchange for this alliance?”
“Ah, what indeed?” King Theron got to his feet. “I offer you my hospitality that we may speak of this further.”
“Accepted,” Rankin said readily. He would have been a fool not to accept. As well as rumours of the magic and great beauty of the inhabitants of Witch Hills, they were also rumoured to be incredibly wealthy.
He ordered his men to stand down and follow the servants to a less formal dinner, while he followed another to a room where he was to refresh himself. A bath had been drawn and fresh clothing laid out for him. He fingered the fine cloth with appreciation. Obviously armour was not welcome at the dinner table. The dark blue trousers were a perfect fit, as was the tunic with gold trim to go over them. Finishing the outfit were a pair of low heeled boots of dark blue leather. There was another servant waiting for him when he was finished, who led him to a small, but elegant, dining room. A fire had been laid in the fireplace at one end, and the long table was set for four. The king and the young man from the throne room were already seated, rising when he entered the room.
“This seems a far more fitting way of greeting one we hope will be a friend,” King Theron said. “May I present to you my son, Orin.”
The king and his son had also changed out of their armour. The king was still dressed in black, trousers tucked into half boots with a silver trimmed tunic much like the one Rankin was wearing. Orin was wearing a similar outfit, save his was in a smoky grey and there was no ornamentation on the tunic.
Neither man was wearing his mask and Rankin would have had to been blind not to be struck by their beauty. Their features were perfectly symmetrical, high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, lashes any woman would have envied. Rankin gave a start when he realized he’d been staring.
“I am honoured to meet you, Orin,” he said. “Word of your prowess with the bow has reached even my poor castle.”
The eyes that had been staring at him so indifferently suddenly brightened. “I have heard that you have developed a cross bow that can be used from horseback. Perhaps we can speak of this at a later time.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“We but wait upon my daughter, Sharina,” Theron told him.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the door to the dining was opened and a servant announced, “The Lady Sharina.”
She swept into the room in a cloud of a floral scent that went straight to Rankin’s head. She was beautiful, the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. It only took that one look and he was utterly lost.
“Pray let us be seated. I know the royal cook has spent the greater part of the day preparing this feast,” Sharina said.
Rankin sat automatically. Her voice was like bells, no, more like a choir of angels. He could sustain himself just listening to the sound.
The meal was delicious, but Rankin tasted very little of it. Words were spoken, but he had no idea what was said. Most of the meal he spent staring at Sharina while trying to make it look like he was not staring. Had he been able to pay attention to anything else, he might have noticed the look of satisfaction on Theron’s face.
“You will forgive me,” Sharina said when the meal was finished. “But I have several small matters to attend to. I hope I shall see you again before you leave,” she said to Rankin.
He rose when she did, bending low over her hand. Kissing it, he said, “I will make sure that you do.”
She was gone and he suddenly felt bereft. It was all he could do not to follow. Theron summoned the servants to clear the table and had them return with a bottle of wine.
“Now, let us talk of an alliance,” he said.
