I posted an earlier version of this first chapter a month or so ago. It's undergone quite a few changes, and here is what I'm probably going to settle on for my final version (draft 6.1). I won't be looking to undergo wholesale changes now, just the odd tweak here and there.
Any feedback would be again really useful, especially from those who saw the original version and quite rightly criticised it for being a trifle stiff and lacking in conflict; hopefully that's been addressed.
Chapter 1 - The Bringer of Light and Heat
‘It is a peculiar thing that somebody who has possessed such great privilege and honour for so many years should become suddenly so crazed that he turns upon, and even seeks to undermine, the one who gave him those things.’ The Executor Liberestes drummed his fingers slowly upon the burnished arm of his chair, the Seat of Execution. ‘Yet that is exactly what we have here.’
Liberestes stood up, making sure to keep his face devoid of emotion and his movements small, efficient, and reptilian. Despite the biting autumnal wind outside, the Lord’s Hall was uncomfortably hot. The huge stone hearth, eight feet square, blazed away with arrogant vigour. He looked upon the stricken civil servant Pycloss, the man who had been brought before him, kneeling, panting and sweating pathetically. The two soldiers standing behind Pycloss were Oleander Byle and Barthemel Phylander, respectively a Captain and the High Captain of the Forty Nine, the city’s elite unit of soldiers and Liberestes’s effective personal bodyguards. They had already softened Pycloss with a bloody beating and, upon giving him the slightest of nods, Byle grabbed Pycloss by the shoulder and squeezed hard, making him cry out.
‘Do you deny, Pycloss, that you have been spreading baseless rumour about me, and seeking to undermine my rule?’
Pycloss raised his head to look the Executor in the eye, and managed to force a grin through his broken mouth. ‘I do deny it, Executor,’ Pycloss gurgled. ‘I do deny that I have been spreading baseless rumour, for we both know it to be the irrefutable truth.’
Liberestes allowed himself a silent chuckle at the old man’s balls. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘This great city is killing itself, Liberestes, thanks to you. Our people – the citizens who were born here, raised here, who work here – they struggle to feed and clothe themselves. And why? Because you admit foreigners to the city by the thousand. They are so many of them, and they come from all parts. The city was not built to house and feed so many.’
Liberestes put his hand upon his chest in mock-affliction. ‘But this is policy, Pycloss. No, in fact I go further: this is charity. You know this. These people come here, destitute, in need of help, and you seek to turn them away? How very ignoble of you!’
‘Some of them are strange, Executor. Some of them are… different. Not the type of people we should admit to the city. Look to your own people, Executor. Believe me, I only wish to help…’
Another nod. Byle crashed a gauntleted hand across the back of Pycloss’s head, squirting a little blood upon the floor. Liberestes emitted a barely suppressed growl at the odious little man. ‘You wish to help? You wish to help by supplanting me?’
Pycloss spat a tooth onto the sandy floor. ‘Look what you have become.’ Pycloss glanced at the raging hearthfire and eyed Liberestes with disgust. ‘Look at that. Eight feet high it burns, while they struggle to heat their own homes because what precious little wood they own is stolen by beggarmen from different countries, while the rest is carted to Kirna to fuel Dyždyk’s mines.’ He inched his face ever closer to the Executor’s. ‘I know what you are, Liberestes. You are a puppet!’
The two men glared at one another for a few seconds, before Liberestes broke the stare and slowly returned to his seat.
‘The city is mine. No one else’s. There is more than enough fuel in this city, if people have enough ingenuity to source it.’ He gestured to Byle with a flick of the wrist. The huge soldier, sweat beading down his round, bald head, kicked Pycloss between the shoulder blades and, when the old man hit the ground, produced a short axe from his belt. It was swiftly brought down upon Pycloss’s forearm. As shrieks echoed through the Lord’s Hall, Byle collected the hand and tossed it upon the fire, where the blood crackled and spat.
Liberestes did not move a muscle as Pycloss writhed and bled. ‘There is more than enough food in this city, if people have the stomach for it. Barthemel; have Pycloss butchered. Give him to one of the meat traders in Ells Market. Tell them it is a gift from their Executor. Surplus from our larder.’
‘Immediately, it will be done.’
‘Barthemel, before you do so…’ Liberestes beckoned forth the High Captain, who knelt before him as commanded. Unlike Byle, Barthemel was wearing his helmet even in this heat: tall, indigo and decorated by four golden wings, which Liberestes always thought made him look like a strange, carnivorous moth. He stroked the soldier’s cheek and studied his handsome face as he spoke. ‘I remember when I first sat in this bloodied seat thirty years ago, Pycloss. Your loyalty was quickly bought then, and now it has been easily lost. Look at Barthemel. This is what loyalty looks like: unwavering, absolute, uncorrupted.’
‘Do you think Dyždyk will show you loyalty,’ Pycloss said with a wheezed and shaking voice, as his flesh turned paler each second, ‘when it no longer suits him?’
That bit too deep. ‘Take this creature from my sight.’
After Pycloss had been dragged from the Lord’s Hall, Liberestes breathed out slowly and stared at the claret pool on the floor. The treacherous Pycloss had the right of it; more people streamed into the city each day. Most came from Kirna, where Dyždyk was the ruling Prince, but this talk of strangeness and difference was little more than the petty fear and ignorance of an old man for whom the city had changed too fast. The Prince’s intervention and offer of help only months ago was as unexpected as it was generous; now the embrace of charity felt like the slow squeeze of a boa, and the few hundred people who had initially required rehousing had indeed swollen to untold numbers; when would this end?
Any feedback would be again really useful, especially from those who saw the original version and quite rightly criticised it for being a trifle stiff and lacking in conflict; hopefully that's been addressed.
Chapter 1 - The Bringer of Light and Heat
‘It is a peculiar thing that somebody who has possessed such great privilege and honour for so many years should become suddenly so crazed that he turns upon, and even seeks to undermine, the one who gave him those things.’ The Executor Liberestes drummed his fingers slowly upon the burnished arm of his chair, the Seat of Execution. ‘Yet that is exactly what we have here.’
Liberestes stood up, making sure to keep his face devoid of emotion and his movements small, efficient, and reptilian. Despite the biting autumnal wind outside, the Lord’s Hall was uncomfortably hot. The huge stone hearth, eight feet square, blazed away with arrogant vigour. He looked upon the stricken civil servant Pycloss, the man who had been brought before him, kneeling, panting and sweating pathetically. The two soldiers standing behind Pycloss were Oleander Byle and Barthemel Phylander, respectively a Captain and the High Captain of the Forty Nine, the city’s elite unit of soldiers and Liberestes’s effective personal bodyguards. They had already softened Pycloss with a bloody beating and, upon giving him the slightest of nods, Byle grabbed Pycloss by the shoulder and squeezed hard, making him cry out.
‘Do you deny, Pycloss, that you have been spreading baseless rumour about me, and seeking to undermine my rule?’
Pycloss raised his head to look the Executor in the eye, and managed to force a grin through his broken mouth. ‘I do deny it, Executor,’ Pycloss gurgled. ‘I do deny that I have been spreading baseless rumour, for we both know it to be the irrefutable truth.’
Liberestes allowed himself a silent chuckle at the old man’s balls. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘This great city is killing itself, Liberestes, thanks to you. Our people – the citizens who were born here, raised here, who work here – they struggle to feed and clothe themselves. And why? Because you admit foreigners to the city by the thousand. They are so many of them, and they come from all parts. The city was not built to house and feed so many.’
Liberestes put his hand upon his chest in mock-affliction. ‘But this is policy, Pycloss. No, in fact I go further: this is charity. You know this. These people come here, destitute, in need of help, and you seek to turn them away? How very ignoble of you!’
‘Some of them are strange, Executor. Some of them are… different. Not the type of people we should admit to the city. Look to your own people, Executor. Believe me, I only wish to help…’
Another nod. Byle crashed a gauntleted hand across the back of Pycloss’s head, squirting a little blood upon the floor. Liberestes emitted a barely suppressed growl at the odious little man. ‘You wish to help? You wish to help by supplanting me?’
Pycloss spat a tooth onto the sandy floor. ‘Look what you have become.’ Pycloss glanced at the raging hearthfire and eyed Liberestes with disgust. ‘Look at that. Eight feet high it burns, while they struggle to heat their own homes because what precious little wood they own is stolen by beggarmen from different countries, while the rest is carted to Kirna to fuel Dyždyk’s mines.’ He inched his face ever closer to the Executor’s. ‘I know what you are, Liberestes. You are a puppet!’
The two men glared at one another for a few seconds, before Liberestes broke the stare and slowly returned to his seat.
‘The city is mine. No one else’s. There is more than enough fuel in this city, if people have enough ingenuity to source it.’ He gestured to Byle with a flick of the wrist. The huge soldier, sweat beading down his round, bald head, kicked Pycloss between the shoulder blades and, when the old man hit the ground, produced a short axe from his belt. It was swiftly brought down upon Pycloss’s forearm. As shrieks echoed through the Lord’s Hall, Byle collected the hand and tossed it upon the fire, where the blood crackled and spat.
Liberestes did not move a muscle as Pycloss writhed and bled. ‘There is more than enough food in this city, if people have the stomach for it. Barthemel; have Pycloss butchered. Give him to one of the meat traders in Ells Market. Tell them it is a gift from their Executor. Surplus from our larder.’
‘Immediately, it will be done.’
‘Barthemel, before you do so…’ Liberestes beckoned forth the High Captain, who knelt before him as commanded. Unlike Byle, Barthemel was wearing his helmet even in this heat: tall, indigo and decorated by four golden wings, which Liberestes always thought made him look like a strange, carnivorous moth. He stroked the soldier’s cheek and studied his handsome face as he spoke. ‘I remember when I first sat in this bloodied seat thirty years ago, Pycloss. Your loyalty was quickly bought then, and now it has been easily lost. Look at Barthemel. This is what loyalty looks like: unwavering, absolute, uncorrupted.’
‘Do you think Dyždyk will show you loyalty,’ Pycloss said with a wheezed and shaking voice, as his flesh turned paler each second, ‘when it no longer suits him?’
That bit too deep. ‘Take this creature from my sight.’
After Pycloss had been dragged from the Lord’s Hall, Liberestes breathed out slowly and stared at the claret pool on the floor. The treacherous Pycloss had the right of it; more people streamed into the city each day. Most came from Kirna, where Dyždyk was the ruling Prince, but this talk of strangeness and difference was little more than the petty fear and ignorance of an old man for whom the city had changed too fast. The Prince’s intervention and offer of help only months ago was as unexpected as it was generous; now the embrace of charity felt like the slow squeeze of a boa, and the few hundred people who had initially required rehousing had indeed swollen to untold numbers; when would this end?
