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- Jan 22, 2008
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Well, I'm approaching 2,000 posts, so as tradition dictates, here's something for critique. This is the very start of a fantasy novel. Hopefully the cover and/or blurb will have made it clear that we're somewhere after the middle ages, probably around 1550 in terms of technology (with a few exceptions). The only other thing is that Sepello's injuries aren't as bad as they first seem: he passes out, but is later stitched up.
The three riders left the city of Astrago behind, and the fields began to turn to woodland. Trees grew up along the road, throwing stripes of shade across the riders as they passed. Smallholders laboured in their fields. A windmill turned lazily on the horizon. It was a beautiful day, and as Sepello leaned over to say so to the taller of his guides, the shorter man shot him in the back of the head.
The world flashed white. Sepello’s ears burst with noise and he was flung forward onto his horse’s neck. His head swam, and he was lurching forward, bouncing in the saddle. Sepello felt fur on his cheek, felt his horse shudder and slow down to a skittish trot, then halt. He opened his eyes. Pain drilled into the side of his skull. His ear was hot and wet.
Someone said, "Is he dead?"
Play dead, he thought. Keep still.
"’Course he’s dead. Didn’t you see him?"
Like a spider tied to the end of his arm, Sepello's hand crept into his coat, searching for his pistol. He hardly knew that he was doing it. He was too busy feeling the white-hot poker that seemed to have been laid across the side of his face, a stripe of searing hurt.
"Better check. Get his bridle."
The horse turned again. The movement made Sepello feel nauseous – that and the head wound. His mouth tasted of metal.
Boots thumped on grass as the guide dismounted. The smaller man reached out and grabbed the reins. Sepello’s horse spun out nervously. "Easy, easy," said the man.
Sepello sat up and drew his pistol in one move. A bolt of pain shot through his head, lightning to the thunder of his gun. The pistol kicked against his hand and the short man dropped like a corpse cut down from a gallows. Blood spattered the horse’s shoulder.
Sepello grabbed the reins and barely stopped the horse from rearing up. The dead man’s foot beat time to nothing.
Ten yards away, the other guide drew his sword. Sepello sat still and bolt upright, trying not to topple off. His pistol had been made to kill tougher things than men. It had one barrel left. Strange, he thought, almost dreamily, how an hour ago we were joking about peasant girls. And now –
He held out his arm and fired. The gun banged and farted out a flurry of sparks.
“Misfire!” The guide swung his legs out and gave his horse a tremendous kick. “Yah!”
The guide’s horse burst into life and charged. Hooves pounded the road. The man waved his sword like a brigand.
At the back of his aching brain, Sepello remembered his own sword, wrapped up in his saddlebag. No chance of drawing it now. He did the only thing he could. He took his feet out of the stirrups and let himself drop.
The guide’s blade whipped overhead. Sepello hit the ground, stumbled onto all fours and lurched up like a sprinter driving off from the blocks. He ran to the edge of the road, the pistol huge and useless in his hand.
“Coward!” the would-be murderer yelled, and Sepello plunged into the forest.
He tore through the trees, weaving between trunks and behind fallen logs. Branches tried to snag his coat but he rushed on, hearing wood snap and fabric rip. Sepello wanted to look back, but all that mattered now was gaining ground. Once he had got away he could hide, or reload his pistol or something, anything – but first he had to get away.
The forest was thickening, the trunks growing closer. Sunlight filtered down in shafts. Sepello twisted around a thorn bush, dropped behind it and crawled doubled over into the thicket. Then he stopped.
His heart was a furious animal trying to break out of his ribcage. There was a sharp, singing pain in his ear.
Come on, he thought, you can do this. You’ve fought the army of the living dead. You’ve reinterred a dozen revenants. You can take one jumped-up woodsman with a rusty sword.
He then realised that something was missing from his front. His cartridge bandolier. He couldn’t reload his gun.
He punched the ground. It set his wound ringing as if he’d put his face against a striking bell. Sepello wanted to bellow with rage and hatred, as if somebody else had betrayed him. You fool, you ****ing halfwit imbecile. You’ve got no powder. How could you? How could you do this to yourself?
You’ve got a knife.
Boots crunched on bracken. Sepello held his breath. His hand moved to his side and slowly drew his knife.
Blood crawled down his face. A fly whined above him. He put his hand over his mouth to cover the sound of drawing breath.
“Ah, Hell,” said the guide. Sepello heard him turning round on the spot, and realised that his pursuer had lost the trail.
The guide’s boots crackled in the foliage, and he stepped into view.
Sepello leaped up from the side, his wound shrieking at him to stop, threw out his left arm and as the guide turned to block it, Sepello drove the knife in his right hand into the assassin’s side. Sepello twisted it and yanked the blade free, staggered back, and the guide stumbled. Sepello punched the knife into the woodsman’s neck.
As the man dropped Sepello caught a glimpse of his face, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Then the guide hit the forest floor, and Sepello flopped back against a tree.
The three riders left the city of Astrago behind, and the fields began to turn to woodland. Trees grew up along the road, throwing stripes of shade across the riders as they passed. Smallholders laboured in their fields. A windmill turned lazily on the horizon. It was a beautiful day, and as Sepello leaned over to say so to the taller of his guides, the shorter man shot him in the back of the head.
The world flashed white. Sepello’s ears burst with noise and he was flung forward onto his horse’s neck. His head swam, and he was lurching forward, bouncing in the saddle. Sepello felt fur on his cheek, felt his horse shudder and slow down to a skittish trot, then halt. He opened his eyes. Pain drilled into the side of his skull. His ear was hot and wet.
Someone said, "Is he dead?"
Play dead, he thought. Keep still.
"’Course he’s dead. Didn’t you see him?"
Like a spider tied to the end of his arm, Sepello's hand crept into his coat, searching for his pistol. He hardly knew that he was doing it. He was too busy feeling the white-hot poker that seemed to have been laid across the side of his face, a stripe of searing hurt.
"Better check. Get his bridle."
The horse turned again. The movement made Sepello feel nauseous – that and the head wound. His mouth tasted of metal.
Boots thumped on grass as the guide dismounted. The smaller man reached out and grabbed the reins. Sepello’s horse spun out nervously. "Easy, easy," said the man.
Sepello sat up and drew his pistol in one move. A bolt of pain shot through his head, lightning to the thunder of his gun. The pistol kicked against his hand and the short man dropped like a corpse cut down from a gallows. Blood spattered the horse’s shoulder.
Sepello grabbed the reins and barely stopped the horse from rearing up. The dead man’s foot beat time to nothing.
Ten yards away, the other guide drew his sword. Sepello sat still and bolt upright, trying not to topple off. His pistol had been made to kill tougher things than men. It had one barrel left. Strange, he thought, almost dreamily, how an hour ago we were joking about peasant girls. And now –
He held out his arm and fired. The gun banged and farted out a flurry of sparks.
“Misfire!” The guide swung his legs out and gave his horse a tremendous kick. “Yah!”
The guide’s horse burst into life and charged. Hooves pounded the road. The man waved his sword like a brigand.
At the back of his aching brain, Sepello remembered his own sword, wrapped up in his saddlebag. No chance of drawing it now. He did the only thing he could. He took his feet out of the stirrups and let himself drop.
The guide’s blade whipped overhead. Sepello hit the ground, stumbled onto all fours and lurched up like a sprinter driving off from the blocks. He ran to the edge of the road, the pistol huge and useless in his hand.
“Coward!” the would-be murderer yelled, and Sepello plunged into the forest.
He tore through the trees, weaving between trunks and behind fallen logs. Branches tried to snag his coat but he rushed on, hearing wood snap and fabric rip. Sepello wanted to look back, but all that mattered now was gaining ground. Once he had got away he could hide, or reload his pistol or something, anything – but first he had to get away.
The forest was thickening, the trunks growing closer. Sunlight filtered down in shafts. Sepello twisted around a thorn bush, dropped behind it and crawled doubled over into the thicket. Then he stopped.
His heart was a furious animal trying to break out of his ribcage. There was a sharp, singing pain in his ear.
Come on, he thought, you can do this. You’ve fought the army of the living dead. You’ve reinterred a dozen revenants. You can take one jumped-up woodsman with a rusty sword.
He then realised that something was missing from his front. His cartridge bandolier. He couldn’t reload his gun.
He punched the ground. It set his wound ringing as if he’d put his face against a striking bell. Sepello wanted to bellow with rage and hatred, as if somebody else had betrayed him. You fool, you ****ing halfwit imbecile. You’ve got no powder. How could you? How could you do this to yourself?
You’ve got a knife.
Boots crunched on bracken. Sepello held his breath. His hand moved to his side and slowly drew his knife.
Blood crawled down his face. A fly whined above him. He put his hand over his mouth to cover the sound of drawing breath.
“Ah, Hell,” said the guide. Sepello heard him turning round on the spot, and realised that his pursuer had lost the trail.
The guide’s boots crackled in the foliage, and he stepped into view.
Sepello leaped up from the side, his wound shrieking at him to stop, threw out his left arm and as the guide turned to block it, Sepello drove the knife in his right hand into the assassin’s side. Sepello twisted it and yanked the blade free, staggered back, and the guide stumbled. Sepello punched the knife into the woodsman’s neck.
As the man dropped Sepello caught a glimpse of his face, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Then the guide hit the forest floor, and Sepello flopped back against a tree.