Longship Heist - chapter 1

[Martin Gill]

Confession - I'm slightly over the 1500 word limit here (1600) because I needed to post enough to get through 2 transitions, which is what I wanted feedback on. Mods - apologies if this isn't cool. Delete this if you need, or I can post as 2 sections. I can re-post in the writing group if you want. I think I caught all the profanity as well!

Context - Chapter 1 of my new project. Still on Vikings, but this time Viking occupied Jorvik, 905 AD ish. It starts historical. The creepy magic comes later, so this reads as purely historical. Its about a gang of Saxon ner-do-wells who rob a Danish longship, then things kind of go wrong...

My question - I flip about the timeline here in order to do some very rapid scene setting, then dive into the action. I'm less worried about super-detailed grammar feedback etc. This is a first draft and I'm not at polishing stage yet. I'm more interested in does the jumping about work, or confuse? I start with the motive, then start the robbery, then jump further back to establish how it all happened, then come back to what will be the present for the rest of the story.

Here goes...

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was a stupid plan. The kind of plan what gets folks killed.

“Rob Halfdan Far-Reaver.” Ham slapped his ale cup on the table and folded his arms. “Did you sh*t out what brains God gave you?”

Bron cracked a grin and fixed Ham a stare, saying nothing. Ham would break soon enough. He had the silver-scent now like a boar at acorns. Ham frowned, lip curling, and Bron knew that expression well enough for there to be no surprise in what came next. Ham reached for the cup. Bron poured ale from the jug, the hoppy scent cutting the sweaty smoke-stench of the mead-hall.

“I hate myself already, but how?”

“It’ll be easy.” Bron smiled. “Trust me.”

The thing is, Ham did, and Bron knew it. It was his sister that was going to be the problem. Bron sipped p*ss-poor ale and pitched his voice low, making Ham lean conspiratorially close to hear over the murmur of the evening drinkers. “Don’t worry. I know a man.”

And that’s how they wound up crouched in the dark at the Ooze end of Coppergate in the black bowels of a summer night, mischief on their minds. Bron glanced around, checking for the dozenth time that Halfdan’s loitering guards were still on the ship. They were. Both of them.

Cwen shifted at his side. “My brother is an idiot for listening to you.”

“You listened to me.” Bron kept his voice low, worming his way back under the thatch eves sheltering them. He caught her gaze, seeing Ham in her. You could see they were family if you looked for it, same raven-dark hair, same upturned nose, except Cwen’s was straight where Ham’s was smeared all over his face form the beating Inn Digri’s lads had doled out a few years back.

Cwen sighed. “You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

An owl call echoed. They both glanced up. It was no owl. It was Ham, and Bron could only hope Halfdan’s lads had never heard a real owl, for Ham’s mimicry was hardly the stuff of sagas. Bron cringed, imagining the guards standing, hefting spears, gazing water-wards to see Ham and Gormless and the big Norseman rowing towards them, knives clenched between their teeth. Spears would fly, bright flashes in the night, and Ham and the others would die. Bron shook the thought away.

“Do you trust him?”

Bron frowned at Cwen’s question. “Who. Your brother?”

“No, idiot. The Norseman.”

Bron had to think about that, or at least think about the answer. Truth be told, he didn’t trust the big ******* as far as he could easily throw him, and that would be no distance at all, for he was a bear of a man. But Cwen didn’t need to hear his doubts given air. He settled for a shrug and “He has no love for Halfdan.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Cwen, just go. They’ll be on us soon enough. You know what to do.”

“Aye.” She sighed. “And one day you’ll invent a plan that doesn’t require me to whore myself as a distraction.”

“One day.”

She dipped her head, tousled her hair and flicked it back over one shoulder. Bron couldn’t help but smile, and pity the poor Danish bastards guarding Halfdan’s boat. They didn’t stand a chance. He handed her the skin, its fat leather belly bulging with mead, and off she went.

The night was muggy and the river low, its muddy banks teeming with midges drawn to the flickering brands. A wooden boardwalk fronted the river, slung on wooden piles driven into the muddy banks. Storehouses and boat sheds, workshops and the great stone mill, its wheel slowly churning in the gurgling chase. By day the place was teeming with hawkers and traders, merchants hollering in a dozen languages, cut-purses and wretches, whores and port-men. By night, it was all but deserted, or at least it was this late.

Cwen cut across the cobbled yard and out onto the jetty. Bron gazed at the sway of her hips and cursed himself for the thoughts she stirred. Her boots echoed on wooden boards, the planks lending a spring to her step.

Ships jostled all about, teeming like pigs at a trough, all manner of shapes and sizes. Broad-beamed knars, holds stuffed with trade, or yawning and hollow and hungry for goods. Slim river skiffs, laden and low bobbing between the ships. Karves and warships; fast, fierce drakkar, their prow-beasts struck lest they scare away the land-spirits of the Wic. They bobbed on the gentle flow of the river, lapping water, the soft bump of wood.

Twitching pools of amber light smeared the end of the jetty where Cwen walked, lighting the gentle curve of a ship’s stern where it was moored to a stout post. Halfdan’s ship. The guards saw her coming, just like they were supposed to. She stopped, flicked at her hair, waved at them. Their faces leered in the torchlight. She said something, holding up the skin, but Bron couldn’t grasp her words. Then one was reaching, grasping her hand, hauling her over the strakes and into the belly of Halfdan’s warship.

Bron eased out of the shadows and jogged across the yard, one hand on the hilt of the scrameseax slung across the back of his belt to stop it slapping him on the arse. He squeezed against a cart piled high with barrels, craning to see the river between the jostle of ships. Moonlight glinted, sliver ripples. And there was Ham and the others, just as they’d planned in their stolen skiff, drifting silently downstream.

His breath quickened, heart hammering. This was going to work. His schemes never worked, but damn it, this one was going to work.

The jewel of Frankia, the Norseman had said.

Svarbjorn was his name, and he was a monster, shaggy and unkempt, like a half-shaved bear stuffed into a tunic. He was drunk when Bron had found him, but then most Norsemen were drunk most of the time, in Bron’s experience.

“It’s real, I tell you.” Mead slurred his thick, sing-song voice. His eyes wandered, like he was rolling on a ship, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Only he was still, it was the world that pitched about him.

“Rubbish.” Bron smiled and called for more mead, pressing silver pennies into the serving girl’s small, warm hand. An investment in Svarbjorn’s story.

“It’s true.” Svarbjorn grinned, raw and toothy, groping for the lass’s behind. She wove away through the crowd, twirling like a dancer. Svarbjorn’s drunken gaze swung back to Bron. “Halfdan stole it from over the ocean. Brought it here to Jorvik to trade. Make him rich enough to finally marry his pretty woman.”

“What woman?” Bron shook his head. “No, never mind, that’s not important. So it’s valuable then, this jewel.”

“It’s called the jewel of Frankia. What do you think?”

“Franks must be pissed.”

Svarbjorn shrugged. “Not as pissed as Halfdan will be when I steal it form him, eh?”

“Danes don’t steal from Danes.” Bron shook his head. Goading a drunk was all too easy. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m a f@@king Norseman.” Svarbjorn’s voice was gravel, bile spat through clenched teeth. His meaty fist pounded the stained oak boards. Clay cups juddered. Sweet, sticky mead sloshed. Folks stared.

“My apologies.” Bron tried not to smile and laid a hand on the Norseman’s shoulder. “I should have known.”

“Aye, Engliscmann.”

“Still, what would you do with the thing once you stole it? Something so valuable.”

“Sell it.” Svarbjorn drained his mug, slapping it upside down on the table. “Buy more mead, eh?”

“Let me.” Bron waved at the serving lass once more, hoping Svarbjorn’s appetite for mead dwindled before his meagre store of coin did. “But who would you sell it to? Inn Digri won’t buy it. He wouldn’t go against the Jarl, wouldn’t dare. And Halfdan Far-Reaver is a man with a reputation, a reputation the Jarl and the fat one won’t cross, I think. You’d have to sail to Birka, or Dubh Linn, or further.”

Svarbjorn’s face crumpled in a frown. Bron let him stew in his mead for a while. He sat back, stretched his legs, yawned.

“I know someone.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“Someone who would by the jewel.”

Svarbjorn narrowed one eye, like a man aiming a bow. He clearly wasn’t quite as drunk as Bron had hoped. “What’s your price, little man?”

Ham’s boat was alongside the dragon-ship now, and Cwen and the two guards were out of sight. She’d be pouring mead down their necks and making enough noise to cover the bump of the little boat as Ham nudged it up to the warship’s hull. Enough noise to cover the pad and creak of Bron’s boots as he walked swiftly down the jetty. Enough noise to hide the scrape and clatter as armed men hauled themselves over the rail and onto the ship.

 

[Brian G Turner]

I'm slightly over the 1500 word limit here

I've removed the last few sentences to cut it down. If you're concerned about transitions, it doesn't matter about the end of the second for that.

More seriously, I'd prefer not to make exceptions, because I suspect we'd have a damn burst over that - and cries of foul if selectively applied. Even I only get 1500 words in Critiques.

“Did you sh*t out what brains God gave you?”

Which god? Odin? Just that if these are non-Christian Norse then you may want to avoid monotheistic terms.

Rob Halfdan Far-Reaver

Is this Rob also Bron?? I'm initially confused why there are 3 named persons, and only 2 speaking, and who the POV character I'm supposed to be following is.

And that’s how they wound up crouched in the dark at the Ooze end of Coppergate in the black bowels of a summer night, mischief on their minds. Bron glanced around, checking for the dozenth time that Halfdan’s loitering guards were still on the ship. They were. Both of them.

It's a nice character moment when we first meet Ham - but with this section you've basically consigned the rest as mere introduction, and signalled to the reader that this is actually the start of the story.

In which case, I'd suggest you consider opening at this moment, in this setting, and maybe give the prior warm greeting as a memory and a contrast to the tension that you will inevitably be setting.

“You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

Do you know why nervous people talk too much? Because they're trying to calm whatever tension they're feeling. And that's what you're doing here - you're talking the tension away in this section when wouldn't it be more ideal to focus on it? Unless you're attempting humour here.

And on that point:

“One day.”

I'd like to see the dialogue above this line cut right back - even deleted completely. Because your story is currently being driven by dialogue and not character experience, which is weakening your narrative. All IMO.

They didn’t stand a chance.

He might think this - but would he really feel this? Presuming there are weapons involved, there would be a danger of injury and death from injury. Life and death stakes. A good opportunity to add a little call for divine blessing, perhaps - strength, foresight, cunning, protection, perhaps?

The night was muggy and the river low, its muddy banks teeming with midges drawn to the flickering brands. A wooden boardwalk fronted the river, slung on wooden piles driven into the muddy banks. Storehouses and boat sheds, workshops and the great stone mill, its wheel slowly churning in the gurgling chase. By day the place was teeming with hawkers and traders, merchants hollering in a dozen languages, cut-purses and wretches, whores and port-men. By night, it was all but deserted, or at least it was this late.

I'm being very critical, but your prose is actually really good. I'm highlighting this a great example of scene setting, with the caveat that this should perhaps come earlier.

Bron gazed at the sway of her hips and cursed himself for the thoughts she stirred.

It feels like Bron's thoughts are lacking focus, but it may simply be the case that - being an early draft - you've not yet established the character enough at this stage. In which case, this line may be a darling you need to kill.

Twitching pools of amber light smeared the end of the jetty where Cwen walked, lighting the gentle curve of a ship’s stern where it was moored to a stout post. Halfdan’s ship. The guards saw her coming, just like they were supposed to. She stopped, flicked at her hair, waved at them. Their faces leered in the torchlight. She said something, holding up the skin, but Bron couldn’t grasp her words. Then one was reaching, grasping her hand, hauling her over the strakes and into the belly of Halfdan’s warship.

Following this would be a good place to put Bron's thoughts in about this. Feelings for Cwen, fear for her, too - plus hope for the ruse working. Rising nerves. Character experience before you get into the physical actions that follow.

Svarbjorn was his name, and he was a monster, shaggy and unkempt, like a half-shaved bear stuffed into a tunic. He was drunk when Bron had found him, but then most Norsemen were drunk most of the time, in Bron’s experience.

I found this transition jarred. My initial thought is that using simple perfect isn't enough, because you're talking about a past within a past. I remember encountering this and looking into it, and I think it was past perfect tense needed to be used to introduce it.

In non-technical terms:

Simple past: Bron had an experience.
Simple perfect past: Bron had had an experience.

Once you've used past perfect to establish the past, you can go back to normal past tense, with something at the end to signal the end of that transition, ie, Now, ...

(I'm rushing here, so I'll wait for our grammar gurus to clear up any errors on my part. )

For example:

Mead slurred his thick, sing-song voice.

would be:

Mead had slurred his thick, sing-song voice

Overall, I have made some criticisms, but I will say this - your prose flows really nicely, you display great flourishes with scene setting, and the way you suggest character is very accomplished - it is easy to imagine Ham or Svarbjorn. In other words, I think your storytelling skills are great.

What's letting you down at the moment is structural details, but these can be easily excused in an early draft. The bigger concern - which you ask about - is the scene transition. At this moment, with what you have, I think jumping to the past would be too quick - IMO you need time to develop tension further, show more sense of forward movement, and wait until the reader is on tenterhooks waiting to see what happens next - before you pull a transition on them.

In other words, don't break up a build-up of tension for a retro moment, but instead reach a climax point - such as Bron being on the ship, having got to the treasure chest, and about to open it when ...

 

[Martin Gill]

I've removed the last few sentences to cut it down

Fair. I didn't want to take the proverbial and I appreciate your attention. I'll respond to the rest of your comments tomorrow but you've given me some ideas already.

 

[Martin Gill]

More in depth response now its day time

"Rob"... as in "steal from". your response makes me think the word doesn't work in that context though - maybe because of the simple nature of Ham and Bron's names makes you assume there's another gang member called Rob?

"God"... our heroes are Christian. As far as we know historically, a whole bunch of the Danelaw dwelling Danes would have been Christian, or at least well on the path to conversion by 905AD. Guthrom was kind of the daddy of Danelaw and he converted in 978, but for my purposes I'm leaving the Danes as pagan and the Saxons will be Christian. In fact, Bron is going to have links to older Saxon and Roman roots of Jorvik, but that's irrelevant at this point in the tale. Ham is definitely Christian though.

You are right about Bron's thought process. At the moment I've got him half way between cocky/confident and nervous. Really, stealing form Halfdan needs to be a REALLY bad idea, so he ought to be more worried. He's stealing form a feared Danish jarl. He's breaking the Jorvik underworld code. And you are right, this is first draft, early stage glitches because I haven't fully thought through the character at this stage.

Driving by dialogue. Yep, I do that. I tend to write scenes by hammering out the dialogue without pausing to write dialogue tags or descriptions, then I go back and add in the character POV. That may mean that I lean more heavily on the dialogue than I should. I think that plays out in the above comment as well. I need to get closer to what's going through bron's mind (fear, nerves), then he can be verbally cocky, but inwardly scared.

Transitions - OK the big thing. I'm getting that the flipping didn't completely work for you. That's fine, because I've never tried this before and I wasn't sure. This is exactly the input I was looking for. Option 2 is to start with them crouching in the dark, run through to pretty much where I do with the raid, play on Bron's nerves more, then chapter 2 takes us back to the planning and I merge the scene with Ham and Svarbjorn so they are all in the mead hall together. That way I can spend more time on the conversation without feeling that its getting in the way of us getting to the raid. I can also make more of the fact that this is a risky plan. Ham can make the point that they are breaking the "thieves code" and Bron can convince him its an awesome idea. Ham then gets some moral highground later when things screw up to berate Bron. Then C3 takes us back to the raid, where things start screwing up. Meaning the time transitions happen at chapter breaks (which I'm happier with), we start in media res, and I still get to set the scene.

This has been very helpful

 

[Brian G Turner]

"Rob"... as in "steal from". your response makes me think the word doesn't work in that context though - maybe because of the simple nature of Ham and Bron's names makes you assume there's another gang member called Rob?

Indeed, I thought "Rob Halfdan Far-Reaver" was a full name, given as the two greeted each other.

 

[tinkerdan]

The prose is done well; most of the way through; however it is almost too sparse.
However there is more affect from the effect used to travel from past to present to past that not only confused me, but seemed a bit backwards.
Keeping in mind that I confuse easily; though I'm to be counted among those that found Rob Halfdan Far-Reaver a bit of a long name and even after discovering that they were robbing someone I still didn't make the connection.

Rather more than thinking that the story starts in a different place or perhaps that it doesn't start in the proper place, I'm more concerned with starting the story in the past(at least that's what it seems)moving to the present then back to the past.

It might work better to start in the present where the action is and then insert the frame stories into that as they seem to fit. That's just a suggestion.

As to the prose I was happy until::

Ham’s boat was alongside the dragon-ship now, and Cwen and the two guards were out of sight. She’d be pouring mead down their necks and making enough noise to cover the bump of the little boat as Ham nudged it up to the warship’s hull. Enough noise to cover the pad and creak of Bron’s boots as he walked swiftly down the jetty. Enough noise to hide the scrape and clatter as armed men hauled themselves over the rail and onto the ship.

And I think what bothered me here was the attempt to use some words for emphasis. Part of the problem for me was that there are a lot of words repeated in the first two though it was cut some in the last it altogether didn't work for me for what I would guess you were hoping for and probably would work better without all that repetition.

 

[TheDustyZebra]

"Rob"... as in "steal from". your response makes me think the word doesn't work in that context though - maybe because of the simple nature of Ham and Bron's names makes you assume there's another gang member called Rob?

Yes. It sounds like he's saying the other person's name, and then the other person is called Bron and it's confusing. You could keep it by adding a couple of words -- "You want to rob Halfdan Far-Reaver?"

 

[Martin Gill]

Thanks. I've fairly solidly concluded that the flashback thing isn't going to work, which is cool. v2 has the story starting with the raid up until the moment it goes wrong, then chapter 2 is the flashback to them planning it to parse out the characters a little, then c3 is the raid unfolding.

The contentious "Robert Halfdan" sentence now reads...

“You mean to rob Halfdan Far-Reaver?”

Though equally it could be "steal from" but I don't like that as much.

 

[The Judge]

The contentious "Robert Halfdan" sentence now reads...

“You mean to rob Halfdan Far-Reaver?”

Though equally it could be "steal from" but I don't like that as much.

An alternative if you wanted to keep the "Rob" is something like "Rob him? You seriously want to rob Halfden Far-Reaver?" which also gives more emphasis on the stupidity of the idea. I agree "You mean to steal from" doesn't have the same oomph, but perhaps "Thieve from Halfden?" might work, as it's not a verb often used, so immediately gives a feel for someone who isn't modern.

Anyhow, I think you're right in moving all the Svarbjorn scene to another chapter as that to my mind got in the way, but I didn't mind the initial backstory of Ham and Bron in the ale-house, though Brian is right that if you do keep it you ought to signal the change in time with the use of the past perfect (aka pluperfect to oldies like me) of "had slapped..." in at least that one verb, though you can then slip into ordinary past for the rest of the flashback.

Speaking of ale-house, you've obviously done a great deal of research on this particular period, but I was surprised at the "hoppy scent" -- it was my understanding that it was only relatively late in the Middle Ages that hops were (widely) used in England in brewing beer. Have you checked this point? The "mead-hall" also confused me a bit, as that's a term I'd always associated with a feasting/great hall of a lord, rather than some tatty dive.

I was interested that you've put a stone mill there at the wharf side. Is that based on your researches? I have to confess I didn't know they were entirely built of stone as long ago as that. Do you know why stone was used, instead of timber framing? (I've been looking at a few mills recently, but it might be I've got something wrong, hence my query.)

Re the knives clenched between teeth, I've always wondered whether that was really advisable! I recall reading a comment somewhere ages ago (not on here, I don't think) that it was a sure way to cut your mouth and face open. Might perhaps be worth checking with someone who is used to handling blades.

By the way, I know you don't want nit-picking, but just in case it's not simply a typo, "eves" should be "eaves".

Anyway, very atmospheric, and well written. Rather more humour than tension coming out at present, but that's presumably your intent. Good luck with it.

 

[Martin Gill]

Cheers. I appreciate the thought here.

"Rob him?" is great. I've been over that line a bunch of times and hadn't come up with that. I'd also considered "thieve" as thief is a Saxon word, but it just doesn't sound as bold to me. I'm also spinning on "mischief" as well - again it sounds too petty for what they are planning. The whole idea is that its an audacious heist by a small-time gang.

Hops is a good point - I hadn't thought of that. I'll check, but I think you are right.

Mill - it could be wood. There's no evidence of a stone mill in York where I put it, but there are other Saxon stone mills around the country. It can be wood. Its totally inconsequential to the plot.

Mead hall/ale house - good spot. I agree it needs to be a dive.

Knives... Knives from this era would almost universally be single bladed with a blunt back edge, rather than medieval double-edged daggers. Again, its poetic licence here and if it catches it could easily be ditched. No reason there knives just can't be glinting in the moonlight, or more likely not glinting because they'd been fire-blackened. The main aim of even using the word is to try and establish they are lightly armed. These aren't mail-clad warriors with swords.

 

[Martin Gill]

Take two. >>>>>>>>>>>>

They crouched in the black bowels of a summer night, at the Ouze end of Coppergate, nervous as rats. Folks who knew them called them naught but sceatha; one of a dozen gangs of petty thieves who scratched a living from what scraps the great city of Jorvik threw them. But tonight, things would be different. Tonight, Bron had a scheme.

The night was muggy and the river low, teeming with midges drawn to the flickering brands burning at the end of the jetty. A wooden boardwalk fronted the river, slung on wooden piles driven into the muddy banks. Storehouses and boat sheds, workshops and the mill-wheel slowly churning in the gurgling chase. By day the place was pressed with hawkers and traders, merchants hollering in a dozen languages, cut-purses and wretches, whores and port-men. By night, it was all but deserted, or at least it was this late.

Bron glanced nervously around, checking for the dozenth time that Halfdan’s guards still loitered on the ship. Time crawled. The longer they waited, the more he had to admit to himself this was a foolish plan. The kind of plan that gets folks killed. He should call it off. The thought gnawed at him. Just walk away, leave Svarbjorn’s bravado where it belonged, in the ale-hall. But it was too late. Ham would already be in the water, drifting silently downstream towards the longship. There was no turning back. It had to work.

Cwen shifted at Bron’s side. “My brother is an idiot for listening to you.”

“You listened to me.” Bron kept his voice low, worming his way back under the thatch eaves sheltering them. He caught her gaze, seeing Ham in her more so than he normally did. Perhaps it was the danger he’d put them both in that made him think that way. You could see they were family if you looked for it, same raven-dark hair, same upturned nose, except Cwen’s was straight where Ham’s was smeared all over his face form the beating Inn Digri’s lads had doled out a few years back. He was out there now, taking the biggest risk of them all, just as he always did.

Cwen sighed, said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her look told Bron she knew just as well as he did the risks they were taking.

An owl call echoed. They both glanced up. It was no owl. It was Ham, and Bron could only hope Halfdan’s lads had never heard a real owl, for Ham’s mimicry was hardly the stuff of sagas. Bron cringed, imagining the guards standing, hefting spears, gazing water-wards to see Ham and Gormless and the big Norseman rowing towards them, fire-blackened knives dulled against the moonlight. Spears would fly, bright flashes in the night, and Ham and the others would die. Bron spat in the dirt to ward away the ill luck such thoughts could bring. Were elves aiming their barbed shot at him even now, seeking to leach his wyrd? He’d need every ounce of thief-luck for what would come next.

He felt for the thong at his neck, tugging it free, feeling the small, hard disc of the gold coin that hung there, pressed close to his heart. It glinted, lustrous, like sunlight distilled and hammered solid. He ran his thumb over the dull image, the head of a god. Mercury, the luck-bringer. It was an old Roman thing that Broga had given him as a child, ancient and worn, and Bron had turned it over and over in his hand while Broga spun such wondrous tales of the old, forgotten gods in his crumbling ruin of a temple. Bron doubted Mercury still had ears for a scheme these days. Other gods ruled now, the Christian’s disapproving god, the brutal northern gods, but one thief-god was as good as another in a scrape. It couldn’t hurt to offer a devotion.

“Do you trust him?” Cwen’s question broke his thoughts of gods and luck.

Bron frowned. “Who. Your brother?”

“No, idiot. The Norseman.”

Bron had to think about that, or at least think about the answer. Truth be told, he didn’t trust the big ******* as far as he could easily throw him, and that would be no distance at all, for he was a bear of a man. But Cwen didn’t need to hear his doubts given air. He settled for a shrug and “He has no love for Halfdan.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

He could read the doubt on her plain enough, felt it himself as well, but their path was set now, one way or another. Mercury, or whatever low god cared to listen to the schemes of thieves, grant them stealth and guile. “Cwen, just go. They’ll be on us soon enough. You know what to do.”

“Aye.” She sighed. “Perhaps one day you’ll invent a ruse that doesn’t require me to whore myself as a distraction.”

“One day.” He felt the twinge of guilt at that, for she was right, but damn, she was so good at what she did. She dipped her head, tousled her hair and flicked it back over one shoulder. Bron forced a smile and handed her the skin, its fat leather belly bulging with mead. One more lie to see her on her way. “You’ll be fine.”

He hoped she would be.

She cut across the cobbled yard and out onto the jetty, boots echoing on wooden boards, the planks lending a spring to her step. Bron gazed at the sway of her hips and cursed himself for the thoughts she stirred. He wiped his sweating palms on his tunic. Cwen and Ham, brother and sister, his closest friends, had he thrown them both to the hounds with this moonstruck idea?

Ships jostled all about, teeming like pigs at a trough, all manner of shapes and sizes. Broad-beamed knars, holds stuffed with trade, or yawning and hollow and hungry for goods. Slim river skiffs, laden and low bobbing between the ships. Karves and warships; fast, fierce drakkar, their prow-beasts struck lest they scare away the land-spirits of the Wic. They bobbed on the gentle flow of the river, lapping water, the soft bump of wood.

Twitching pools of amber light smeared the end of the jetty where Cwen walked, lighting the gentle curve of a ship’s stern where it was moored to a stout post. Halfdan’s ship. The guards saw her coming, just like they were supposed to. She stopped, flicked at her hair, waved at them. Their faces leered in the torchlight. She said something, holding up the skin, but Bron couldn’t grasp her words. This was where it could all unravel, crumbling as sure as the ruins the old Romans had left behind. One of the Danes reached, grasped her hand, hauled her over the strakes and into the belly of Halfdan’s warship. Bron’s heart pounded. Had they seen through her ruse? He tensed to run, towards her, away, he really didn’t know, but she was handing them the skin, they were drinking, laughing.

Bron closed his eyes, forced himself to breath. He eased out of the shadows and jogged across the yard, one hand on the hilt of the scrameseax slung across the back of his belt to stop it slapping him on the arse. He squeezed against a cart piled high with barrels, craning to see the river between the jostle of ships. Moonlight glinted, sliver ripples. And there was Ham and the others, just as they’d planned in their stolen skiff, drifting silently downstream.

 

[Brian G Turner]

I think this version flows far more smoothly. The prose is descriptive and effective, and the pacing seems right.

A couple of very minor points:

Ham would already be in the water

Ham and Gormless and the big Norseman rowing towards them

When I read the first instance, I imagined Ham swimming in the water - might be clear from the start what the situation is. And once you describe it, don't repeat the detail.

Her look told Bron she knew just as well as he did the risks they were taking.

I'd suggest being less vague and more specific. You've already stated risk-of-death, so perhaps this is line is unnecessary repetition. However, whenever you do repeat information, used the second to expand on it - the Halfdan might torture him before killing him, or take retribution on friends and family ... and such thoughts might also reflect increasing anxiety.

And just to add, I really liked this piece and the way you use your words.

 

[The Big Peat]

Slightly awkward, but I preferred the first version. The second is too much description and internal thought; not enough interaction with the environment and others.

 

[Lafayette]

Ham’s boat was alongside the dragon-ship now, and Cwen and the two guards were out of sight. She’d be pouring mead down their necks and making enough noise to cover the bump of the little boat as Ham nudged it up to the warship’s hull. Enough noise to cover the pad and creak of Bron’s boots as he walked swiftly down the jetty. Enough noise to hide the scrape and clatter as armed men hauled themselves over the rail and onto the ship.[/FONT]

And I think what bothered me here was the attempt to use some words for emphasis. Part of the problem for me was that there are a lot of words repeated in the first two though... it altogether didn't work for me for what I would guess you were hoping for and probably would work better without all that repetition.

I personally like the repetition. I feel it adds more drama to what's going on. The repetition is telling and/or reminding the reader that a number of things could go wrong.

 

[Lafayette]

I really like this. It grabbed my attention right away and held my interest. I didn't have problems following what was going on. In my opinion the only thing you might try and do is shorten some of your sentences.

 

[The Judge]

I'm in two minds about the second version. I think it's improved with the removal of the flashbacks, though as I said before I didn't mind the first one, but the opening para of the original was better to my mind -- shorter, more intriguing and a better use of voice -- whereas the second version's opening is more longwinded, and its middle sentence is pure telling instead of showing, and to me far too info-dumpy far too early. More importantly, overall I share TBP's concerns about extra verbiage in the second version.

Disregarding the final paragraph of the original which will presumably appear in some form shortly in the second version, once you remove the flashbacks and some other lines which don't appear in the revised version, the original amounts to around 750 words. The second version stands at over 1250. So you've added 500 words without progressing the actual plot. I really don't think that's a good thing.

I see there's not actually more description of the locality in the second version, but perhaps because there's less action now it takes up slightly more as a percentage of the active whole, plus by moving up the paragraph starting "The night was muggy..." close to the top it's given more prominence which makes it feel as if there's more. It might be worth thinking how much is actually needed here, and cutting back a tad, and perhaps reorgnaising where it appears. You have added a whole load of extra worrying from Bron this time round, though, but I don't know that it's really helped with the tension that was missing before. To my mind, it just feels a bit repetitive as he's continually agonising, so again I think I'd pare back a little on that.

The big thing that hit me, though, was the paragraph about the gold coin and its provenance which for me stopped the story stone dead. It's interesting, certainly, but the kind of thing I think is better seen a little later when we know who these people are, not here when you're wanting to screw the tension up. I'd certainly have him wrapping his fingers around the coin and praying or whatever, but leave off the explanation for another time, I think.

By the way, he twice mentions the Romans which rather surprised me. Certainly Roman artefacts, and indeed ruined buildings, would still be around but nearly 500 years after the legions left, would ignorant back-alley thieves really know who the Romans were? This Broga might well have inherited tales, but with no book learning outside the monasteries, would he know enough to call them Romans or understand what they were/where they'd come from?

Anyhow, despite my cavils, it's well written and interesting, and I look forward to seeing more in due course.

 

[Martin Gill]

you might try and do is shorten some of your sentences

This amused me because normally I get the feedback that I'm too short and choppy

 

[Martin Gill]

Romans... The link back to Roman York/Eboracum is where the mystical element comes from later, but fair point that the exposition probably isn't needed at this point. There's plenty time for that later. There's more descriptions later to describe the Roman remains of the city and how both the Saxons then the Danes have colonised them, which would be a better time to build those links I guess.

Given I now have chapter 2 as the ale house flashback, I'm still leaning towards C1 being just the raid, even though I kind of like the flashback element.

I'm struggling with what will actually bring in tension. The word limit here is preventing me from posting the remainder of the chapter, whcih is literally 100 more words which gets to the final line "and then the killing started." So I wonder if I change tack here and rather than try and build Bron's tension as much as I have done, cut it back, make this super short and get to the fact that the raid screws up as quickly as possible, Then flash back to the setup in C2, then back to the carnage in C3. The minimum I need to do in C1 is establish Bron, Cwen, Ham, Svarbjorn is slightly untrustworthy and new, Halfdan isn't called Rob and is super-dangerous, and this is a dumb-ass plan that is going to land them in big trouble.

 

[The Big Peat]

The act of stealing the Jarl's longboat sounds pretty bloody tense to me all by itself. As long as its not moving too slowly, that should be enough tension for most readers - it certainly is for me. The joy of a good heist is every moment it could go wrong and you never know which moment its going to be.

If you can't get it to feel satisfactorily tense by going step by step through it then yes, the only way to go from there to add more tension is to have it go wrong. I'd be surprised if you can't though.

That said - I've felt dissatisfied with the amount of action in both versions. That suggests to me the amount of action you've got planned doesn't fill 1500 words. At the moment, you've added other details to that - flashbacks, woolgathering - and that acts against the tension. Removing those details to concentrate on the tense action will remove a lot of words. You've got a lot of options with what to do there - add more action, add more dialogue framing and introduction - but one of them is getting to it going wrong quicker.

 

[Lafayette]

I'm struggling with what will actually bring in tension. The word limit here is preventing me from posting the remainder of the chapter, whcih is literally 100 more words which gets to the final line "and then the killing started."

Is permissible to post the remaining 100 words in a new post here? I would hate to see you destroy good writing because of a word limit.