Off to the Races

After considerable work on the Horngard I,  so it now has a new beginning, new ending, and a lot of shuffling, trimming, correction of this that and the other in the middle, it’s off to Agent.  Sorry about the long lapse in posting here, but later August and all of September were a wild scramble because of Other Things.

The Discord writing group I’m now on  has been VERY helpful, especially because most of the others there are not familiar with my work at all, and thus critique from the POV I needed most: that of potential readers unfamiliar with the Paksworld story universe.   (One helpful comment:  “Is that name a character or a city or something?”  A reminder that readers need to be quickly oriented to person and place–and time if that’s at all relevant.   That newcomers to the works should not have to climb a cliff, but have an easy on-ramp to the story so they can merge with less effort.)   And trying to read a chunk of their various works and get up to speed for critiquing, gave me an even more immediate experience of what the newcomer needs.   (I wasn’t sure which of a family was the grandfather, the father, or the teenage son…)    Also very helpful, in the last few days of revision, was an online site (there are a bazillion!) where a much younger writer was handing out her tips…and one of them that was exactly what I needed to see that night.   Two thousand words fell off the sledge the next day (and needed to.)

So Horngard’s off to the races, at least as far as Agent, a much leaner, more active book with a good feel of flow in it, and a totally lame ending gone.   You definitely deserve snippets.  These are, however, the same snippets the Paksworld blog got maybe a half hour ago, so this is basically a cross-post of that one.

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Aesil M’dierra, having lunch in The Golden Fish in Valdaire, remembering a childhood incident:

Rainclouds low over the citadel, hiding all but the bases of the two peaks that gave the place its name.  Cold rain, slippery rock, then the warmth of the great entrance chamber, a polished bronze dragon statue, gold leaf that had once covered it almost worn away.  A man in yellow robes lifting the statue’s tail, the mouth opening, emitting first a puff of smoke and then warm red tongue sliding out for her to touch with her own….

She pushed memory aside with an effort.

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Juris Marrakai en route to Marrakai’s country estate, escorted by Royal Guard

“But–where do you turn for the house?”

“I’ll go; I can show them.  You go straight ahead.  Give me some men!”

“But we’re supposed to protect you!”

“My sisters!”  With that, Juris spurred back down the column for the crossroad, and Fandosson yelled for half the troop to follow Juris, then spurred ahead.

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Meddthal Andressat, in Cha (south of Pliuni)  representing Count Andressat.  Andressat has claimed the South Marches since Siniava’s War.

The courier’s head fell forward like a puppet with cut strings.  Dead.  Meddthal felt he’d been dipped in ice water.  He was dragonkin, this was Dragon’s business, but Dragon–he touched his amulet and it lay cold on his chest.  He did not know where Dragon was.

“I will send word,” he said to his captain.  “Burn his clothes, just in case.  And bury him deep.”

He sent a courier north, that very hour, hoping it was not too late.

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Enjoy!