writing progress
Jan. 1st, 2006 06:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deborahjrossSince returning to THE CHILDREN OF KINGS, 13 new pages, almost done with Chapter 5. Here's part of what I wrote today:
The Dry Towner stumbled, falling to his knees, sword spinning free. Again, that preternatural sensing swept through Gareth, and he knew the instant before the other man slipped out a double-edged dagger. Before the blade had left its sheath, Gareth brought the edge of his sword against the other man's throat.
The other man's hand opened and the dagger, a Dry Towns skean, dropped to the ground. There was a flicker in the keen gray eyes, acceptance perhaps, acknowledgment of defeat.
"Hold, all of you!" Gareth shouted in Dry Towns dialect, "or he dies!"
He dared not shift his gaze from the man at his feet, but heard the sounds of fighting die. Cyrillon called for Rakhal to help him gather their weapons. Someone built up the fire, and Gareth got a better look at the man he had just beaten, strong features with a hooked nose, well-trimmed beard, intelligent eyes. The man's age was difficult to tell. The flickering light cast deep shadows around mouth and eyes, the jagged scar across one high cheekbone, but there did not seem to be any gray in the pale braided hair. It was not, Gareth thought, the face of a man made desperate by poverty.
An outlaw, then? A bandit chief? What was he doing, raiding on this side of Carthon, still in Domains territory?
"Who are you, that come upon us in the night like cowards?" Gareth demanded.
From behind, Cyrillon answered, "Do not ask a man to shame his house. Do what must be done, and quickly."
Aldones! They expected him to kill a defeated and helpless opponent!
And yet, if the fight had gone differently, it might be Gareth on his knees in the blood-spattered dust, and this bandit holding the sword. Would this stranger have shown mercy? From the other side of the camp, Tomas moaned in pain. Korllen was still out there, in all likelihood killed without a thought.
Gray eyes looked back at Gareth, unflinching yet now tinged with dawning horror. Without thinking, Gareth reached out with his laran. He had felt such a flowing unity with blade and opponent during the fight that it startled him to sense nothing now from the other man's mind. No telepathic presence, only a surge of emotion -- fierce pride, tatters of shame and self-loathing, admiration, and yes, fear. But not fear of death, fear of the northern sorcery, the dawning suspicion that he faced not a human victor but a soul-devouring demon of the Comyn . . .
"What are you waiting for?" Rakhal said in a quiet, tight voice. "There is no honor in tormenting a defeated enemy."
The Dry Towner stumbled, falling to his knees, sword spinning free. Again, that preternatural sensing swept through Gareth, and he knew the instant before the other man slipped out a double-edged dagger. Before the blade had left its sheath, Gareth brought the edge of his sword against the other man's throat.
The other man's hand opened and the dagger, a Dry Towns skean, dropped to the ground. There was a flicker in the keen gray eyes, acceptance perhaps, acknowledgment of defeat.
"Hold, all of you!" Gareth shouted in Dry Towns dialect, "or he dies!"
He dared not shift his gaze from the man at his feet, but heard the sounds of fighting die. Cyrillon called for Rakhal to help him gather their weapons. Someone built up the fire, and Gareth got a better look at the man he had just beaten, strong features with a hooked nose, well-trimmed beard, intelligent eyes. The man's age was difficult to tell. The flickering light cast deep shadows around mouth and eyes, the jagged scar across one high cheekbone, but there did not seem to be any gray in the pale braided hair. It was not, Gareth thought, the face of a man made desperate by poverty.
An outlaw, then? A bandit chief? What was he doing, raiding on this side of Carthon, still in Domains territory?
"Who are you, that come upon us in the night like cowards?" Gareth demanded.
From behind, Cyrillon answered, "Do not ask a man to shame his house. Do what must be done, and quickly."
Aldones! They expected him to kill a defeated and helpless opponent!
And yet, if the fight had gone differently, it might be Gareth on his knees in the blood-spattered dust, and this bandit holding the sword. Would this stranger have shown mercy? From the other side of the camp, Tomas moaned in pain. Korllen was still out there, in all likelihood killed without a thought.
Gray eyes looked back at Gareth, unflinching yet now tinged with dawning horror. Without thinking, Gareth reached out with his laran. He had felt such a flowing unity with blade and opponent during the fight that it startled him to sense nothing now from the other man's mind. No telepathic presence, only a surge of emotion -- fierce pride, tatters of shame and self-loathing, admiration, and yes, fear. But not fear of death, fear of the northern sorcery, the dawning suspicion that he faced not a human victor but a soul-devouring demon of the Comyn . . .
"What are you waiting for?" Rakhal said in a quiet, tight voice. "There is no honor in tormenting a defeated enemy."
