Tags

, , , , , , ,

An excerpt from my novel, Time and Tide, still in the process of creation. It is set in an original world where Northern and Southern Kingdoms have been unified for over one thousand years. There are forces at work, though, that will bring the Southern capital of Rhone to its knees. It begins with a meeting between elves and men.


Note: This excerpt has changed since its original posting. While the scene where my protagonist and antagonist meet is an important one, I felt this was more entertaining to a reader without the full novel before them. Enjoy! And, as always, thank you for the feedback.


The next morning dawned clear and warm on the city streets. Sun spilled forth across the rolling eastern hills and over the outer wall, then dove into the five quarters, past fountains and milk carts already on their way. Street lamps flickered and doused and weary farmers passed in twos and threes towards the northern gate, off to the fields in hopes of accomplishing their tasks that day. Their voices broke the air occasionally in a call to a friendly face or fellow tiller.

All sound was lost in the further quarters. Merchants slept late and rogues bedded early. The chill lingered in corners, still clinging to dreams of starlight.

A lone figure tread deeper into the city. He did not disturb the silence as he passed through alleys and over waterways, letting his memory guide him. He was at home in the chaos and hubbub of a thriving theater house, but Tristan still relished the peace of a solitary morning. It is what brought him out when the rest of the city slept.

The Dancing Stag Theater sat as a sleeping giant, shelved between two smaller workshops on a now empty street. The outer gate was locked, and Tristan approached without hurry, pulling a string of keys from around his neck. He possessed the only spares, and their worth gave him access to all the theater, save the costumes. Gilen trusted him highly and knew he would find the blades master here at dawn. His art was his love, and Gilen respected that, even if he did not understand.

The front gate swung open easily, and Tristan padlocked it again once inside. It would be his duty to reopen it at noon when the other players arrived, but for now, the theater was entirely his domain. His feet echoed in the courtyard stones as he came to the solid wooden sidedoor. He found the proper key, and the solid clunk of the lock turning fell dead in the morning air. With the creak of warped wood, Tristan stepped into the darkness, bringing the sunlight with him. A candle sat on a shelf just inside, but he never used it; he knew his way by heart. Fifteen paces down the hall, through the door to the left and another six paces to the rigging anchors. One, two, three knots over, and with a tug the rope released—the skylights slid open with a familiar thunk, welcoming the sunlit dawn.

He could see clearly now the hallway ahead of him leading to the practice ring. It was where he had met Tyre yesterday, the new sword smith. Gilen had found a rare treasure in the man; Tristan had said nothing at the time, preferring to keep his opinions to himself until they proved true, but Tyre had a rare gift. Gilen was lucky the man knew little of the business of his art, or he would have asked double what was paid. All the same, Tristan was not surprised when Tyre’s blades were not in the sword chest. Gilen would not have left such things easily found.

He selected a large bastard sword from the trunk, leaving the sheath propped against the wall, and stepped into the ring. It was a good blade, thick and heavy with room for a hand a half on the pommel. Such swords were designed to be versatile in combat, and he favored them in practice.

He stood for a moment, a statue in the stillness; the blade gleamed in the sunlight. Two skylights thrust the circle into bright detail while the outer edges remained hidden in the shadow. It did not feel threatening, as Tristan knew every inch of the theater almost better than he knew himself. Had he been alert, he may have noticed a shadow deeper than the rest, waiting just inside the door. But he had been here many times and felt no need for caution.

Slowly he began his dance—swing up, slash down, then the other side, measured grace and patience. He let the momentum of the sword lead him, great arcs in the air, turning and stepping forward, then back, always growing in depth and force. He did not see the shadow moving, stepping forth into the light. He gripped the other sword with both hands, ready to deal the final blow. He whirled in a downward arc.

It was then he saw the figure. Moments before swords collided, he caught sight of dark garb, pale face, raven hair—a cry of surprise, met by clashing steel.

Tristan froze. Before him stood a man clothed entirely in black. His face was strong and cold, as if a witness to dark deeds, though young as the spring rain. It was a paradox, and the answer lay in the stranger’s eyes—veiled behind a wall of stone, the eyes held memory of centuries, battles lost and secrets kept. Tristan glanced to the ears; unnaturally shaped, like oak leaves protruding silently from raven locks twined in braids. He was an apparition, a ghost called forth from another age.

The moment passed, and with a growl Tristan executed a disarming maneuver. The sword remained firmly in the man’s hands.

“The theater is closed,” he barked weakly.