Chapter 1

Askervall spread out along a green plateau overlooking the foaming seas below. Spearhead Fortress sat on top of a rough stone island, reaching out of the ocean to loom over the city. Thirty-foot-high walls stretched out along the edge of the cliff and surrounds the city entirely with guarded gates to the east, south and west. To the north, a walled road led to a drawbridge over to the fortress. A solid black wall constructed of layers upon layers of slate divided the city. Askervall was a city segregated by class. The nobility and wealthy families lived in lavish two or three-storey houses. Whitewashed, they were a stark contrast to the fortress behind them. Lush greens with rings of trees, taverns and jewellery merchants gave life to the upper city.

On the other side of the ten-foot-thick wall the lower city sprawled haphazardly. Dark alleys and hidden tunnels permitted smugglers and criminals to move their wares unseen. The poor lived cramped and hard lives. Several families to a single house. Coal mines, tanneries and blacksmithing created poorly paid jobs and polluted the air. Ghettos led by gangs ruled the streets by night and cruel bent guards, who were just as likely to rob you, ran them by day.

Spearhead Castle was constructed for its view out over the green rolling hills and fertile farmland with the mountains in the distance. Any approaching army would be seen miles before they became a threat. It’s view over the Daken sea controlled the trade in and out making it the ideal seat for the ancient kings of Treoneian.

Once the drawbridge has been raised, the fortress was unbreachable. The black slate construction held together with magic imbued into the stone by the gods themselves, or so the myths go. The lands of Dakrai, Griazas and Nagata had been ruled by a High King for centuries.  

The Kingdom had grown in power and wealth under King Jon Karlsson, a King of the people, and the kingdom mourned his death. The Royal ship had left for her yearly visit to Fracia when it had mysteriously turned up on the shore of Weolington Bay. His younger brother Cuthbert Karlsson, a ruthless young man had taken the throne. His men had been found amongst the wreckage. Although it was quickly swept aside once the lords who were shouting loudest fell silent. Unfortunate accidents kept the nobility in check.

Cuthbert soon after taking the throne fell into fits of madness. Often seen wandering the streets, blank-faced and mumbling.  A year after his ascent to the throne, rumours began to fly of King Jons heir having survived the wreck.  This was followed by eleven years of searching. Cuthbert ordered searches of villages and towns. Children had been snatched from their parent's desperate grip, accused of being Jon’s lost son Prince Issac. He bled the Kingdom of its wealth. Forcing people to work longer hours while paying them less. Soon Askervall was led by a council of nobles, split in loyalties. Those still loyal to Treoneia and sceptical of Cuthberts involvement in the accident. And those appointed by Cuthbert or his steward Ostwald Dulac.

Slowly the King fell further into madness, leaving the ruling of the kingdom to his steward and lords loyal to him. The other lords found themselves less welcome and so retreated to their home estates, only attending court to keep up on affairs. Cuthbert needed the boy. Not for the safety of his throne, no, he searched for somebody else. Somebody wanted the heir and Cuthbert had promised to deliver.

Cuthbert's fine clothes hung loose on his thin, sickly frame. His once long, thick, red hair had thinned and fallen out in clumps. His hold on both his mind and his kingdom was weak at best. A sad shadow of his brother.

The King sat on his throne, head propped up by his hand, and drifted in and out of sleep. His steward Ostwald Dulac had been forced to take over the task of hearing a plea for military assistance. Ambassador Alfrek De'mont, a small, plump man dressed in a flamboyant blue ensemble, spoke angrily about a stretch of land taken by savages. “These savages cannot be left to sack the fertile lands of Fracia.” The ambassador spoke with flare, an act from the start.

“Do you already forget the tragic loss that binds our two kingdoms? A sad day indeed.” He looked disdainfully up at the king, spittle now clearly covering his hand and cheek.

“King Jon will be raging with the Gods over this, Cuthbert.” He continued shouting towards the king who startled awake for a moment, then with heavy eyes drifted back into unconsciousness.

“A disgrace!” Alfrek seethed. He turned to the assembled nobility arms held up to the gods, his voluminous eyebrows bouncing comically

Ostwald raised his hand for silence and calmly descended the steps before replying to the ambassador.

“These savages are not on our doorstep, Ambassador Alfrek. If King Alfalsted had sent men to fight in our many wars, as he had agreed, I would not hesitate to send an army to assist.” Ostwald replied.

“As I see it, King Alfalsted should have plenty of fighting men to defend his lands.

“We. We could.” Alfrek stuttered in response, caught off guard.

“I am sorry Ambassador, but we do not have the men to send.” He waved his hand to indicate he had finished the discussion.

“My Lord, this is not right.” Alfrek pleaded his voice bouncing off the marble lining the walls of the great hall.

The King lurched from his seat, crying out and fell flat on his face. He scrambled up as if awoken from a dream. Wiping the drool from his face he waved his hands behind him searching for his seat. He clutched at his head falling to his knees face contorted in agony.

“I gave you the throne so you could get rid of your brother and his damned child.  Where is he?  I know he did not perish at sea.  I feel him, sense him. The boy must be found! I have given you everything you asked for, have I not?”  A voice spoke inside the King’s head.

“My King?” Ostwald queried. The outburst was but one of many.

He had been plagued with these bouts of madness most of his reign. The King tried to shake off his Stewards attempts to help him, but Ostwald guided him back to the throne nonetheless.

“So why do you play me for a fool?”  The voice boomed forcing a spasm across his face.

“I do not. Forgive me, Lord.” Cuthbert sobbed.

The prince lives; I can sense him. Bring me the boy, or I will find someone who will.  Is that what you want?  An end to all this?

“I will find him! I will burn every building in the land until I find him. Please! I am but your loyal subject.” The King fell from his throne again and sprawled on the floor before his court, begging on his knees.

The lords and ladies in attendance gasped, and whispers hummed in the vast room. He strode forward gesturing to the guards with raised arms as his anger bubbled up with this fast-becoming spectacle.

“Out! Out! Everyone out!” He bellowed, his voice echoing in the stone hall.  The nobles all protesting loudly as they were forced out of the hall. He caught High Lord Huntsworth leaving quietly out of the corner of his eye but pushed that aside. He turned to the remaining high lords and glared. They shuffled off quickly through the side doors.

“Guards get them out now!” he roared again as he roughly picked Cuthbert up under his arms and dragged him unceremoniously back to his throne.

“My king, who is it that you talk to?” he asked, looking the king in the eyes.

“Will you get them out of here!” He turned and shouted once more.

The nobles were slowly forced through the double doors at the end of the hall. All but one remained to hassle the guards.

“This is unacceptable! I am the ambassador of Fracia and demand my king's requests be granted.” The ambassador insisted. Holding onto the door he pushed his round back into the guards with surprising strength.

Ostwald, anger now boiling over on his face stormed down the steps pushing aside the guards and addressed the offensive little man.

“My Lord Alfrek, you can return to your King and remind him that he is a vassal to King Cuthbert.  His requests are denied.  He has not only failed to pay a full seasons’ taxes.  He fails to send men to join the armies of Treoneia as was the agreement set down in the treaty of Hundunberg.” He towered over the tiny man and sneered down. He stepped back, smoothed out his tunic and composed himself.

“We graciously remind him that we placed him on the throne, and we can remove him.  Good day, ambassador.” He gestured for the guards who stepped up to the astounded ambassador. They walked him out of the hall, his fight all but gone and closed the door.

“Come on, my old friend” Ostwald turned back to Cuthbert and sighed with contempt at the state of the King and the Kingdom he ruled over. He helped the king to his feet, and together they slowly made their way up to the kings’ bedchamber.  Shuffling through the door into the hallway behind the throne room, Ostwald led the King along the wide stone passageway. Torches hung from the walls stretching their shadows as they began the climb up the narrow staircase. The stairs led to the Kings bedchamber, cobwebs stuck to the rough walls caught on the Kings robes as they ascended.

He had started bringing Cuthbert this way a few years ago. When he saw that his friend and King’s mind was more often than not absent from his body. He roughly dropped Cuthbert onto his large feather bed and move to open the doors to the balcony to let some air in.

“What is happening to you?  I hate to see you like this, my friend.” Ostwald walked out into the cool afternoon breeze, stewing over what to do. Resting on the balustrade and looking out over the city with its black scar down the middle. A new addition to the city, added after the riots. Cuthbert had ordered it to keep his nobles safe, and to remind the populace who was in charge. Turning up his nose, he gazed out over the lower city through a haze of smoke. He could see the filth from where he stood. A groan brought him back to the present. Reluctantly he turned to face the King, who had huddled under the blankets still fully dressed.

“Shall we light the fire, you mad fool?” he poked the king, causing him to wince and recoil.” Ostwald's patience was wearing thin. The constant humiliation he felt caused him to turn his anguish onto his old friend in cruel torment. He walked over to the fireplace and piled fresh logs. So long had his friend been this way that he struggled to remember him any other way. He struck a flint showering the kindling with sparks, tendrils of smoke seeped through the gaps followed by leaping flames, he blew on it gently building the flames into a fire. Sweeping back his long silver hair he stood up and turned to find Cuthbert sat up on the edge of his bed eyes bright with awareness. It caught Ostwald off guard who flinched back a step.

“Cuthbert? Is that you?” he stammered, Cuthbert’s colour had returned to his usual greyish skin. The King smiled and looked up at his old friend and spoke in much his own voice, far from the strained accent he often spoke in these days.

“We must renew our efforts to find my nephew.  I know he lives and plots against me.” Cuthbert stumbled over his words as if being fed them.

“But your Highness. We have heard of no new sightings and even the drunken rumours have stopped for over a year now,” Ostwald replied, angry at having the same discussion yet again.

“Are you refusing to do as your King commands?” Cuthbert’s voice filled with a sudden anger. He stormed to his feet then stopped dead, motionless as a statue.

“You are a pitiful man.  Must I do everything?”

The King flinched as if struck.

“I can see the wreckage. He must be close. I see a strong presence about to take him. You have not long left. Find him or I will find someone who can.”

Cuthbert started walking again, continuing his stride as if nothing had happened.

“Send men back to the shipwreck.  My nephew will be coming of age soon. He will be in plain sight among common peasants; look out for groups of travellers. He could already be on the move.”

“My lord, we have been searching for eleven summers, we have exhausted all leads. The coin to fund this fruitless search has drained the royal treasury, no sign or word about your brother’s son has been reported for almost a year now.”

“Watch your tongue Ostwald. I am your King before all else.”

“Your brother is dead, your nephew is dead, you have to give this up. It’s driven you to madness.” Ostwald snarled he had watched his friend and King fall further and further into insanity.

“The search will end when I have the boy and not before!  Now do as I command, or I will see you in shackles.  The boy breathes. I know he does.” Cuthbert walked out through the open doors and outside. He stared out over the sea towards Weolington bay. He spun to face his steward.  His face had softened and for a moment Ostwald saw his childhood companion looking back. The king walked back into the room. Without a word Cuthbert took hold of the table by the bed and launched it with a roar of rage across the room to splinter against the wall.

Ostwald flinched backwards a step at the sudden flare of rage.  Both men stood there looking at each other.

Cuthbert closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. His features relaxed, and when he opened them, he smiled.

“Ostwald, my friend. I am sorry.  I will not be turned from my search.  Please do not stand in my way. I need you by my side, you’re my friend, my only true friend.” He spoke kindly.

“If only I could share my burden….” He trailed off into silence as he slowly turned away

“What burden my….” Cuthbert cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“That will do Ostwald, do as I say.  I am weary and wish to be alone.”

Without saying another word, he bowed, stepped back a few steps and turned on his heels and stormed out.  He waited for the door to click shut before he started down the hall towards his residence.

“A bloody fool, he will be the death of me, the death of this god's damned Kingdom.  Madness, by the gods!” He thundered.

He made his way down the main set of stairs. He noted some spent candles high above them on one of the candelabra suspended from the rafters.  He kept a steady pace; servants forced to move or be trampled. He smiled inwardly, the fear on their faces confirmed to him that he held respect and power.

“Yes? What are you gawping at!” He fixed one of the quivering servants with a dangerous glare.  “Find my manservant and send him to me.  Quickly now!”

“Yes, my lord, right away, my lord.” The servant replied while scurrying away as quickly as he could without running.

Entering his private study, he headed over to the side and poured himself a strong drink. Swirled it, then swigged it down in one.  Pouring himself another he walked to the large window behind his redwood desk. Looking out over the green hills, he watched a flock of seagulls fly by. He found himself envious of their carefree lives.

Letting out a sigh, a hunch of unwillingness heavy on his shoulders he sat down at his desk. Reaching for a sheet of parchment he dipped his quill into the inkwell. Touching the edge of the well to remove the excess, he started to scrawl on the page.

Lord Commander Bentov,

I am sure by now you have heard news of the spectacle put on again by our great king. As much as it pains me, I have been issued a command to send men to Weolington.

The King insists we continue with this futile search. I would suggest you look into High Lord Huntsworth. He slipped away rather quietly.

Although I do not think he has the young prince, other traitorous acts spring to mind.

I will leave the details up to you, but may I suggest Captain Fid and his team be issued the task. They are rubbing the city guards the wrong way. I have had reports of them interfering in their duties to keep the commoners in their place.

Get it done, the coin will be made available.

 

Steward to the King

Lord Ostwald Dulac

 

He waited for the ink to dry then rolled it up and pressed his stamp of office into the wet wax to seal it. He placed it on the desk in front of him and lent back in his high-backed chair. He sipped at his brandy and waited for his manservant Callum to arrive. Right on cue a knock on the door.

“Enter.”

“My lord, you called for me?” A large timid man squeaked as his hunched frame entered the room.

“Ah Callum, just the man, take this to Lord Commander Bentov,” Ostwald spoke kindly to the man. He had a soft spot for cripples and simpletons, purely for the fact he could manipulate them far more effortlessly.

“Yes, my lord. Right away my lord.” The large man replied in his usual slow drone. He stepped forward and gingerly held out his hand to receive the rolled-up parchment.  With a huge grin, he spun about and left the room.

Ostwald relaxed in his chair again and sipped his drink. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the slight heat in his chest as he let the golden liquid flow down his throat.

Author's Note

Looking for help reviewing grammar and sentence structure. Constructive ideas of plot lines and character development welcome also.

Reviews

[JayG]

• Askervall spread out along a green plateau overlooking the foaming seas below.

Write from your own chair, of course. But as you edit, you need to look at the story, not as the author, but as the reader, who arrives without context for where we are in time and space, who we are, and what’s going on. Every line must either use context previously made clear, or contain it as part of the line.

As the author, when you read, your mind fills in all the necessary detail that’s so obvious to you that you left it out as you wrote.

So as a reader: someone named Askervall spread out his blanket at the edge of a cliff.

No? Then...A ranch named Askervall was atop a plateau above seas that for unknown reasons continuously foam?

No? But Having spent lots of time on the water, I’ve seen seas that had foam, but none that were consistently foaming, which is what to just said. Not what you meant, but we can't take the approach, "You know what I mean," because the reader doesn't, and can't.

See how critical context is to a reader? There is no second first-impression, so…

But forget that, because it’s a symptom of a mush larger problem—one you share with pretty much everyone who comes to fiction-writing. Your reader arrived at line one expecting a story. But they see four dense paragraphs, 636 words—or, the first three standard manuscript pages—containing nothing but a generalized overview of the setting,before anything actually happens. That’s a report, not a story.

My point? No one is willing to study the history of a mythical kingdom in order to read a story that they have no assurance will be interesting. You need that information as you write, sure, but the reader? They haven’t been given a need OR desire to know any of that. And vast majority of that information is unnecessary to the opening scene. Guaranteed, by the time the reader needs that information to understand a story plot-point, they will have forgotten.

Here’s the problem behind the problem: what I call, The Great Misunderstanding:

In our schooldays we were trained, for over a decade, in a skill our teachers called writing. To master it we were assigned endless numbers of reports and essays. So when we graduated, we were quite skilled in writing them, as you demonstrate here. But: Did a single teacher, spend a single minute on the niceties of the short-term scene-goal and it’s management? No. How about why a scene on the page ends in disaster for the protagonist? Again no, right? And of course none ever explained the elements that make up a scene on the page, and why it differs so, from one on stage and screen. But if we don't truly understand what a scene is and how it works, how can we write one?

Why don't we know? Because the writing skill we learned is NOT the one pointed to by the word “writing” that’s part of the profession we call, Fiction-Writing. Professional skills are learned IN ADDITION to our school-day skills. So we’re no more given the techniques and knowledge of that profession than we’re trained as a journalist, a playwright, or a scriptwriter, if we don't take that specific training.

But because no one tells us that there is another way to approach writing: emotion, rather than fact-based, and character, not author-centric, we never seek it out. It's the primary reason the rejection-rate is 99.9%

Nor is it mentioned that while reports—like all nonfiction applications—have an informational experience as their goal. But our goal, as E. L. Doctorow put it: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

And no way in hell can the book report skills we were given do that.

The solution? Simple. Just add the tricks the pros take for granted to your existing skills.

Of course the word simple and easy aren’t interchangeable, so there is a fair amount of study and practice involved. But that’s expected with any profession, and learning skills you WANT to possess is more like going backstage at the theater than hard labor. And it’s filled with, “So THAT’S how they do it!”

Added to that, once you master those skills and stop having to think about them as you write, your protagonist will become your co-writer, and whisper suggestions and warnings in your ear as you write, to the point where you will often feel as if you’re only recording what they dictate. And until you’ve had your protagonist place hands on hips and say, “Me do that? No way. Given my needs and background, I would…” your characters aren’t real to either you or the reader.

The library’s fiction-writing section can be a HUGE resource. And devouring a few books on the subject, there is a great place to begin, because there’s no pressure, no tests, and you proceed at your own speed.

To help, the best book I’ve found to date on the nuts-and-bolts issues of creating scenes that will sing to the reader, and weaving them into an exciting whole, has come out of copyright protection and is available at a few archive websites. The address of one is just below. Copy/paste the address into the URL window of any internet window and hit Return to read or download it.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

And as a kind of sampler, the articles in my WordPress writing blog are based, in large part, on the teachings to be found in that book.

As a minor point, to format a posting for this site, with any word-processor that can create a Doc or DocX file: Set the paragraph indent via the top ruler. When you copy that and paste it here the paragraph indents will be retained. With any other procedure you need to double space paragraphs.

So, dig in and give it a try. I think you’ll like that book. An while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/