EPTSo I'm off to medical school next semester, and this summer I decided instead of taking a full-time job (still working part-time) I would spend some time doing something I really enjoy: writing fantasy.
I was trying to think of ways of getting my writing some exposure to people other than family, who will do nothing but tell me my writing is "amazing" and "incredible". While that's encouraging, I can tell from my own read-throughs that there are some glaring issues with what I've written. I can't put my finger on it, but something really bothers me about my own writing. Maybe because I've written it?
Anywho, here is a little excerpt from what I've been working on. Keep in mind it isn't a first chapter or a last chapter, just a part I pulled out at random. Thanks so much if you take the time to read it, please leave me feedback!
The Lady of Flowers - Excerpt
The fire flickered warmly on the hearth as Catrina stepped into the makeshift tent. She clutched the linen sheet tightly across her chest - these were conditions of her arrival. The walls, cloaked with skins, furs, and a myriad of war trophies cast eerie shadows that shifted across the multicolored canvas. Above the hearth hung a massive painting of the late King Leo, portrayed accepting his crown from the heavens. A man stood by the blaze; muscular, tall, and well armed. He was Lord Hugo Tyreus - the man she’d been looking for. A horrid stench accompanied his presence; Lord Hugo clearly had no regard for personal hygiene. He seemed to grow in stature as he turned to address her, his leather boots creaking in agony as they supported his weight.
“Ah, Lady Catrina. How have I earned the pleasure of this visit?” A sneer streaked across his drunken face. He had removed his eyepatch, and his left eye gazed emptily toward her. He had taken her mother’s life three full moons ago, but Lady Sonya had taken his eye. How Catrina wished she could add but another scar to his collection. She bit her lip to keep the sarcasm from dripping into her voice.
“Your men said that you’d summoned me, my Lord. I thought that you might be able to tell me why I was here.” The Lord swaggered his way across the tent, overturning a wooden stool and spilling the contents of his flagon down his armor-clad chest. He stopped, wavering for a moment, and then tossed the remainder of his wine carelessly onto the nearby oak table. The tankard clanked off a wooden plate and splattered red drops upon the canvas wall. He laughed and motioned for her,
“Come now, come have a drink. Why so aggressive, m’Lady?” Catrina had heard of Hugo’s temper, and knew better than to test his mettle. Barefooted, she walked slowly to the table and sat down upon the nearest perch - a wooden chair with a torn cushion. She looked at the dirt floor, avoiding Hugo’s inebriated gaze. Lord Hugo threw himself into a nearby armchair, swinging a flagon of wine about and pouring several tankards. He swigged one down himself before offering one to Catrina, smiling, “I wouldn’t poison a Lady, least of all one that’s honored me enough to be my guest.”
Despite his abnormally friendly demeanor, Catrina remained suspicious. “This Lady suspects you’ve had many a guest here...What makes me so special?” Hugo leaned forward and pressed his nose to her face. She could smell his rancid breath, see his missing teeth, and feel the scrape of his stubble. He ran his fingers through her blonde hair. She clutched her linen ever closer.
“None as beautiful as you, m’Lady. I’d have you raise my children.” Catrina let loose an involuntary shudder, and she felt Lord Hugo draw back as though he had been shocked. Catrina braced herself for a blow, averting her gaze. When one never came, she opened her eyes slowly to find the Lord simply downing another flagon. He pointed to her wine. “Come now, drink up! We’ll have you agreeable before daybreak.” Lifting the tankard carefully, Catrina downed its contents in one go. She wiped her lips with the hem of her linen, hoping that she’d permanently stained the Lord’s sheets. Hugo only looked impressed. He leaned backwards in his chair, thrusting his booted feet upon the table. “A good Lady should help a Lord with his boots, you know.” Hugo’s dark black eyes met hers. Even drunk, she feared his retribution should she refuse. Disgusted, Catrina rose to her feet. Placing both hands upon his right foot, she removed his first boot. When she was almost floored by the stench, Lord Hugo began to laugh. A deep, hearty, and ear shattering affair. “Ah yes, I forgot to mention. That can happen when you’ve been on your feet all day.”
Catrina had seen Hugo’s men carry him three meals today, one just before Sun’s Height, when she assumed he had finally risen, and two before sundown. She doubted he had left his tent, and was certain he had spent less than half of the day sober. She, however, had spent the afternoon chained inside a harem-house. None had been allowed to touch her, by Hugo’s orders, assuming she agreed to share a meal with him these eve.
“Your King has my peoples’ allegiance, m’Lord. My mother is dead, and my father is in chains. What more do you want from me? What more do you desire from the people of Port Laos?” Lord Hugo leaned forward, raising his tankard to Catrina’s, which he had refilled. She accepted his toast, and downed another before Hugo could finish spilling what remained of his upon himself. She stifled a burp, wiping her mouth politely.
“Why m’Lady, do you mistake me for a fool who wants only a harem and the pleasures women can bring him? I want a bloodline, I want a son, a royal son, one I can only have through a royal marriage.” Catrina’s eyes remained cold and calculating, fixated on Hugo’s drunken sway. He leaned forward, grasping her small delicate hands in his own. “I want...” Hugo burped and wiped his brow, leaning towards her once more with a crooked smile. “I want to make you my Queen.”
Catrina stifled a laugh. “M’lord, but how can you make me a Queen, if you are not a King?” Lord Hugo rose to his feet with impressive speed. He unsheathed his sword, waving it about in a mad frenzy. “King Tyreus, now that’s got a bit of a ring to it.” He spun to face Catrina, brandishing his glimmering steel blade. “King Leo is not long for the throne. You’ve seen it. He’s a old man with old ambitions.” Hugo downed another tankard of wine, throwing it back with reckless abandon. The flames in his eyes matched the fire of the hearth. “You know, old Leo was the brains behind the slaughter of the Port Laos nobles. Getting a bit too “out of hand”, he called them. Rumor was your father had questioned his right to be King.”
Catrina was aware of this. Her father had been concerned about whispers regarding kidnappings, and tales of King Leo’s “black magics”. One of Leo’s spies had intercepted a letter from her father to her uncle, the Lord of Castle Whitemoor. Two nights later, an army was at the castle gates demanding their surrender.
“Just so you know,” Hugo continued, “I was against this whole nasty... affair.” Catrina scowled but held her tongue. “I told King Leo that he was better off keeping what few supporters he had.” Hugo turned to face a mirror, removing his steel shoulderpads and kicking them across the dirt floor. “But orders are orders. I took my men and marched on Port Laos. I gave your father fair terms of surrender: political authority, no prisoners, and full control of his territory upon his return.”
“And then you slaughtered my family, raped my mother, and beat my father unconscious.” Catrina stated smoothly. Her fury had broken her calm demeanor, and she resisted the urge to cover her mouth. Lord Hugo turned to face her, the rage in his eyes more obvious than his impaired coordination. He swung his sword in a wide arc, slashing her cheekbone. Even so impaired, Hugo was a renowned swordsman. Catrina took the blow without flinching, warm blood trickling down her neck. “You little wench. I didn’t rape anyone. Your bitch of a mother gutted me with her letter opener!” Ripping off his chainmail, Hugo displayed a wide scar above his waistline. “I saved her the trouble of being raped. I cut off her pretty little head, and buried her in the castle graveyard. My men would’ve seen her flayed for what she did to me.”
Catrina’s blue-eyed gaze remained calm and cool, but the rage inside burned and bubbled over as if her small body was a cauldron. Hugo reached for a towel and began dabbing Catrina’s wound none too gently. “Someday soon, I’ll take Leo by surprise. He’ll never see the dagger in the dark. I will take his throne, and I’ll make you Queen of Angholde. How would you like that, m’Lady?”
She forced the rage deep down, down where it could fester. This man’s hands, the hands that now held hers, had held the blade that took her mother’s life. They had held the club that beat her father to within an inch of his life. “How could I believe such a Lord could be a loyal husband to me?” She managed, choking down her resentment.
“What would a Lady know of loyalty? What would you know of honor, or dignity, or chivalry?” Hugo fired back. “My loyalty is to my Kingdom, my blade, and m’Lady.” He clutched her face between his sweaty palms. Catrina’s blood trickled between his fingers. “Accept my offer, and I will free your father. I will make sure he can return home. I will give him land to rebuild a modest hearth, and land to plant and plow.”
“Who will rule Port Laos?” Lord Hugo shrugged,
“For now, a knight of King Leo’s choosing. Traitors cannot be trusted with power. What say you, Lady Catrina?”
Catrina knew Hugo’s offer was not to be refused. She nodded slowly and ran her hands up his thighs. “I accept, m’Lord.”
The firelight flickered against Hugo’s bare chest. His belt undone, his belly now rose out over his trousers and bounced when he exhaled. He slicked his hair back, patted his lap and beckoned Catrina to him. She padded along silently, sitting upon his lap so that she could face him. She let the linen fall from her shoulders, leaving her in nothing but her undergarments. Hugo wrapped his calloused hands around her rear and squeezed. She forced herself to smile, leaning forward and resting her nose on his once again. This would be easier if she cooperated.
“So tell me...” Hugo began, running his hands up the middle of her back, “Why do they call you the Lady of Flowers?” Catrina tossed her hands through his greasy hair, whispering softly into his ear. He shifted in his chair, moving backwards away from the table, giving himself more room. A loud bustle from outside caused the two nobles little concern. Hugo’s hands soon found their way to her chest, and clumsily fumbled to remove her brassiere. “Why do they call you the Lady of the Rose?” Suddenly, Lord Hugo stopped, a look of curiosity spreading across his face. Catrina’s hands rushed to her breasts, wrestling the blade of a majestically hilted dagger away from the giant man. Before Hugo could react, she rammed the dagger into his sternum, puncturing both of his lungs instantly. Blood spurted from the Lord’s mouth as Catrina pushed the blade upwards.
“Because.” Catrina grinned through her clenched teeth. Hugo’s back arched as he tried to scream, but no air found its way through his throat. With one deft movement, Catrina tore the blade from his chest and sliced his throat.
“Roses have thorns.”
The late Lord Hugo Tyreus fell to the floor with a thud. When he began to thrash about in death’s grip, Catrina sat upon his back and held his limbs to the floor. From the ornamentation left upon his dinner table, Catrina cut a large red rose. Wrapping herself in what remained of her linen shawl, she dropped the flower into the growing pool of blood. The shadows from the fire revealed a man cloaked in green, who threw open the entrance to Hugo’s tent. A silver-strung bow was strapped over his shoulders. He spoke no words, but flung a crimson cloak about Catrina’s shoulders as she slunk off into the night. Lord Hugo choked on his last breath on the floor of his tent. The man in green placed a booted foot on the back of the Lord’s neck as he retrieved a petal from the blood-soaked rose. Spearing the petal onto one of his silver-tipped arrows, the archer drew back his bowstring and fired. With a dulled ‘ping’, the projectile buried itself in the forehead of King Leo. Lord Hugo’s blood dripped slowly, blurring the oil masterpiece. The guards outside stood silent at their posts; transfixed to the tent by glimmering arrows. There they would keep watch, forever.
