Extract 4: ‘Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising’

Charles Weaver sat at the desk in his study, his head bowed over the ledger, his hand writing the reports from the week’s activities in his beautiful slanted script. The Welsh prisoner had yielded nothing of note, but there was time yet for him to break. At his side was a tray bearing his choice of sustenance: bread, cheeses and a few slices of home-cured meat. The simple repast would serve him well enough. A bottle of wine was uncorked and stood before him. But Charles Weaver neither ate nor drank. To do either required the removal of his mask, and until his personal servants retired for the night, he would not take it off. Even then, he had become strangely reluctant to do so.

The reports came in on a regular basis and not all were pertinent. Here there was an account of possible evidence of magic use in a distant English backwater village. There, details of attempts by magicians to receive the support of the Church. So many of these ended without the intervention of the Inquisition, overly-dramatic scenes of self-martyrdom by the desperate and unofficial elevation to sainthood in the eyes of their faithful followers. All these Charles Weaver read, and more. Wherever there was a hint of unusual activity, the Inquisition would follow up the leads.

So many reports. Weaver growled quietly as he read. A plague upon the people of this country. Nothing seemed to get through to them. Threats that were made and carried out served as little more than a temporary bump in the unholy road they persisted along.

‘My lord?’ There was a tapping at the study door and Weaver raised his head.

‘Enter.’ He set down the quill and leaned back in the heavy oak chair. One of the staff he had brought from his country estate to work in the Tower as his personal servants entered the claustrophobic office.

‘Forgive the disturbance, my lord, but this arrived moments ago. The bearer stressed its importance.’ The servant, a faceless serf whose name Weaver had never bothered to learn, held out an ivory scroll case. Rising to his feet, Weaver moved the bulk of his huge body round to the front of the desk. He took the scroll case, recognising the seal instantly.

‘It’s from the King, isn’t it, my lord?’ It was presumptuous of the servant to speak without cause, and as the metal face turned on him and he saw the glint in the eyes beneath, he wished he’d remained silent.

‘You may leave now,’ the Lord Inquisitor replied stonily. He watched the servant scuttle out of the room, taking a quiet satisfaction in the obvious discomfort he had caused. When the door shut, he stepped across to it and turned the key in the lock. He would not be disturbed again.

He opened the scroll case, slid out the parchment within and unfurled it. He leaned against the desk, holding the paper taut as he read the missive from King Richard. It did not take long. There were several lines that discussed the logistics of what was to come, but Weaver’s eyes were drawn to the words at the very bottom, above the flourish of Richard’s signature.

We will go to war.

You will lead them in my name.

 

Beneath the mask, Weaver began to laugh, a sound entirely devoid of humour.

Finally, it was going to happen. Finally, the moment he had been waiting for had arrived. He would sweep across France, then Italy. Spain and Portugal. All the countries who wore the badge of magic on their breasts would be crushed. Magic would be driven from the shores of the continent and a new British Empire would be born in the twin lights of science and reason.

‘We will go to war,’ Weaver repeated aloud.

Extract 3: ‘Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising’

Isaac Bonnington knew that the Indomitable was unlike any other vessel in the King’s Fleet. The fact gave him great pride. He had brought the initial designs to court and stood, visibly trembling, whilst the King had pored over them in mute reflection. Isaac was not a brave man, but he knew how to build gunships. He understood the workings of black powder weaponry with fine precision, and when he had come to choose his career, he had wavered between becoming a shipwright and taking an apprenticeship at the Hall of Science. The apprenticeship had won out in the end, and in time, the position of Royal Engineer had come to him.

But ships had ever been his first love, and it was the shipyards of the south coast that were now his home. He was a quiet, intelligent man in his late forties, with a balding pate and a rat-like face that was incapable of concealing emotion. Women and children had entirely failed to feature in his life, and so he devoted every waking moment to his craft and, of late, to the Indomitable. When she was launched, when the French fleet felt the bite of her cannon and broke before her prow, the world would know of Isaac Bonnington’s work. This ship would immortalise his name.

Who knows, he thought with uncharacteristic bitterness, he might even get paid. He was certain that if he approached the King and asked for an advance, he might find himself replaced with someone King Richard considered more patriotic and less materialistic. Others had ended their days in the Tower for less.

Since he had taken the throne of England, Richard the Unyielding had proven himself to be a man gifted with drive and determination. Blessed with a fierce intellect that grasped the principles of construction and engineering, the King possessed knowledge of the sciences quite beyond the most gifted scholars. Heavy industry had flourished in the cities of England. The cannon of the Indomitable had been cast far from Portsmouth and transported down from Liverpool by ship, while the plates that armoured her hull were beaten in a forge in Manchester.

There was no shortage of bodies to work the furnaces, swing the hammers and dig the mines, as criminals and the homeless were pressed into service. Shackled work gangs toiled in shifts to pull iron, copper, tin and coal from the earth and feed the fires of industry. Labourers and artisans worked the forges and foundries to produce the wonders of Richard’s kingdom. It was dangerous work, but not without its benefits. Those free men and women in service to the Crown were well paid for their efforts, though it was argued by some that the risks outweighed the rewards. Richard did not tax his vassals heavily, but he taxed them all. Farmers, once exempt from the need to present their annual accounts, now had to employ the literate and numerate to control their spending. Failure to provide to the Crown guaranteed a stint in a work gang.

Freedom was a thing long forgotten in England. But Isaac didn’t mind. He was happy in his little office with its tiny window that let in the reek of the port. The odour of the shipyards clung to him; the constant smell of tar, metal and brine. He had grown so accustomed to it that he no longer noticed it, although it was the first thing his visitors noticed.

Extract 2: ‘Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising’

There was a sudden shifting in the air, something both Mathias and Tagan recognised. It was like an inward rush of a breeze, or of water in a sudden eddy in the stream, and with it came the metallic scent of magic. Where the stocky man had stood was a second dog; also a wolfhound, but that same bright shade of copper that his hair and beard had been.

‘Mathias!’ Tagan was staring. There had been no gradual transformation. No extending of limbs, or changing of the face. No sprouting of fur and a tail. There had been a man, then there was a dog. There had been, in fact, a shifting of shapes. Tagan had never seen such powerful magic. Unable to hold back the reaction, she clapped her hands together, delightedly, like a little girl.

The two dogs romped around in circles for a few moments until the female finally stopped and sat on her haunches, her tongue lolling and her mouth open as she stared at Mathias in the most unnervingly human laugh he had ever seen from an animal.

Another rush of air, another inexplicable sense of the world bending inwards, and the red dog was gone.

‘I am Warin, called the Red.’ He made this pronouncement as though daring them to dispute it. ‘Welcome to my home.’ He stamped a little way away from them, then stopped and turned around. ‘Well? Come? Stay? Makes little difference to me.’ He continued striding away, the wolfhound trotting along beside him. Warin rested a hand on the dog’s neck and scratched affectionately as he walked. He didn’t cast a single backwards glance to see if he was being followed.

Tagan and Mathias exchanged glances and followed him. It didn’t seem as if they had a lot of choice in the matter. Their fingers interlocking once more, they moved deeper into the woods, to the very depths of the forest where a true silence reigned supreme. Here and there, bright flowers tried to force their way through the needles; hardy little things that grasped weakly at the wan light.

After a while, the tantalisingly familiar scent of wood smoke joined the mingled scents of earth and pine. Warin walked a little further, pushing aside branches with effortless ease. He didn’t once stop to ensure that his companions were following, and several times Mathias had to duck as tree limbs sprang back in his wake. The great dog loped along at Warin’s side, occasionally dropping back behind the two stragglers, herding them along. Once, Mathias attempted to engage the stout man in conversation. It was not particularly productive.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To talk.’

‘Where are we?’

‘You are in my land now. The lands of the Teuton.’

That, it seemed, was that. Mathias pressed on, his thoughts churning with the impossibilities of the past few hours. Days. Months… It had occurred to him that he had no idea just how long it had taken for him and Tagan to get wherever they were now. One thing seemed right, though. Warin was the one they had come here to find. That was without doubt. The Shapeshifter, Wyn had said, and they had witnessed Warin’s magic. Exactly what his intentions were remained to be seen.

Extract: ‘Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising’

‘And now, if you will excuse me,’ Giraldo de Luna said, dropping a bow before the stunned crowd like a street magician at the end of his trick, ‘I do believe my ship is leaving.’

The effect of his calm statement was somewhat spoiled by the sounds of renewed fighting outside as the guard finally arrived to break up the disturbance. Pandemonium resumed, and the Pirate King seized the opportunity to make his exit. He slipped through the mob and back out into the sunshine, where he took a moment to brush a fleck of dust from his shoulder. He walked confidently, unchallenged. Then he saw the gang of armed guards pushing toward him and, tipping his hat to them, set off at a run.

He barrelled across the market and out onto the quay, heading for the pier where the Hermione had been anchored. He could see her, sails billowing, as she pulled toward the open water. He gauged the distance. It was a long time since he had attempted anything quite this ambitious. Maybe, he thought, I’m too old for this. Maybe this will be the time that my magic fails me.

There was only one way to know.

Behind him, several of the guard were in hot pursuit. It seemed that the governor’s understanding did not stretch to civil disorder and brawling. Giraldo made a mental note not to return to Mahón for at least a year. A few bribes, a word in the right ear and everything would be all right again in time. An arrow whistled past his ear and buried itself in one of the pier posts.

Maybe two years.

Three, at the outside.

With an athletic leap, Giraldo de Luna dived from the end of the landing stage just as the first of the guards reached for him. They skidded to a stop, not quite keen enough to follow him into the water, but brought up more bows to pick him off when he surfaced.

There was no splash. There was no sound of de Luna’s body hitting the water. Instead, a few seconds later, the guards saw the lean figure of the Pirate King as he sprinted across the surface of the sea towards his departing ship.

Ripples spread out beneath his boots and marked his passage across the waves. The guards fired from the pier, but de Luna laughed and spun as he ran and their arrows plunged harmlessly into the water. Giraldo ran as hard and as fast as he could until he was jogging alongside the Hermione.

‘Permission to come aboard, Tohias?’ Giraldo hollered up to his grinning first mate, who was already leaning over the side, the rope ladder in his hands.

‘One of these days, Captain, I’m not going to let you back on board,’ he called down before dropping the ladder. Giraldo swung himself easily onto the lower rungs and clambered up with the ease of years of practice.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But not just yet.’ He raised his head to the sea air and inhaled the fresh, clean scent of freedom. There was another scent there, too; the second pressing matter of the day moved to the top of his mental list.

‘Set course for Genoa,’ he said, quietly. ‘We need to be ready to receive our guest.’

Keeping Abreast

So, there’s been this thing in the news (national and local) about a woman branded as ‘a tramp’ for breastfeeding in public. Her picture was taken and sent around social media, making her into a modern-day, one-woman Victorian-style freak show.

A local woman led a demo in support of this lady yesterday in County Durham (see this news article here: )

Read that? Great. Now, for your own amusement, read the comments as well. (I have come to the conclusion that the handful of people who comment on the Northern Echo news page – and there seem to be five or six regulars and not many others – are some of the nastiest, most unpleasant internet trolls I’ve ever seen: but that’s by the by. Let’s get back to the subject of breastfeeding).

So. Let’s say it again. Let’s break it down and analyse it.

Breastfeeding.

Breast. Feeding. Feeding from a breast. Giving your infant the nutritional support he/she requires and which you can hopefully provide. It’s not a choice for all mothers, and despite the endless banging on about it by those who decree what is right and wrong in parenting, it’s most certainly the most traditional method of feeding your hungry baby. A personal word of advice though – find what works for you and don’t ever let anybody tell you that your choice is wrong.

So. It seems that, due to the blatant over-sexualisation of the female breast in our ‘enlightened’ world, the sight of a woman engaging in probably one of the most natural, healthy things in the world is enough to cause Outrage™.

It’s an interesting debate, isn’t it?

Most of us who have been, at some point in our lives, breastfeeding mothers, can tell you that it’s the most difficult thing in the world to be ‘caught short’ with a hungry baby when you’re out with them. It’s an even more difficult thing to find somewhere discrete to go to tend to that child’s needs. Especially as a new mother, struggling with a gazillion new things in your world.

In the days before they seemed to close every shop they had, Mothercare made great provision for nursing mothers. Many local public conveniences have ‘parent/baby rooms’ where you can go to feed/change your child in a slightly less uncomfortable space that being squashed into a toilet cubicle offers. But sometimes – just sometimes – you have no choice but to get on with the process where you happen to be.

And it’s entirely possible to be discrete. If you are, say, in a restaurant, you simply turn away from the rest of the room, or you drape a shawl or whatever over your shoulder to hide your unfortunately-exposed flesh from the world. The baby doesn’t care. It just wants food. The mother, more often than not, will be far more embarrassed than the people offended by the sight.

Mind you, most people who see a mother feeding have the common decency to not gawk. To give the poor woman the privacy she needs to deal with what is already an uncomfortable situation.

As with so many other things in the world, this sort of debate will always bring up the militants on both sides of the fence: the fiercely ‘pro-public breast’ and the vehement ‘anti-public breast’ brigades. Both of these groups need a lesson in how to communicate with each other. The ‘pro’ group need to listen to and respect the concerns of the ‘anti’ group. Meanwhile, the ‘anti’ group need to learn just what problems the ‘pro’ group are facing…

Wait. I’m talking about being sensible and logical, aren’t I? My mistake.

As you can probably tell, I support breastfeeding in public for the majority of considerate mothers. The people I do NOT support are the ones, as mentioned in the comments on that news thread, who make no effort whatsoever to be discrete and who do the breastfeeding equivalent of jumping up and down waving a sign that says LOOK AT ME DEFYING SOCIAL CONVENTION, AREN’T I DARING?

No, love, you’re just making it harder for the rest of us. Now cover up. You’re putting Mr. Average Citizen in the corner off his Ploughman’s.

Bad Mirror Day

They say that nobody ever sees you the way you see yourself. The face you see in the mirror, they tell you, isn’t the face other people see. It’s your own perception. If that’s the case, is there any point to mirrors other than to put your eyeliner on straight?

Some people have ‘bad hair’ days. I have ‘bad mirror’ days. Those mornings when you wake up, drag your sorry carcass out of bed and sleepily haul on the outfit for the day. You check a look in the mirror and all the old neuroses and feelings do the equivalent of leaping out from behind a bush.

You look terrible, they whisper, as some sort of inner-voice collective. You look terrible. Why are you wearing that? You look stupid.

For a moment, you mentally steel yourself, try to bluff it out.

Because it looks fine, you argue. See?

I’m looking, says your inner voice. And I see nothing fine about that reflection. Look at you. Your hair is all over the place. Your make up looks like it was applied by a six year old. Your boobs look too big in that top. The skirt’s too short. Your LEGS are too short. People are going to LOOK at you and think WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?

By the time you have finished this uncomfortable inner dialogue, it’s too late to change into something else: you have to leave or be late for work. So you go to work, feeling self-conscious from the start. Every time you catch someone looking at you, you think ‘they’re echoing my inner voice’s sentiments’. Every time you pass a mirror, you try to resist looking. Every time you fail. Every time you chance a look hoping that you’ve somehow become some sultry, willowy blonde and every time you are disappointed.

Does this happen to you? If not, you really should count your blessings. To have confidence in your self-image must be a lovely thing. It’s not something I’ve ever had. Some mornings, I will look in the mirror and think ‘oh, I actually look quite nice!’ Then, by ten a.m., those feelings of confidence are replaced by thoughts that everyone is sneering at me.

Why am I like this? I don’t rightly know. I had a lot of trouble in school with people who were unkind to me for various reasons. Nowadays, they’d call it bullying. It wasn’t physical, not by any means, but superiority of the Skinnies and Populars (S&Ps) left me feeling like an inferior being about ninety five percent of the time. The only place I was safe was amongst the other Bullieds and Differents (B&Ds) in the drama studio at lunchtime. The S&Ps were too cool to be seen hanging out in such a place, so the B&Ds were safe there.

Amongst the B&Ds, I was OK. I was accepted. I was one of them.

I was safe.

So Bad Mirror Days. Usually, they only last for the day. Sometimes, it can be two or three days in a row and the rest of the time I’m just fine. But when they hit, they hurt, man.

There are three things I am exceptionally bad at. One of them is going clothes shopping. I walk into a shop and almost invariably, the staff would have belonged to the S&P set at school. I’m immediately 15 years old again, wearing a too-big jumper to cover up curves that were too curvy, or coming up with excuses not to go to parties because I had no ‘going out’ clothes. Then, the member of staff gives me The Look.

There’s a Look that S&Ps have and they direct it towards B&Ds whether they are aware they are doing it or not. It starts with a pleasant ‘good morning, how can I help you’ smile as they look at your face. Then the eyes travel slowly down the length of your body to your feet, then back up again. The smile is frozen in place, but the eyes. The eyes are sneering. (Sounds impossible, but believe me – eyes CAN sneer). There is nothing here for you, they are saying, Pretty Woman style. Had you thought of a Hessian sack? It may be the best option. And a paper bag for your head might be flattering, too.

Of course, it’s all so much rubbish. Chances are high that the shop S&P isn’t thinking that at all – but there is so much conditioning left over from the school bullies that you immediately mumble ‘justlookingthanks’, paw through a couple of things on a rail, then flee for the sanctuary of Starbucks, where you know you’re safe.

One of the other things that I am bad at is socialising. It’s for much the same reason. Even as a grown up, who is capable of buying my own clothes (wait… see point one…) I still don’t own ‘going out’ clothes. This is because I don’t… well, I don’t go out. Yes, Himself and I occasionally go to the cinema, or for a pizza or whatever, but we never… go out. We don’t go anywhere that requires Dressing Up. I wouldn’t know where to START Dressing Up. I would probably spend the whole time so anxious about other people’s opinions of me that I wouldn’t have fun. Best then, to stay at home where I am amongst the people who love me and aren’t giving me the S&P Stare.

The final thing is accepting compliments.

I can’t accept them. It’s all tied into the same problem, I suppose. If someone says ‘you look nice today’, I instantly assume this is S&P Speak for ‘oh my god, look what the cat dragged in’.

One of my closest friends has been undergoing therapy recently for various reasons and it’s doing her the world of good. (For the record, I went to a psychotherapist once. On our last session, he told me that I was the most well-adjusted crazy person he’d ever met). She mentioned that her therapist told her that she was bad at accepting compliments and in a weird way, that helped me by proxy. I suddenly discovered that I wasn’t the only one who’s like this.

There’s a deep sense of suspicion in me that if someone says ‘you look nice’ or ‘that’s a nice lip colour’ that they are covering up some deep sense of horror at the truth.

By dint of writing this blog, I do solemnly swear to start trying to change this. To accept compliments when they’re given. To let them slowly and gradually act as a soothing balm on the wounds left by thoughtless teenagers so very long ago. There’s a very shy inner part of me that fancies the idea of a photo makeover session. This is what I want.

I want to see a photograph of a woman I don’t recognise, only to then realise that it’s me. I want to be able to see myself as others see me. And then I want to cry about it. Because I’m weird like that.

But let’s end this little outpouring with the most positive thing in the world. I am loved by some pretty amazing people and two cats. That much I know. And that is probably the thing that stops every day being a Bad Mirror Day. For that? I’m bloody grateful.

Dust

So there I was, standing in the queue in the staff restaurant, thinking about my blog. The effortlessly lovely Nik Vincent-Abnett said to me on Twitter earlier today that she wishes I’d get round to posting something up on my blog. And she’s been so very good to me over the last couple of years, that I feel a blog entry is the very least I can do.

Nik is just one of the many friends I’ve made since the whole writing roller coaster began in 2011. One of the first people to come up to me and introduce herself and invite me into the circle of people sitting and laughing in a hotel bar somewhere in Birmingham, right before the first Games Day I ever went to. An ear when I need to offload, a voice of reason when I’m acting like a muppet, Nik has become very much a very much more stylish and classy sister figure.

So, because I love to bring forth the smiles, I am dusting off the blog and writing an entry.

You’d better duck. I’m blowing off the dust now.

OK, it’s safe to stand again.

This last few weeks have been fairly hectic. Not all with writing, although there’s certainly been enough of that. I finished the manuscript for Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising and have been working on the (thankfully minimal!) edits this week. I’ve enjoyed going back over the story and remembering what actually happens at the beginning.

As well as the writing, the house has been in utter chaos. ‘Wouldn’t it be amazing,’ I said to the Husband, ‘if we went away for the week whilst the roof is being replaced?’

Well, that didn’t work out as planned. But then, so few things in life ever do. Wouldn’t it be chronically boring if they did? Here was the plan:-

1) Scaffolders arrive Saturday 1st February. Put up scaffolding front and back.
2) We go away on Monday 3rd February when roofers come. They will be done by Thursday.
3) We come back on Friday 7th February to a completed, new roof with a deficit of holes letting water in.
4) The scaffolders take their scaffolding away.
5) Much rejoicing.

Here’s what happened.

1) Scaffolders arrive Saturday. Put up scaffolding at the back, but can’t do the front because of proximity to power cables. Email Northern Power Grid to ask them to come do shrouding on house. NPG are closed until Monday.
2) We go away on Monday when roofers come. They do the back of the house. They are done by Wednesday.
3) NPG get back to me and schedule shrouding for Thursday 13th February – the week after we come back from our holiday.
4) Wednesday 12th February – shrouding is done. Scaffolders due the coming weekend.
5) Scaffolders don’t come.
6) Tentatively ask when scaffolders will be coming. ‘Some time in the week.’
7) Front scaffold is finally put up on 19th February. House now half re-roofed and looking like is held together by Meccano.
8) Roofers finally return Tuesday 25th February and should be finished by tonight.
9) Much rejoicing.

You can imagine what it’s like having half a roof re-done with no ridge tiles and tarpaulin flapping like a manic ostrich in high winds, I’m sure.

The stress of writing is a blessed release from the real world.

Heirs will be my fourth completed novel manuscript, which by itself is something to be proud of – but there’s something more to it than that. Heirs is, in a strange sort of a way, my first novel.

But what about The Gildar Rift and Valkia the Bloody? I can hear you asking that very question and you’re right. Those two books have certainly been written, published and existed Out There in the Big Wide World since 2011 and 2012 respectively. Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising is, however, my first original, non tie-in work and that means a remarkable amount to me.

Writing a novel was on my so-called ‘bucket’ list for years. Now I’ve written four. I feel immensely proud of that fact. I don’t care one little bit that three of those four novels are written for a particular subsection of genre fiction – fans of the Warhammer and 40,000 universes – in fact, I’m delighted to be able to contribute to the ongoing development of those universes.

I am not saying a lot about Heirs at the moment, because I’m not entirely sure how much I can talk about it and I love my editor to bits. I have no desire to invoke his antipodean wrath. When he tells me I can Say Stuff, I will say more.

In the meantime, the general blurb from the publishing catalogue in order to give you a feel for what it’s all about can be seen on page 34 here.

Also, look at all the lovely things! LOOK AT THEM!