So I am seriously writing a fantasy novel with an eye towards eventually becoming a professional author. I am a fair way into my first book, and would like to get some feedback. Without further ado, the beginning of Sword of Princes!
Chapter 1
Something was wrong.
Garen Ironbow looked up from where he knelt by the fallen doe, nose crinkling as he smelled the unmistakable aroma of smoke. However, smoke was not all he smelled.
Garen was no stranger to slaughter, having served for two years in the border guards of Arthea and veteran of several border skirmishes. And there was something revoltingly familiar about the smell he detected now—the almost pork smell of burned flesh.
Rising from the ground where he had been occupied in skinning and butchering the deer that was to have been his food for the next several weeks—after he finished smoking most of the meat—Garen turned, sniffing the air and looking in all directions. He was several miles south of his farmstead, and some distance from the town of Hartford, off to the southwest.
A tall man, with gray eyes and auburn hair, Garen was accustomed to taking care of himself and preferred the solitude of the forest to the bustle of towns and villages like Hartford. However, he did have friends in the town. Such as the blacksmith, Kell, he bought arrowheads from, or the tanner, Dalen, to whom he sold hides for the little gold he needed and sometimes traded work for help around his farm.
And a large column of smoke was rising from where Hartford should be. Nor was that all. Several smaller columns of smoke were rising as well—and Garen realized with a sickening feeling that several of his fellow farmers' holds lay in those locations.
“Aruhan's hells!” cursed Garen, hurriedly stripping several pounds of venison from the fresh kill and bundling it into his satchel. He wiped his hunting knife on the grass and stood, reluctantly glancing at the fresh kill. He hated to waste meat, and he had a feeling that food might soon be scarce, but he could not take the time to finish butchering the kill properly.
The closest column of smoke was coming from the direction of the Ashleaf farm, roughly 1 mile away. Garen unlimbered his great Yurthan longbow and quickly retrieved the arrowhead that had slain the doe, pushing the arrow through and snapping it in his haste. Another arrow was easy to make, but arrowheads were metal and expensive. Fortunately, his quiver was full. He had his knife, as he always did when hunting, but his family sword, Stormsteel, was at his farm. Garen preferred not to wear a sword for hunting.
Garen hurried through the woodland, trying to stay quiet and out of sight. In his green and brown leathers he blended well with the background, and knew his way through the forest surrounding this area well. Despite his blood screaming for him to get home as soon as possible, he had to check on the Ashleaf family first. They had been good neighbors, and Garth Ashleaf had often traded work, garden vegetables, and other things for venison, hides, and other materials Garen was more skilled at procuring. Several seasons ago, Garen had fallen ill, and Ilarth, Garth's pretty wife, had taken him in and nursed him back to health.
Garen reached the draw that opened onto the Ashleaf farm and crouched, using the underbrush for cover as he cautiously advanced up the draw. As he got closer, Garen began to hear screams and harsh laughter. Reaching the edge of the clearing where the farm stood, Garen carefully took a look and hissed in outrage at what he saw.
Flames were consuming the house. Garth was lying in the yard, with a large wound visible between his shoulders and a pitchfork fallen at his side. He was obviously dead. His wife and two daughters were screaming as several soldiers dressed in black uniforms with crimson crossed sword and axe embroidered on their tabards ripped at their clothing, laughing at their attempts to get away. Garth's son, a boy of twelve, was running across the yard towards the forest as a laughing soldier with a drawn sword chased him on horseback.
“Great Father!” Garen cursed under his breath as he recognized the sigil. Valdarians! And more than twenty miles from the border! If Imperials are here....thought Garen.
Garen's eyes narrowed, and he acted almost without thinking. An arrow cleared the quiver, and his longbow bent as he took aim at the soldier on horseback. Waiting until the pursuit drew closer, he breathed out and released his arrow. Snap!
The shaft took the soldier in the chest and he toppled off his horse. The boy, unaware of his pursuer's demise, continued running. “Here, boy! Over here!” Garen stepped out of the foliage and waved. The boy's eyes widened and he came running over. “Get behind me, lad, crouch down and don't come out until it's safe! Got it?” Garen snapped. The boy, white-faced from fear, nodded. He found cover behind an oak tree and hunkered down, and Garen turned his attention to the other soldiers.
One of the Valdarians was standing with his back to the woods, shouting orders at the others, orders that were mainly ignored by the soldiers, who were bent on rape and pillage. Garen took careful aim and loosed another shaft, which took the man through the lower back and sent him screaming to the ground.
Now the others noticed that they were under attack, but they could not see where the arrows were coming from. They scattered, heading for the cover of the buildings and the wood. Garen was able to drop one more of the raiders before they could reach cover, but this time the others noticed him, and it was Garen's turn to duck as a crossbow quarrel whizzed past him. He hastily moved to new cover and tried to spy where the shot had come from—only to see the reloading crossbowman hacked down by a screeching Ilarth with a sword taken from the dying officer on the ground.
Homesteaders were not a group you wanted to take lightly.
Another soldier broke cover and charged Ilarth, screaming a war cry. Garen put a shaft through his neck from over fifty paces away. His cry turned into a horrible gurgle and he folded forward over the shaft. The last soldier had made it to the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing. He took one look and fled. Garen tracked him for a second, then sighed and put up his bow. The Valdarian was too far away and in amongst the trees. A clear shot was no longer possible.
Emerging from the trees, Garen waved to the boy to come out of hiding. Trudging across the field to Ilarth, he called, “Are you all right?”
Ilarth looked hollow eyed and was shaking. “They---they killed Garth. I can't believe it. How will we work the farm now? What will we do? How will we get by?”
Garen grabbed her by the shoulder, only to stop as she flinched instinctively away from him. He tried to keep his voice gentle. “Ilarth, listen to me. We have bigger problems.”
She looked at him, shocked. “What could be bigger than this?”
“Those are Imperial soldiers. For them to have gotten this far into Arthea, they must have overrun the border forts—and by the looks of it, it's an invasion, not just a raid. You and your children cannot stay here. It's not safe. More Valdarians will be here soon., especially since that one got away.” Garen surveyed the wreckage of the farm and noticed the barn was still intact, along with the wagon sitting next to it. Fortunately, the Imperials hadn't had time to fire all the buildings or do a thorough job of wrecking and looting the place before he had interrupted them.
“What should we do, Garen? I don't have any other place to go.” Ilarth looked around, her lip firming and her eyes clearing somewhat.
“Take your horses and the wagon, assuming they are still alive. Fill it with only what you absolutely need—vegetables, dried food, smoked meat—and any pigs or small animals you have, if they can fit in the wagon. I have a feeling that food will be a problem. If you cannot bring them alive, slaughter them and salt the meat. I have to go back to my farm, but I will help you load first.”
“Right.” Ilarth straightened up and strode over to the dead officer. Stripping him of his belt and scabbard, she wiped off the sword she had taken and sheathed it, donning the belt.
Garen helped her and the children load up the farmhouse's supplies. There was little meat. Unfortunately, Garth had only owned meager livestock. Garen helped lift the two pigs into the cart after trussing them for the journey. Several small casks of preserved vegetables and precious glass jars of fruit preserves were next, followed by the scant amount of clothing owned by the family and their metal cookware. After hitching the draft horses, Garen helped the family climb aboard. Walking over to the fallen crossbowman, Garen took the crossbow, noticing it was equipped with a crank for re-spanning. Handing the bow and quarrels to the boy, Garen asked, “Can you handle that, lad?”
“Sure I can. I'm big enough,” the boy—named Erik, Garen remembered—replied.
“Good.” Garen quickly had the boy try the crank to make sure he could work it and found he could—just. “Keep hold of that, lad. Use it if you have to defend your mother and sisters. Just aim and shoot. Wait—let me get you a blade as well.” He walked over to another of the fallen Valdarians and stripped him of his dagger, sword, and swordbelt. These he gave to Erik, along with an admonition: “These are not toys, lad. They're a man's tools, meant for one thing and one thing only—killing your enemy. Don't play with them. Try to avoid using them at all if you can, you don't have the training and we've no time to teach you.”
Garth turned to Ilarth. “Take the high road and avoid Hartford. There's already smoke rising from there, so if you go that way you'll likely run into more of them. If you come across any, escape if you can, fight if you must. Do you know that oak grove near Miller's Crossing?”
“Yes, I think so. The one to the south of the village?”
“Exactly. Wait for me there. I have some things to attend to. I must retrieve my sword, and then I have to see what exactly is going on in Hartford. It may be too late, but I need to see if there's anything I can do.” Garen mounted the officer's (former) horse and kicked it into a canter as Ilarth snapped the reins and drove the wagon out of the farmyard in the opposite direction.
Chapter 1
Something was wrong.
Garen Ironbow looked up from where he knelt by the fallen doe, nose crinkling as he smelled the unmistakable aroma of smoke. However, smoke was not all he smelled.
Garen was no stranger to slaughter, having served for two years in the border guards of Arthea and veteran of several border skirmishes. And there was something revoltingly familiar about the smell he detected now—the almost pork smell of burned flesh.
Rising from the ground where he had been occupied in skinning and butchering the deer that was to have been his food for the next several weeks—after he finished smoking most of the meat—Garen turned, sniffing the air and looking in all directions. He was several miles south of his farmstead, and some distance from the town of Hartford, off to the southwest.
A tall man, with gray eyes and auburn hair, Garen was accustomed to taking care of himself and preferred the solitude of the forest to the bustle of towns and villages like Hartford. However, he did have friends in the town. Such as the blacksmith, Kell, he bought arrowheads from, or the tanner, Dalen, to whom he sold hides for the little gold he needed and sometimes traded work for help around his farm.
And a large column of smoke was rising from where Hartford should be. Nor was that all. Several smaller columns of smoke were rising as well—and Garen realized with a sickening feeling that several of his fellow farmers' holds lay in those locations.
“Aruhan's hells!” cursed Garen, hurriedly stripping several pounds of venison from the fresh kill and bundling it into his satchel. He wiped his hunting knife on the grass and stood, reluctantly glancing at the fresh kill. He hated to waste meat, and he had a feeling that food might soon be scarce, but he could not take the time to finish butchering the kill properly.
The closest column of smoke was coming from the direction of the Ashleaf farm, roughly 1 mile away. Garen unlimbered his great Yurthan longbow and quickly retrieved the arrowhead that had slain the doe, pushing the arrow through and snapping it in his haste. Another arrow was easy to make, but arrowheads were metal and expensive. Fortunately, his quiver was full. He had his knife, as he always did when hunting, but his family sword, Stormsteel, was at his farm. Garen preferred not to wear a sword for hunting.
Garen hurried through the woodland, trying to stay quiet and out of sight. In his green and brown leathers he blended well with the background, and knew his way through the forest surrounding this area well. Despite his blood screaming for him to get home as soon as possible, he had to check on the Ashleaf family first. They had been good neighbors, and Garth Ashleaf had often traded work, garden vegetables, and other things for venison, hides, and other materials Garen was more skilled at procuring. Several seasons ago, Garen had fallen ill, and Ilarth, Garth's pretty wife, had taken him in and nursed him back to health.
Garen reached the draw that opened onto the Ashleaf farm and crouched, using the underbrush for cover as he cautiously advanced up the draw. As he got closer, Garen began to hear screams and harsh laughter. Reaching the edge of the clearing where the farm stood, Garen carefully took a look and hissed in outrage at what he saw.
Flames were consuming the house. Garth was lying in the yard, with a large wound visible between his shoulders and a pitchfork fallen at his side. He was obviously dead. His wife and two daughters were screaming as several soldiers dressed in black uniforms with crimson crossed sword and axe embroidered on their tabards ripped at their clothing, laughing at their attempts to get away. Garth's son, a boy of twelve, was running across the yard towards the forest as a laughing soldier with a drawn sword chased him on horseback.
“Great Father!” Garen cursed under his breath as he recognized the sigil. Valdarians! And more than twenty miles from the border! If Imperials are here....thought Garen.
Garen's eyes narrowed, and he acted almost without thinking. An arrow cleared the quiver, and his longbow bent as he took aim at the soldier on horseback. Waiting until the pursuit drew closer, he breathed out and released his arrow. Snap!
The shaft took the soldier in the chest and he toppled off his horse. The boy, unaware of his pursuer's demise, continued running. “Here, boy! Over here!” Garen stepped out of the foliage and waved. The boy's eyes widened and he came running over. “Get behind me, lad, crouch down and don't come out until it's safe! Got it?” Garen snapped. The boy, white-faced from fear, nodded. He found cover behind an oak tree and hunkered down, and Garen turned his attention to the other soldiers.
One of the Valdarians was standing with his back to the woods, shouting orders at the others, orders that were mainly ignored by the soldiers, who were bent on rape and pillage. Garen took careful aim and loosed another shaft, which took the man through the lower back and sent him screaming to the ground.
Now the others noticed that they were under attack, but they could not see where the arrows were coming from. They scattered, heading for the cover of the buildings and the wood. Garen was able to drop one more of the raiders before they could reach cover, but this time the others noticed him, and it was Garen's turn to duck as a crossbow quarrel whizzed past him. He hastily moved to new cover and tried to spy where the shot had come from—only to see the reloading crossbowman hacked down by a screeching Ilarth with a sword taken from the dying officer on the ground.
Homesteaders were not a group you wanted to take lightly.
Another soldier broke cover and charged Ilarth, screaming a war cry. Garen put a shaft through his neck from over fifty paces away. His cry turned into a horrible gurgle and he folded forward over the shaft. The last soldier had made it to the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing. He took one look and fled. Garen tracked him for a second, then sighed and put up his bow. The Valdarian was too far away and in amongst the trees. A clear shot was no longer possible.
Emerging from the trees, Garen waved to the boy to come out of hiding. Trudging across the field to Ilarth, he called, “Are you all right?”
Ilarth looked hollow eyed and was shaking. “They---they killed Garth. I can't believe it. How will we work the farm now? What will we do? How will we get by?”
Garen grabbed her by the shoulder, only to stop as she flinched instinctively away from him. He tried to keep his voice gentle. “Ilarth, listen to me. We have bigger problems.”
She looked at him, shocked. “What could be bigger than this?”
“Those are Imperial soldiers. For them to have gotten this far into Arthea, they must have overrun the border forts—and by the looks of it, it's an invasion, not just a raid. You and your children cannot stay here. It's not safe. More Valdarians will be here soon., especially since that one got away.” Garen surveyed the wreckage of the farm and noticed the barn was still intact, along with the wagon sitting next to it. Fortunately, the Imperials hadn't had time to fire all the buildings or do a thorough job of wrecking and looting the place before he had interrupted them.
“What should we do, Garen? I don't have any other place to go.” Ilarth looked around, her lip firming and her eyes clearing somewhat.
“Take your horses and the wagon, assuming they are still alive. Fill it with only what you absolutely need—vegetables, dried food, smoked meat—and any pigs or small animals you have, if they can fit in the wagon. I have a feeling that food will be a problem. If you cannot bring them alive, slaughter them and salt the meat. I have to go back to my farm, but I will help you load first.”
“Right.” Ilarth straightened up and strode over to the dead officer. Stripping him of his belt and scabbard, she wiped off the sword she had taken and sheathed it, donning the belt.
Garen helped her and the children load up the farmhouse's supplies. There was little meat. Unfortunately, Garth had only owned meager livestock. Garen helped lift the two pigs into the cart after trussing them for the journey. Several small casks of preserved vegetables and precious glass jars of fruit preserves were next, followed by the scant amount of clothing owned by the family and their metal cookware. After hitching the draft horses, Garen helped the family climb aboard. Walking over to the fallen crossbowman, Garen took the crossbow, noticing it was equipped with a crank for re-spanning. Handing the bow and quarrels to the boy, Garen asked, “Can you handle that, lad?”
“Sure I can. I'm big enough,” the boy—named Erik, Garen remembered—replied.
“Good.” Garen quickly had the boy try the crank to make sure he could work it and found he could—just. “Keep hold of that, lad. Use it if you have to defend your mother and sisters. Just aim and shoot. Wait—let me get you a blade as well.” He walked over to another of the fallen Valdarians and stripped him of his dagger, sword, and swordbelt. These he gave to Erik, along with an admonition: “These are not toys, lad. They're a man's tools, meant for one thing and one thing only—killing your enemy. Don't play with them. Try to avoid using them at all if you can, you don't have the training and we've no time to teach you.”
Garth turned to Ilarth. “Take the high road and avoid Hartford. There's already smoke rising from there, so if you go that way you'll likely run into more of them. If you come across any, escape if you can, fight if you must. Do you know that oak grove near Miller's Crossing?”
“Yes, I think so. The one to the south of the village?”
“Exactly. Wait for me there. I have some things to attend to. I must retrieve my sword, and then I have to see what exactly is going on in Hartford. It may be too late, but I need to see if there's anything I can do.” Garen mounted the officer's (former) horse and kicked it into a canter as Ilarth snapped the reins and drove the wagon out of the farmyard in the opposite direction.
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