Chapter XXII
Wren
I hid among the crowd and prayed that my falcons didn’t decide to greet me. A falcon swooping out of the sky to land on my shoulder would certainly cause a stir among the closely packed people and draw Hawthorne or Keilvey’s attention. Head bent, cloak drawn close, I shuffled along, trying to regain my inner peace.
Something was wrong, though. I felt it in my gut. I wasn’t much of an instinctive decision maker, but I knew that something about the whole situation irked me. I needed to figure out what.
A glance around gained me nothing. I was too short to see over the people jostling me. Being brief of stature came with disadvantages.
Another was the encroaching claustrophobia of the crowd enhanced by the narrow field of vision of my hood. Roulf with the assistance of his staff shouldered his way through the crowd, working our way toward the front fringe behind the foot soldiers. Jadet and Parkin flanked me, ensuring I wasn’t bowled over by the pressing bodies. They were only semi successful.
“I see Svhen,” Jadet announced at my left. “He is that way.” He flailed an arm to our left.
Parkin nodded and grabbed Roulf’s shoulder to get his attention. We tried to stop, but the momentum of the crowd refused to part around us and we were carried along instead.
All four of us clustered together, me at the center, and made a stand. Finally the people parted, passing at each side.
“It is thinning out,” Roulf yelled in my ear above the cacophony of voices cheering and talking as they passed. As he predicted, a few seconds later the number of people decreased.
“This way.” Jadet bounded off, dodging stragglers.
The rest of us followed. Leaving the crowd behind, we struck out through the brush. Jadet headed for a stand of tall pines clogged with underbrush. It was only when we caught up with him that I realized his plan. The prisoners were apparently being led to the meeting by another path, passing on the opposite side of the trees.
“How did you know?” Parkin demanded, as soon as we caught up.
“Hush!” Roulf hissed.
Just beyond the last of the trees, a man dressed in leather with a black cowl about his neck and an oversized sword strapped to his back led a line of prisoners along the footpath. Their hands were bound before them and looped together. Two of the soldiers escorting them carried a thick block of wood between them, the chopping block for beheadings.
Svhen’s blond head and massive shoulders appeared second in line, but most visible of the lot. Hiller, recognizable only by his clothing, tramped in the lead. His steps faltered. Falling to his knees, he brought Svhen down with him.
The prisoners stopped. Familiar faces turned toward the head of the line. One of the seven guards called out to the executioner to halt while two others closed in on Hiller and Svhen, reaching for the cudgels attached to their belts.
“Now is our chance.” Jadet produced a knife from beneath his cloak and brandished it like a complete novice. I could have disarmed him in one move, but it wasn’t profitable to point that out.
“There are eight of them and three of us,” Parkin protested.
“Your accounting of our allies is off,” Roulf replied. “I count fourteen: ten prisoners and the four of us.”
“But they are bound.” Parkin gestured just as the first blow landed across Svhen’s shoulders.
I didn’t know why they were picking on him and not Hiller, but I suspected the reason. Regardless, I couldn’t bear to watch more without action.
“Get out your sword, boy. A soldier worth his keep can utilize more than just his hands to take down an assailant. They just need a chance.” I unsheathed my first and second knives. “Ready, Roulf?”
He adjusted his grip on the heavy staff in his hands. “Aye, Wren, just give the word.”
I eyed the situation. The executioner had retraced his steps and was approaching Hiller and Svhen, yelling words that made my ears burn. I waited until Parkin drew his sword, thankfully with more skill than Jadet and his knife.
“Now.”
My first knife sank into the kicker’s shoulder, most likely breaking his shoulder blade. The second lodged in the executioner’s dominate left hand. He would not be executing anyone with that sword today. Before the first man reached the ground, Roulf dealt him a blow to the head that would keep him unsteady for a while.
The lads moved to attack the man who had stuck Svhen. Before they could do much damage, though, Svhen took the man down with a shoulder to the back followed by a crushing two-fisted blow to the man’s chest. I heard his ribs crack.
Roulf confronted the wounded executioner as the second guard sized me up with an incredulous look on his face. Third blade in hand, I adjusted it into fighting grip and prepared for him to lunge. My eyes watched his weight distribution, alert for a tell that would warn of his intended move. He never made it. One of the prisoners slung the lead rope around his neck from behind and hissed something in his ear. The soldier’s sword dropped to the dirt.
I glanced along the trail. The remaining soldiers were all incapacitated.
“Here are the keys,” Roulf said as he appeared at my shoulder. He tossed them to the nearest man. “Hurry, the enforcer is going to miss you soon.”
“What is the plan?” Svhen asked.
“Get close as possible to the enforcer before he realizes something is wrong and immobilize him.” Roulf rubbed his shoulder ruefully. “If we have some of you pose as prisoners and the rest as guards, we should be able to get away with it. I have hoods for the ones playing guards.”
In the midst of the following flurry of activity, I knelt by Hiller’s still form. Svhen’s large hand came to rest on my shoulder.
“How is he?”
His face a muddy mixture of red, black, and blue, I could barely recognize the identifying features I would expect. His one discernable eye was closed. My chest constricted, the familiar bondage of grief.
“We need the keys.”
Svhen turned away, his voice distantly demanded the keys as I checked Hiller’s vitals. He breathed and his heart beat steadily. I eased him over onto his back. A groan shuddered through him. The pressure in my chest moved to my throat.
As I struggle to regain my control, Svhen returned. He worked the keys into the lock. “There.” The manacles fell away, leaving raw remnants on Hiller’s wrists.
“He will live.”
“Can he be moved?” Roulf asked from above us.
I nodded.
The men lifted him as gently as possible and carried him off to the shelter of the trees where someone had cleared a space for him. The moment he was settled, two of the enemies’ cloaks wrapped around him for warmth, the men returned to assist with the prisoners. I remained by Hiller’s side.
One of his men approached. “Your weapons, my lady.” He offered my knives, clean of the blood I expected. “They were well used.”
“Thank you…”
“The name is Fronk.”
“Thank you, Fronk.”
“Who is going to stay with him?” Svhen asked as he approached.
I shook my head. I couldn’t. I had to reach Tourth. He would need me.
“I will,” Roulf offered. “I doubt I will be much use with this shoulder.”
The matter settled we formed up the line. Five men taking the guards’ roles, hoods raised to hide their faces. One man, the second largest to Svhen, took the role of executioner. With the borrowed black cowl about his neck, his scarred face, and the huge sword strapped to his back, Fronk looked the part.
Each prisoner held the iron manacles in place around their wrists, giving the appearance of being bound. The leg irons were gone, used to bind the captured enemy. The remaining men escorted them, hiding their faces as best they could with hoods, helmets, and such. I joined Jadet at the end of the line. We lugged the execution block between us.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tourth
Enforcer Hawthorne approached King Orac’s party on horseback and clothed in silk. “My Lord King,” he murmured as he bowed, offering the bared wrist of his right hand.
“Enforcer,” Orac replied. “Quite the spectacle for my arrival.” His nod encompassed 1,000 foot soldiers in full regalia, a crowd of excited peasants, and Hawthorne’s own overblown attire. The king, dressed in simple armor with only a crest and a battle crowned helmet to mark his authority, presented a solemn contrast to his underling.
“We seek only to please, my liege. The morrow being the one year anniversary of your ascension to the throne, we wished to celebrate the glory of your reign.”
Orac’s light eyes did not meet Hawthorne’s. Instead they roamed over the ranks behind him. No doubt noticing what I had marked some time ago, there were no Tarins among Hawthorne’s troops, a count against my case.
“We have some entertainments planned, my liege.” Hawthorne’s arm wave indicated the small band of prisoners approaching. Svhen’s bright hair attracted the eye in the glow of late afternoon sunlight. I scanned the group for Hiller only to notice a very familiar face among the escorting soldiers. What was Wren doing there? I dragged my gaze back to Hawthorne in time to see confusion followed by anger cross his features before the mask of jolly stagemaster returned.
“A recent raid on a rebellion hideout produced unexpected fruits. My men captured a number of known criminals. I am sure you have heard of Svhen Bjon the madman mercenary. Also, a surprising treat, the Butcher of Catorna himself, Tourth Mynth appeared among prisoners. I understand he killed your step-son on the field. A fitting tribute to the fallen hero to execute his murderer upon the anniversary, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do not assume anything, Hawthorne.” Orac’s voice froze Hawthorne with his mouth open and hand upraised to signal something. “My son died in battle, in a skirmish with Tourth Mynth, but that does not justify further bloodshed to mark the anniversary. However, I am curious about this Svhen Bjon. Why does he have a price on his head? Who is the funder?”
Hawthorne’s face flushed. “I am the funder, sire. Bjon is well-known as a war criminal and rebel.”
“Mynth?” Orac turned to me.
I struggled to keep my surprise from my features. “Aye, my liege?”
His silver gaze pinned me. Blank and emotionless, it gave me no clue as to his intentions.
“I am curious. Have you or your men participated in any illegal or criminal “rebel” behavior since the peace declaration?”
“Nay, my liege.”
“Is Bjon one of your men?”
“Aye, my king.”
He frowned. “Would you be willing to vouch for his life with yours?”
My stomach clenched, but I answered without a pause. “Aye, I would, Sire.”
He studied me for a moment longer. Something within me knew this was a test. I met his gaze steadily and prayed that the Lord would allow me to live.
Abruptly Orac turned back to Hawthorne, catching him in the act of whispering instructions to Keilvey. “What troops do you speak of, Hawthorne? I only commissioned you the thousand you have here.”
“Recruits from the locals, my king.”
Orac frowned. “Not allowed, Hawthorne. You have overstepped your commission. Lord Portan…”
Lord Portan guided his horse closer to Orac’s right hand. Meanwhile Hawthorne attempted to regain some control. “Perhaps we could speak of this later after the celebrations, my liege. I planned some lovely pageantry within the walls.”
“No, Hawthorne, I do not think I shall enter your gates until my men have searched the interior. Portan, have the prisoners approach. I want to speak to the one they considered Mynth.”
A screech ripped through the air, drowning out Orac’s words. A second answered from closer at hand. As though pulled by a puppeteer’s string all heads turned toward the second sound as a dark body plummeted through the air. Wings cupped to slow his approach, a falcon descended with claws outstretched toward Wren. The lad assisting her with the execution block dropped his load, threw his hands over his head, and ducked down. Wren also dropped the wooden block, but she turned to locate the first cry. I followed her gaze and spotted a larger female, white and silver in the sunlight approaching like a vengeful angel of fury. However, she was not headed toward Wren, but a more immediate goal, Hawthorne. The falcon missed his head by a foot, screaming her anger as she beat the air to gain altitude.
“The Romany.” Hawthorne’s gaze was only for Wren’s upturned face. Hatred, pure and potent, permeated every syllable. “Kill her,” he hissed to Keilvey.
Hawthorne’s hand went to his belt. Orac’s eyes were still on Wren and her falcon, oblivious of the malice gathering in the enforcer’s eyes. Winding the reins around my left hand, I heeled Trader and threw my body weight, directing the horse toward toward Orac. My hand already sought my own sword hilt.
A glint of metal heralded Hawthorne’s intent as he raised his fisted hand, a blade protruding. Orac reacted to the movement, turning in time to see the weapon. He reached for his own sword, but he moved too late.
“Long live the King,” Hawthorne announced as Trader’s shoulder impacted the king’s mount, jarring rider and horse aside. Hawthorne’s blade struck the animal’s neck at an odd angle, knocking the blade from his hand. The horse screamed. Trader head butted the stallion and nipped his shoulder. Prancing away, the horse carried Orac from harm and placed us firmly in his stead.
Sword drawn, I faced the enemy.
“Mynth.” He spat my name. “I should have known he wasn’t you. He didn’t have half the arrogance I expected of the Butcher of Catrona and none of the strengths of a traitor.” Reaching down, he pulled a short sword from its hiding place beneath his horse’s trappings.
“The man you harmed was my friend, Lord Hiller. A noble.”
He and his mount circled us. Trader followed their movements without my instruction.
“Lord Hiller should have stayed home, keeping to his brother’s leading strings. This valley is none of his concern.”
Beyond Hawthorne, I caught a glimpse of Wren. No falcons were with her, which meant they were airborne and could attack any moment. I couldn’t risk a glance upwards. Please don’t let them mistake me for an enemy, Lord.
Seeing my distraction, Hawthorne charged.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
© 2011 Rachel Rossano
Feedback Question:
1) Was the action clear and easy to follow? Were there any spots where you were confused?
Thank you for reading and commenting.
- Rachel Rossano
I hid among the crowd and prayed that my falcons didn’t decide to greet me. A falcon swooping out of the sky to land on my shoulder would certainly cause a stir among the closely packed people and draw Hawthorne or Keilvey’s attention. Head bent, cloak drawn close, I shuffled along, trying to regain my inner peace.
Something was wrong, though. I felt it in my gut. I wasn’t much of an instinctive decision maker, but I knew that something about the whole situation irked me. I needed to figure out what.
A glance around gained me nothing. I was too short to see over the people jostling me. Being brief of stature came with disadvantages.
Another was the encroaching claustrophobia of the crowd enhanced by the narrow field of vision of my hood. Roulf with the assistance of his staff shouldered his way through the crowd, working our way toward the front fringe behind the foot soldiers. Jadet and Parkin flanked me, ensuring I wasn’t bowled over by the pressing bodies. They were only semi successful.
“I see Svhen,” Jadet announced at my left. “He is that way.” He flailed an arm to our left.
Parkin nodded and grabbed Roulf’s shoulder to get his attention. We tried to stop, but the momentum of the crowd refused to part around us and we were carried along instead.
All four of us clustered together, me at the center, and made a stand. Finally the people parted, passing at each side.
“It is thinning out,” Roulf yelled in my ear above the cacophony of voices cheering and talking as they passed. As he predicted, a few seconds later the number of people decreased.
“This way.” Jadet bounded off, dodging stragglers.
The rest of us followed. Leaving the crowd behind, we struck out through the brush. Jadet headed for a stand of tall pines clogged with underbrush. It was only when we caught up with him that I realized his plan. The prisoners were apparently being led to the meeting by another path, passing on the opposite side of the trees.
“How did you know?” Parkin demanded, as soon as we caught up.
“Hush!” Roulf hissed.
Just beyond the last of the trees, a man dressed in leather with a black cowl about his neck and an oversized sword strapped to his back led a line of prisoners along the footpath. Their hands were bound before them and looped together. Two of the soldiers escorting them carried a thick block of wood between them, the chopping block for beheadings.
Svhen’s blond head and massive shoulders appeared second in line, but most visible of the lot. Hiller, recognizable only by his clothing, tramped in the lead. His steps faltered. Falling to his knees, he brought Svhen down with him.
The prisoners stopped. Familiar faces turned toward the head of the line. One of the seven guards called out to the executioner to halt while two others closed in on Hiller and Svhen, reaching for the cudgels attached to their belts.
“Now is our chance.” Jadet produced a knife from beneath his cloak and brandished it like a complete novice. I could have disarmed him in one move, but it wasn’t profitable to point that out.
“There are eight of them and three of us,” Parkin protested.
“Your accounting of our allies is off,” Roulf replied. “I count fourteen: ten prisoners and the four of us.”
“But they are bound.” Parkin gestured just as the first blow landed across Svhen’s shoulders.
I didn’t know why they were picking on him and not Hiller, but I suspected the reason. Regardless, I couldn’t bear to watch more without action.
“Get out your sword, boy. A soldier worth his keep can utilize more than just his hands to take down an assailant. They just need a chance.” I unsheathed my first and second knives. “Ready, Roulf?”
He adjusted his grip on the heavy staff in his hands. “Aye, Wren, just give the word.”
I eyed the situation. The executioner had retraced his steps and was approaching Hiller and Svhen, yelling words that made my ears burn. I waited until Parkin drew his sword, thankfully with more skill than Jadet and his knife.
“Now.”
My first knife sank into the kicker’s shoulder, most likely breaking his shoulder blade. The second lodged in the executioner’s dominate left hand. He would not be executing anyone with that sword today. Before the first man reached the ground, Roulf dealt him a blow to the head that would keep him unsteady for a while.
The lads moved to attack the man who had stuck Svhen. Before they could do much damage, though, Svhen took the man down with a shoulder to the back followed by a crushing two-fisted blow to the man’s chest. I heard his ribs crack.
Roulf confronted the wounded executioner as the second guard sized me up with an incredulous look on his face. Third blade in hand, I adjusted it into fighting grip and prepared for him to lunge. My eyes watched his weight distribution, alert for a tell that would warn of his intended move. He never made it. One of the prisoners slung the lead rope around his neck from behind and hissed something in his ear. The soldier’s sword dropped to the dirt.
I glanced along the trail. The remaining soldiers were all incapacitated.
“Here are the keys,” Roulf said as he appeared at my shoulder. He tossed them to the nearest man. “Hurry, the enforcer is going to miss you soon.”
“What is the plan?” Svhen asked.
“Get close as possible to the enforcer before he realizes something is wrong and immobilize him.” Roulf rubbed his shoulder ruefully. “If we have some of you pose as prisoners and the rest as guards, we should be able to get away with it. I have hoods for the ones playing guards.”
In the midst of the following flurry of activity, I knelt by Hiller’s still form. Svhen’s large hand came to rest on my shoulder.
“How is he?”
His face a muddy mixture of red, black, and blue, I could barely recognize the identifying features I would expect. His one discernable eye was closed. My chest constricted, the familiar bondage of grief.
“We need the keys.”
Svhen turned away, his voice distantly demanded the keys as I checked Hiller’s vitals. He breathed and his heart beat steadily. I eased him over onto his back. A groan shuddered through him. The pressure in my chest moved to my throat.
As I struggle to regain my control, Svhen returned. He worked the keys into the lock. “There.” The manacles fell away, leaving raw remnants on Hiller’s wrists.
“He will live.”
“Can he be moved?” Roulf asked from above us.
I nodded.
The men lifted him as gently as possible and carried him off to the shelter of the trees where someone had cleared a space for him. The moment he was settled, two of the enemies’ cloaks wrapped around him for warmth, the men returned to assist with the prisoners. I remained by Hiller’s side.
One of his men approached. “Your weapons, my lady.” He offered my knives, clean of the blood I expected. “They were well used.”
“Thank you…”
“The name is Fronk.”
“Thank you, Fronk.”
“Who is going to stay with him?” Svhen asked as he approached.
I shook my head. I couldn’t. I had to reach Tourth. He would need me.
“I will,” Roulf offered. “I doubt I will be much use with this shoulder.”
The matter settled we formed up the line. Five men taking the guards’ roles, hoods raised to hide their faces. One man, the second largest to Svhen, took the role of executioner. With the borrowed black cowl about his neck, his scarred face, and the huge sword strapped to his back, Fronk looked the part.
Each prisoner held the iron manacles in place around their wrists, giving the appearance of being bound. The leg irons were gone, used to bind the captured enemy. The remaining men escorted them, hiding their faces as best they could with hoods, helmets, and such. I joined Jadet at the end of the line. We lugged the execution block between us.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tourth
Enforcer Hawthorne approached King Orac’s party on horseback and clothed in silk. “My Lord King,” he murmured as he bowed, offering the bared wrist of his right hand.
“Enforcer,” Orac replied. “Quite the spectacle for my arrival.” His nod encompassed 1,000 foot soldiers in full regalia, a crowd of excited peasants, and Hawthorne’s own overblown attire. The king, dressed in simple armor with only a crest and a battle crowned helmet to mark his authority, presented a solemn contrast to his underling.
“We seek only to please, my liege. The morrow being the one year anniversary of your ascension to the throne, we wished to celebrate the glory of your reign.”
Orac’s light eyes did not meet Hawthorne’s. Instead they roamed over the ranks behind him. No doubt noticing what I had marked some time ago, there were no Tarins among Hawthorne’s troops, a count against my case.
“We have some entertainments planned, my liege.” Hawthorne’s arm wave indicated the small band of prisoners approaching. Svhen’s bright hair attracted the eye in the glow of late afternoon sunlight. I scanned the group for Hiller only to notice a very familiar face among the escorting soldiers. What was Wren doing there? I dragged my gaze back to Hawthorne in time to see confusion followed by anger cross his features before the mask of jolly stagemaster returned.
“A recent raid on a rebellion hideout produced unexpected fruits. My men captured a number of known criminals. I am sure you have heard of Svhen Bjon the madman mercenary. Also, a surprising treat, the Butcher of Catorna himself, Tourth Mynth appeared among prisoners. I understand he killed your step-son on the field. A fitting tribute to the fallen hero to execute his murderer upon the anniversary, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do not assume anything, Hawthorne.” Orac’s voice froze Hawthorne with his mouth open and hand upraised to signal something. “My son died in battle, in a skirmish with Tourth Mynth, but that does not justify further bloodshed to mark the anniversary. However, I am curious about this Svhen Bjon. Why does he have a price on his head? Who is the funder?”
Hawthorne’s face flushed. “I am the funder, sire. Bjon is well-known as a war criminal and rebel.”
“Mynth?” Orac turned to me.
I struggled to keep my surprise from my features. “Aye, my liege?”
His silver gaze pinned me. Blank and emotionless, it gave me no clue as to his intentions.
“I am curious. Have you or your men participated in any illegal or criminal “rebel” behavior since the peace declaration?”
“Nay, my liege.”
“Is Bjon one of your men?”
“Aye, my king.”
He frowned. “Would you be willing to vouch for his life with yours?”
My stomach clenched, but I answered without a pause. “Aye, I would, Sire.”
He studied me for a moment longer. Something within me knew this was a test. I met his gaze steadily and prayed that the Lord would allow me to live.
Abruptly Orac turned back to Hawthorne, catching him in the act of whispering instructions to Keilvey. “What troops do you speak of, Hawthorne? I only commissioned you the thousand you have here.”
“Recruits from the locals, my king.”
Orac frowned. “Not allowed, Hawthorne. You have overstepped your commission. Lord Portan…”
Lord Portan guided his horse closer to Orac’s right hand. Meanwhile Hawthorne attempted to regain some control. “Perhaps we could speak of this later after the celebrations, my liege. I planned some lovely pageantry within the walls.”
“No, Hawthorne, I do not think I shall enter your gates until my men have searched the interior. Portan, have the prisoners approach. I want to speak to the one they considered Mynth.”
A screech ripped through the air, drowning out Orac’s words. A second answered from closer at hand. As though pulled by a puppeteer’s string all heads turned toward the second sound as a dark body plummeted through the air. Wings cupped to slow his approach, a falcon descended with claws outstretched toward Wren. The lad assisting her with the execution block dropped his load, threw his hands over his head, and ducked down. Wren also dropped the wooden block, but she turned to locate the first cry. I followed her gaze and spotted a larger female, white and silver in the sunlight approaching like a vengeful angel of fury. However, she was not headed toward Wren, but a more immediate goal, Hawthorne. The falcon missed his head by a foot, screaming her anger as she beat the air to gain altitude.
“The Romany.” Hawthorne’s gaze was only for Wren’s upturned face. Hatred, pure and potent, permeated every syllable. “Kill her,” he hissed to Keilvey.
Hawthorne’s hand went to his belt. Orac’s eyes were still on Wren and her falcon, oblivious of the malice gathering in the enforcer’s eyes. Winding the reins around my left hand, I heeled Trader and threw my body weight, directing the horse toward toward Orac. My hand already sought my own sword hilt.
A glint of metal heralded Hawthorne’s intent as he raised his fisted hand, a blade protruding. Orac reacted to the movement, turning in time to see the weapon. He reached for his own sword, but he moved too late.
“Long live the King,” Hawthorne announced as Trader’s shoulder impacted the king’s mount, jarring rider and horse aside. Hawthorne’s blade struck the animal’s neck at an odd angle, knocking the blade from his hand. The horse screamed. Trader head butted the stallion and nipped his shoulder. Prancing away, the horse carried Orac from harm and placed us firmly in his stead.
Sword drawn, I faced the enemy.
“Mynth.” He spat my name. “I should have known he wasn’t you. He didn’t have half the arrogance I expected of the Butcher of Catrona and none of the strengths of a traitor.” Reaching down, he pulled a short sword from its hiding place beneath his horse’s trappings.
“The man you harmed was my friend, Lord Hiller. A noble.”
He and his mount circled us. Trader followed their movements without my instruction.
“Lord Hiller should have stayed home, keeping to his brother’s leading strings. This valley is none of his concern.”
Beyond Hawthorne, I caught a glimpse of Wren. No falcons were with her, which meant they were airborne and could attack any moment. I couldn’t risk a glance upwards. Please don’t let them mistake me for an enemy, Lord.
Seeing my distraction, Hawthorne charged.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
© 2011 Rachel Rossano
Feedback Question:
1) Was the action clear and easy to follow? Were there any spots where you were confused?
Thank you for reading and commenting.
- Rachel Rossano
posted by Rachel Rossano at 3:26 PM
11 Comments:
Ack!! What happens next!?! How long am I going to have to wait! Ack!!
I'm enjoying the suspense and conflict in this part of Wren's story. Keep it up!
To be honest, some of the action descriptions were unclear at first reading. But I think part of the problem because I haven't read the whole story in one sitting, and I've forgotten what positions some of the characters hold, and what they look like, and other details. That's not your fault; it just means *I* need to reread the story again. Hooray!
Congratulations on your progress with Wren's story! Now I need to go make some progress on mine. :-)
Blessings
~Literaturelady
Thank you for commenting, Literaturelady. Hopefully you will not have to wait long. I am determined to finish Wren soon. Best wishes for your story. :)
I really liked this chapter! Maybe it's only that I'm glad to get back on blogger and read more about Wren, but I just really enjoyed how the chapter went, especially Tourth's part. (BTW, I really like how Wren is called the Romany. There is something just plain cool about that. :D)
The only part where I got slightly confused was at the end, if Hawthorne was attacking Orac or trying to do something else - but I've been known to read books so fast I couldn't even think of the MC's name at the end, so that might just be me. :)
I am super excited that another Romany story is almost done! Way to go! :D
I definitely agree with the first commenter. The action was a little hard to follow, but I feel like I need to read the story, once it's finished, again in one sitting. I actually completely forgot who Kelvey(sp?) was and why Wren is wanted for arrest. So Once the story is finished I'll have to read it again and enjoy it in one swoop.
Sarah, is it possible that you missed a chapter (XXI). I noticed you didn't comment on that chapter and that would explain some of the confusion.
Regardless, I still plan on working over this chapter in the next draft to make sure the action is clear and flows with the rest of the book. :)
PS Thanks for all the comments. :)
I like this chapter and how things are unfolding.
Hawthorne's initiation of attack was confusing to me. He told Kievely to get Wren, then puts his hand to his hilt and looks malicious... but I thought that was still directed at Wren. Like he wanted to kill her himself. Orac was looking at Wren so was oblivious to danger (I thought Orac was oblivious to Wren's danger). Then Tourth pushes Orac out of the way so then I get thinking that maybe Tourth is saving Orac's life.
Kim
@Kim - Thank you sooo much for pointing this out. I can see the source of confusion. :) I needed to clarify that Hawthorne's growing malice was directed at Orac. I will change it in my master copy. Thank you again. Your comments have been very helpful. :)
Rachel, I'm glad you found my comments helpful. Reading that made my day, because my Lyme disease is acting up again and I'm so exhausted that I can't do much. But I was reminded again that God always has something for me to do that I can do, and I guess yesterday it was helping you with Wren. And enjoying a good story =)
I suppose we'll never meet here, but I look forward to meeting you in heaven some day =)
Thank you for the encouragement, Kim. I am delighted to learn that I helped you in a small way while you helped me. :) God sometimes uses trials to open our eyes to things we missed right in front of us. I am very thankful for readers like you.
I wouldn't give up completely on not meeting someday here. ;) Whether or not it happens, though, I am also looking forward to meeting you in heaven someday, too. :)
*sigh* So much has happened and I am getting over here after all the action has passed...and to be honest. I have been dragging my feet as have been following you on facebook, secretly going "No no no no!!! it can't end...it's too good!" But all wonderful marvelous and delightfully good things must come to an end and not knowing how it ends has finally killed me so I am here holding my breath.
I really loved all that you have written and like everyone else said it was just the action at the end that I found slightly confusing.
I will have to work on that action section. :) Thank you, Jessica, for all the feedback. I am glad you enjoyed the anticipation so much. ;) All insight is appreciated. Also, I am happy to know I am not the only one reluctant to leave these characters behind. :)
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