An opening for a fantasy novel
Posted: Wed Mar 25, 2009 7:21 pmGreetings all,
I'm looking for some advice on whether or not to continue this story. I'm currently about 300 pages into a novel but sadly since I'm only 1/3 of the way through the plot I've decided to write something considerably shorter and I knocked this out today after playing with a couple of ideas overnight.
Please give any criticism you can for it - I am mainly interested in receiving negative criticism on what you dislike, whether you think it's slow paced, gives too much info too early etc. Boring? Obvious? Formulaic? Interested in reading on? Any comments you have at all let me know.
Kind regards,
Ed Rook
The prison pit was deep, its' rough earth walls studded with flint and snatches of roots, and at the bottom of the pit Gend waited to die.
He could not see the sky. The soldiers roofed the hole with a lattice of twisted boughs and an oiled animal skin pegged over it, blotting out the light. He would not see his home again. The first hole was where men were thrown whilst they waited, the second was where they were taken for death. There had been many, but time was whittling them down. Gend and Kern were now the only occupants of the waiting pit, but the former prisoners had told them. Once per day a man was selected at random. A knotted rope was thrown down and the nearest unlucky man ordered to climb. Refusal brought buckets of scalding water dumped upon them, so a man would climb. Then came the chanting, the drumming, the stamping of feet. The voices of the men were not the familiar god-chants of the great forest, they sounded strange and alien to Gend's ears. He did not know these men nor their customs but they were here, in his forest, and when the chanting ended the drums beat thrice and the screams would begin. Sometimes they were ended swiftly, sometimes they did not. In the darkness of the pit, sitting amidst their own urine and excrement, the two prisoners sat listening, waiting for the first sound of the pegs being drawn up. Time meant little in the waiting pit. Sometimes men came close enough to the pit that their voices could be heard but they spoke a spiked, sharp language that Gend did not know.
Kern talked to alleviate the boredom and fear. He was an old, scarred warrior but that was simply to say he was a Gerranti tribesman, for all Gerranti were warriors from the moment their fingers could curl about the shaft of a spear or draw the string of a bow. But Kern had raided the lands of the Hyspians for three decades without being caught and had stolen more than enough sheep and goats to become wealthy, had he not slaughtered them all for feasting every time. He had skirmished with the northern Gerranti tribes, feuded with the eastern Gerranti. His success had earned him three wives and the favour of the gods. In his tales of battle prowess he gave thanks to them regularly, to Lynx, Owl and River. They were the mighty kings of the forest and it was because of them that the Gerranti had no king of their own. Kern spoke softly, he talked of the women he had known and the ones he wished he had known, he said the names of all the children who had lived and then tried to recall the many that had died. Gend didn't have the words, the stories nor the children to speak of. He was young, just nineteen winters old, so he sat and listened and silently asked Lynx who would be taken today.
"Have the gods spoken to ye today?" Kern asked. Gend opened his eyes slowly though it made no difference in the blackness of the stinking pit.
"No," he replied. "The gods are sleeping deep in the earth. They say nothing to me." Kern shifted and adjusted his sitting position in the blackness. It was cold in the dank earth, no comforting sky to talk to. Insects crept in and out of the walls, if you listened closely you could hear them.
"Maybe they'll talk to you yet," Kern said. There was no hope in his voice, it was dry and raw. He talked a lot and they were given little to drink. The Salvarian soldiers let them lick moisture from the walls instead of wasting good ale on them. Despite the soarness in his throat, the bitterness in his voice, Kern talked on. It was his way to avoid thinking of the future. "In all my life they never spoke to me, though I killed, raped and looted in their name. It will be time soon." Gend didn't know how Kern could tell in the dark. He could smell blood from the outside camp, even over the stench of filth in the pit. They were slaughtering bulls, the beasts bellowing as their nostrils detected death on the wind.
"We offered them a truce," Gend said. "They should not be killing us." Kern hawked and spat, wasting more of his water. Then he laughed, a mirthless sound in the grim blackness.
"What does that matter?" he asked. "We're warriors, we don't live to farm and sow seeds. If they'd accepted I was going to raid their caravans anyway. Not that the bastards are much in the mood for making peace. The Salvarians are an empire, see. They aren't like ye and me, lad. They don't want to govern their land, steal from their enemies, sleep with their women. They want to govern all the lands, they want to steal from everyone. Where ye see something to take, they see something that you don't realise belongs to them."
"The Gerranti will fight," Gend said hotly. "We can't be defeated in the forest."
"I hope so," Kern said. There was sound from overhead, wood grating on wood. The coverlet flapped. "But now, lad, I'm afraid we're out of time. It was good living beside ye."
Bright sunlight flooded down upon them as the hide was rolled up and the wooden cage drawn back. Gend squinted at the sudden brightness. Faces surrounded by round iron helmets looked down on the prisoners and then the rope flopped down over the edge like a dead cats' tail, heavy and limp.
"Up," one of the soldiers ordered. He spoke Gerranti with a heavy accent and his eyes were fixed on Gend. The young tribesman stretched out his legs, a tightness in his belly. He remembered the screams, wondered what was going to happen to him. Some men had been afraid to go, the gods knew he was afraid too, but a warrior does not flinch from death. He does not ask his friend to die for him in his stead but meets it head on. As he began to ease his cramped body up against the pit wall, Kern gave a short bitter laugh.
"The gods speak to me now do they. What a bloody time to choose." He stepped past Gend and pushed down on his shoulder. "River says it's my turn," he said. "What a bloody time to choose." Kern's long hair was wild and matted with filth, mud and nobody knew what marring the spiralling warrior's tattoos on his face and arms, but he managed to look proud.
"It is my turn," Gend said, shamed that he already knew he would accept Kern's offer.
"River says it ain't," Kern told him. His eyes shone brightly, and he grinned with the pleasure of a man who has heard the roar of his gods.
"Up," the soldier demanded angrily, and Kern stepped to the rope and took it in his hands.
"I'm coming you stone cursed whore brat," the old warrior said. His seven toothed smile gleamed. "Trust in the gods," he said, and then he was gone, climbing swiftly from the pit. Gend stared up towards the vastness of the afternoon sky, a roiling cobalt devoid of clouds, and then the logs and the skins swept over it and he was left alone in the darkness as the drums thrummed and the chant began.
Kern's screams came eventually, and when they did they were half words and half agony. He cursed them for being the spawn of devils, the servants of demons. He damned them by the gods and he yelled his battle cry, an ululating bellow he had roared for thirty years of his violent life, and then he was silent and that was worse.
I'm looking for some advice on whether or not to continue this story. I'm currently about 300 pages into a novel but sadly since I'm only 1/3 of the way through the plot I've decided to write something considerably shorter and I knocked this out today after playing with a couple of ideas overnight.
Please give any criticism you can for it - I am mainly interested in receiving negative criticism on what you dislike, whether you think it's slow paced, gives too much info too early etc. Boring? Obvious? Formulaic? Interested in reading on? Any comments you have at all let me know.
Kind regards,
Ed Rook
The prison pit was deep, its' rough earth walls studded with flint and snatches of roots, and at the bottom of the pit Gend waited to die.
He could not see the sky. The soldiers roofed the hole with a lattice of twisted boughs and an oiled animal skin pegged over it, blotting out the light. He would not see his home again. The first hole was where men were thrown whilst they waited, the second was where they were taken for death. There had been many, but time was whittling them down. Gend and Kern were now the only occupants of the waiting pit, but the former prisoners had told them. Once per day a man was selected at random. A knotted rope was thrown down and the nearest unlucky man ordered to climb. Refusal brought buckets of scalding water dumped upon them, so a man would climb. Then came the chanting, the drumming, the stamping of feet. The voices of the men were not the familiar god-chants of the great forest, they sounded strange and alien to Gend's ears. He did not know these men nor their customs but they were here, in his forest, and when the chanting ended the drums beat thrice and the screams would begin. Sometimes they were ended swiftly, sometimes they did not. In the darkness of the pit, sitting amidst their own urine and excrement, the two prisoners sat listening, waiting for the first sound of the pegs being drawn up. Time meant little in the waiting pit. Sometimes men came close enough to the pit that their voices could be heard but they spoke a spiked, sharp language that Gend did not know.
Kern talked to alleviate the boredom and fear. He was an old, scarred warrior but that was simply to say he was a Gerranti tribesman, for all Gerranti were warriors from the moment their fingers could curl about the shaft of a spear or draw the string of a bow. But Kern had raided the lands of the Hyspians for three decades without being caught and had stolen more than enough sheep and goats to become wealthy, had he not slaughtered them all for feasting every time. He had skirmished with the northern Gerranti tribes, feuded with the eastern Gerranti. His success had earned him three wives and the favour of the gods. In his tales of battle prowess he gave thanks to them regularly, to Lynx, Owl and River. They were the mighty kings of the forest and it was because of them that the Gerranti had no king of their own. Kern spoke softly, he talked of the women he had known and the ones he wished he had known, he said the names of all the children who had lived and then tried to recall the many that had died. Gend didn't have the words, the stories nor the children to speak of. He was young, just nineteen winters old, so he sat and listened and silently asked Lynx who would be taken today.
"Have the gods spoken to ye today?" Kern asked. Gend opened his eyes slowly though it made no difference in the blackness of the stinking pit.
"No," he replied. "The gods are sleeping deep in the earth. They say nothing to me." Kern shifted and adjusted his sitting position in the blackness. It was cold in the dank earth, no comforting sky to talk to. Insects crept in and out of the walls, if you listened closely you could hear them.
"Maybe they'll talk to you yet," Kern said. There was no hope in his voice, it was dry and raw. He talked a lot and they were given little to drink. The Salvarian soldiers let them lick moisture from the walls instead of wasting good ale on them. Despite the soarness in his throat, the bitterness in his voice, Kern talked on. It was his way to avoid thinking of the future. "In all my life they never spoke to me, though I killed, raped and looted in their name. It will be time soon." Gend didn't know how Kern could tell in the dark. He could smell blood from the outside camp, even over the stench of filth in the pit. They were slaughtering bulls, the beasts bellowing as their nostrils detected death on the wind.
"We offered them a truce," Gend said. "They should not be killing us." Kern hawked and spat, wasting more of his water. Then he laughed, a mirthless sound in the grim blackness.
"What does that matter?" he asked. "We're warriors, we don't live to farm and sow seeds. If they'd accepted I was going to raid their caravans anyway. Not that the bastards are much in the mood for making peace. The Salvarians are an empire, see. They aren't like ye and me, lad. They don't want to govern their land, steal from their enemies, sleep with their women. They want to govern all the lands, they want to steal from everyone. Where ye see something to take, they see something that you don't realise belongs to them."
"The Gerranti will fight," Gend said hotly. "We can't be defeated in the forest."
"I hope so," Kern said. There was sound from overhead, wood grating on wood. The coverlet flapped. "But now, lad, I'm afraid we're out of time. It was good living beside ye."
Bright sunlight flooded down upon them as the hide was rolled up and the wooden cage drawn back. Gend squinted at the sudden brightness. Faces surrounded by round iron helmets looked down on the prisoners and then the rope flopped down over the edge like a dead cats' tail, heavy and limp.
"Up," one of the soldiers ordered. He spoke Gerranti with a heavy accent and his eyes were fixed on Gend. The young tribesman stretched out his legs, a tightness in his belly. He remembered the screams, wondered what was going to happen to him. Some men had been afraid to go, the gods knew he was afraid too, but a warrior does not flinch from death. He does not ask his friend to die for him in his stead but meets it head on. As he began to ease his cramped body up against the pit wall, Kern gave a short bitter laugh.
"The gods speak to me now do they. What a bloody time to choose." He stepped past Gend and pushed down on his shoulder. "River says it's my turn," he said. "What a bloody time to choose." Kern's long hair was wild and matted with filth, mud and nobody knew what marring the spiralling warrior's tattoos on his face and arms, but he managed to look proud.
"It is my turn," Gend said, shamed that he already knew he would accept Kern's offer.
"River says it ain't," Kern told him. His eyes shone brightly, and he grinned with the pleasure of a man who has heard the roar of his gods.
"Up," the soldier demanded angrily, and Kern stepped to the rope and took it in his hands.
"I'm coming you stone cursed whore brat," the old warrior said. His seven toothed smile gleamed. "Trust in the gods," he said, and then he was gone, climbing swiftly from the pit. Gend stared up towards the vastness of the afternoon sky, a roiling cobalt devoid of clouds, and then the logs and the skins swept over it and he was left alone in the darkness as the drums thrummed and the chant began.
Kern's screams came eventually, and when they did they were half words and half agony. He cursed them for being the spawn of devils, the servants of demons. He damned them by the gods and he yelled his battle cry, an ululating bellow he had roared for thirty years of his violent life, and then he was silent and that was worse.