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elingregoryI've had an offer for a story - very exciting!I can't really say any more, all I know is that the publisher likes it and has sent me a contract to sign. But still - :)
However, one must carry on writing so here's the latest bit of A Fierce Reaping - things are getting grimy in Northumbria!
They reached the source of the smoke before sunset. By then most of the fires had died down and troops one and two had moved on to make camp on some higher ground a mile or so upstream of what seemed to have been a large village. Twenty buildings had clustered around a central space - an odd arrangement to eyes used to the proper way with settlements strung out along water courses and tracks. That way no man had to live in another's stink but they were close enough to band together in times of war. The thatch, as they could see from what was left of it, had been quite new. But this place was already working into the countryside, like a thorn into the flesh, with deeply rutted tracks to the centre of the village and every trace of greenery pounded down by feet. Blood thickened in the ruts but the bodies had been dragged away and, from the stench and raging flames in the wreckage of the largest building, burned. Cynfal’s horse tossed his head, ears flat, as the wind gusted black smoke in their faces. Gwion sat his horse nearby, his expression cold and closed in, but Otter too jibbed at the tightness of the hands on his reins.
“It looks like there’s nothing here for us to do,” Cynfal said.
“Forage,” Cynon called. “One and Two made a clean sweep of the villagers who stayed but there might be foodstuffs in the houses. Greid, Cynfal, see what you can find. Buddfan, Coel bring the pack ponies on to the camp.”
There wasn’t much to find. As Cynfal had predicted, this time of year the corn bins were getting low and what was there had been over turned and spilled by looters.
“Why would they do that?” Pup asked with something of a wail in his voice. Cynfal turned on him to tell him to get on with it and stop whining but stopped. Pup was staring at a shoe – a little thing, worn and muddy, drawn in to fit a very small foot. Cynfal sighed – all out war came as a shock to those who had joined up for the glory. He went to his side to explain but Gwion spoke up first.
“Do you think they have done less?” he asked. “They trod the babies underfoot at my father’s hold. They gutted the older ones like herring. We don’t have to like this, Pup, but it has to be done.”
“I didn’t realise,” Pup muttered, his face white.
“You thought it would be like the stories.” Gwion shook his head. “Poets are all liars. We leave out the stench of opened guts, the sound of burning thatch, the screams of unwilling women.” He looked as sick as Pup. “That too has to be done.”
“And so does picking up that spilled wheat.” Cynfal reminded them. “Gwion can do that. Pup go and get some air, then meet me in the next house.”
Pup fled. Cynfal paused to touch Gwion’s shoulder. He too was looking at the shoe but looked up at the touch.
“Can you do it?” Cynfal asked.
“It seems dishonourable to rob as well as murder,” Gwion said. “Another thing I’ll leave out of the stories.”
“Aye,” Cynfal squeezed Gwion’s arm. “We’re going about this all wrong you know. We should have ridden out just after harvest, riding fast, taking care not to meet the enemy, and killed the plough oxen, burned the stores and poisoned the wells in every village. The ones who didn’t go south would have died over the winter and the few who survived would be so weak they would be easy to pick off. This – this jaunt is inefficient and will waste lives.”
“But it will be glorious.” Gwion stirred the shoe with his toe. “I’ll take care to write it that way.”
However, one must carry on writing so here's the latest bit of A Fierce Reaping - things are getting grimy in Northumbria!
They reached the source of the smoke before sunset. By then most of the fires had died down and troops one and two had moved on to make camp on some higher ground a mile or so upstream of what seemed to have been a large village. Twenty buildings had clustered around a central space - an odd arrangement to eyes used to the proper way with settlements strung out along water courses and tracks. That way no man had to live in another's stink but they were close enough to band together in times of war. The thatch, as they could see from what was left of it, had been quite new. But this place was already working into the countryside, like a thorn into the flesh, with deeply rutted tracks to the centre of the village and every trace of greenery pounded down by feet. Blood thickened in the ruts but the bodies had been dragged away and, from the stench and raging flames in the wreckage of the largest building, burned. Cynfal’s horse tossed his head, ears flat, as the wind gusted black smoke in their faces. Gwion sat his horse nearby, his expression cold and closed in, but Otter too jibbed at the tightness of the hands on his reins.
“It looks like there’s nothing here for us to do,” Cynfal said.
“Forage,” Cynon called. “One and Two made a clean sweep of the villagers who stayed but there might be foodstuffs in the houses. Greid, Cynfal, see what you can find. Buddfan, Coel bring the pack ponies on to the camp.”
There wasn’t much to find. As Cynfal had predicted, this time of year the corn bins were getting low and what was there had been over turned and spilled by looters.
“Why would they do that?” Pup asked with something of a wail in his voice. Cynfal turned on him to tell him to get on with it and stop whining but stopped. Pup was staring at a shoe – a little thing, worn and muddy, drawn in to fit a very small foot. Cynfal sighed – all out war came as a shock to those who had joined up for the glory. He went to his side to explain but Gwion spoke up first.
“Do you think they have done less?” he asked. “They trod the babies underfoot at my father’s hold. They gutted the older ones like herring. We don’t have to like this, Pup, but it has to be done.”
“I didn’t realise,” Pup muttered, his face white.
“You thought it would be like the stories.” Gwion shook his head. “Poets are all liars. We leave out the stench of opened guts, the sound of burning thatch, the screams of unwilling women.” He looked as sick as Pup. “That too has to be done.”
“And so does picking up that spilled wheat.” Cynfal reminded them. “Gwion can do that. Pup go and get some air, then meet me in the next house.”
Pup fled. Cynfal paused to touch Gwion’s shoulder. He too was looking at the shoe but looked up at the touch.
“Can you do it?” Cynfal asked.
“It seems dishonourable to rob as well as murder,” Gwion said. “Another thing I’ll leave out of the stories.”
“Aye,” Cynfal squeezed Gwion’s arm. “We’re going about this all wrong you know. We should have ridden out just after harvest, riding fast, taking care not to meet the enemy, and killed the plough oxen, burned the stores and poisoned the wells in every village. The ones who didn’t go south would have died over the winter and the few who survived would be so weak they would be easy to pick off. This – this jaunt is inefficient and will waste lives.”
“But it will be glorious.” Gwion stirred the shoe with his toe. “I’ll take care to write it that way.”
