Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell.
---
William Strunk, Jr.
The Elements of Style
Labels: hiatus
The air lay stagnant on Kate's exposed skin, viscous with sweat. Outside the heat was oppressive, and inside... and she could not bare her legs to take advantage of even the cool of evaporation. Only a few children even pretended to listen to her history of the Crusades. The rest slept, spittle pooling on their desks.It's already pretty tightly written, but let's see what we can do with it.
How could information be expected to infiltrate sleeping minds?
But David Leland still watched with avid interest. It didn't seem to matter what she taught, he seemed hungry for the knowledge of things and places beyond the small town that had always been his world.
She looked away, reminded again of Joseph, constant companion of her youth, David’s brother. Joseph, voracious for her company, jealous of any sign that she had interests that did not include him. When she had been accepted to the new Brigham Young Academy, he had suddenly discovered a zeal for higher education and began planning to follow her to Provo. She had presumed he stopped short of proposing merely because he was only seventeen to her sixteen. But she’d been patient. There would be plenty of time.
Kate's thoughts returned to the present as a pen fell to the floor with a clank.
"Ah hem." She slapped the ruler down on the desk, finally rousing even the drowsiest child from his afternoon slumber.
"Are there any questions about the Cathar Crusade or the Episcopalian Inquisition of the Waldensians?" She waited. No hands went up. "Good. There will be an exam on the subject tomorrow morning. And I will be visiting each of your homes this weekend to share the results of this semester's progress with your parents." The children looked at her as though she were the most nefarious witch in the entire world.
If I were evil, I would make you experience what I feel every day. The excruciating pain of her swollen legs was not the worst of it. The worst was the way children she'd known and loved their entire lives now taunted her and ridiculed her, trapped as she was in her disease-distorted body.
She held the schoolhouse door open, and the students exited like rocks released from a slingshot. She recalled the words of her physics professor as he'd released the ball he'd held high above his head, 'And thus we see potential energy converted to kinetic energy.' Did any of those bouncing, skipping children even know what 'kinetic' meant? Kate turned away from the bright heat of the outdoors to the oppressive dark heat of the small schoolhouse.
Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, so she almost walked right into David Leland.
"Pardon me, Miss DeLong." David looked down at his hands in rueful embarrassment. His voice came out slightly stilted as he continued. "I wanted to say that the bellicose behavior of the medieval church resulted in heinous acts of depravity."
Kate stood still for a moment, stunned. "Why David Leland Heywood, thank you. And may I say that you used each one of those vocabulary words perfectly correctly." A smile began to creep onto her face, reflecting her inner transformation from jaded spinster-schoolmarm to joyous teacher. David looked into her face at that moment. Her joy in the magnitude of his achievement mingled with her awareness of how much her approval meant to him. The smile slid from her face.
So Kate, will you foil David yet again?
She thought of that first day she had understood his intent. She had fled outside to the back of the chapel, unwilling to watch as Joseph and his young bride, Margaret Henrie, returned home to Panguitch. David had found her in tears. Silently he had gathered her in his strong arms and rocked her back and forth. It was the first time any man had touched her since the disease caused her ankles to swell like mutated gourds. Clothing concealed the details of how the deformity thickened her legs and arms.
By the time she discovered the disease affected her breasts and privates, she'd almost not cared. After all, what man would ever know?
But that day, with David's arms around her and the reality of him filling her senses, she'd realized that her body didn't know it was horrific, that no man could desire a woman trapped in such a prison. Her body felt the same heady delight that had coursed through her when Joseph had first held her and kissed her for the first time. But she was no teenager. She'd gently but firmly extracted herself from David's embrace, thankful for the serendipity of a prior appointment to make her excuse real.
Ever since she had been careful to never encourage David. But he had not waivered in his quiet kindness. He never joined the discussion of whether her scourge was due to her own sin or the sin of another. David simply accepted her.
The dark years at the Academy had scarred her soul. The darker reality of being pariah in her own hometown was worse. But her barriers were washed away in his steady, unflinching devotion. Melted in his regard as the ice on the mountains evaporated in the heat of early summer. His faithfulness had freed her.
She never knew what it was that he saw in that moment. But his face lit up like the sun at high noon. Perhaps her smile crossed the invisible line she'd maintained between them since that January afternoon. He closed the distance between them, gathering her in a kiss.
When they broke for breath, he gently stroked her hair away from her forehead.
"Marry me, Miss Delong." As the silence stretched, he added, "Please?"
She couldn't help it. She laughed. The first laugh she'd uttered in five years.
"I will. I will.”
The air lay stagnant on Kate's exposed skin, viscous with sweat. Outside the heat was oppressive, and inside... and she could not bare her legs to take advantage of even the cool of evaporation. Only a few children even pretended to listen to her history of the Crusades. The rest slept, spittle pooling on their desks.I can't help but read viscous as a description of skin, when logically I think it must describe the air. Since we have two images of the thick air already, let's eliminate one.
How could information be expected to infiltrate sleeping minds?
The air lay stagnant on Kate's exposed skin, and she couldn't even bare her legs to let evaporation cool them. Only a few children even pretended to listen to her history of the Crusades. The rest slept, spittle pooling on their desks.48 words from 65: 26%.
How can information infiltrate sleeping minds?
But David Leland still watched with avid interest. It didn't seem to matter what she taught, he seemed hungry for the knowledge of things and places beyond the small town that had always been his world.There's an authorial choice here: does David seem hungry for knowledge, or hungry for anything she teaches? I'm assuming the latter, even though the former would condense the paragraph better. :)
But David Leland watched avidly. He always seemed to hunger for anything she taught that reached beyond his small-town world.Wow. That's a lot of effort to cut 44% of 36 original words. Next paragraph.
She looked away, reminded again of Joseph, constant companion of her youth, David’s brother. Joseph, voracious for her company, jealous of any sign that she had interests that did not include him. When she had been accepted to the new Brigham Young Academy, he had suddenly discovered a zeal for higher education and began planning to follow her to Provo. She had presumed he stopped short of proposing merely because he was only seventeen to her sixteen. But she’d been patient. There would be plenty of time.We've just gone from direct observation of her frustration and surroundings to a daydream, so I don't want to lose the somewhat langourous (which is not to say "boring") quality of the writing here.
She looked away, reminded again of Joseph, constant companion of her youth, David’s brother. Joseph, voracious for her company, jealous of any sign that she had interests that did not include him. When Brigham Young Academy had accepted her, he had discovered a zeal for higher education and began planning to follow her to Provo. She had presumed he stopped short of proposing merely because he was only seventeen to her sixteen. But she’d been patient. They had plenty of time.81 words from 87: 6%. I'm not unhappy about that. There's good character development here, and a nice rhythm. It's not all about word count.
Kate's thoughts returned to the present as a pen fell to the floor with a clank.There is a string of phrases here that sound too pedestrian to my ear: "to the present as a pen fell to the floor with a clank." (The actual rhythm would be something more like, "to the PRESent as a PEN fell to the FLOOR with a CLANK.") Let's get the data together and try again.
A pen clanked onto the floor, bringing Kate back to the present.12 words from 16, 25%. You could say "Kate's thoughts", but I don't think you need to.
"Ah hem." She slapped the ruler down on the desk, finally rousing even the drowsiest child from his afternoon slumber.Minor cuts here.
"Ah hem." She slapped the ruler on the desk, rousing the drowsiest children from their afternoon slumbers.17 from 20 = 15%.
"Are there any questions about the Cathar Crusade or the Episcopalian Inquisition of the Waldensians?" She waited. No hands went up. "Good. There will be an exam on the subject tomorrow morning. And I will be visiting each of your homes this weekend to share the results of this semester's progress with your parents." The children looked at her as though she were the most nefarious witch in the entire world.I think her initial question is good as is: a little pedantic, making sure the key words are there. I like the punch of 'She waited. No hands went up. "Good...." I even like "There will be an exam on the subject tomorrow morning" (though you could probably cut "on the subject"), even though it uses "to be" (the alternatives don't really help).
"Are there any questions about the Cathar Crusade or the Episcopalian Inquisition of the Waldensians?" She waited. No hands went up. "Good. There will be an exam on the subject tomorrow morning. And I will visit each of your parents this weekend to share your progress." The children looked at her as though she were the world's most nefarious witch.60 words from 71, or 15%.
If I were evil, I would make you experience what I feel every day. The excruciating pain of her swollen legs was not the worst of it. The worst was the way children she'd known and loved their entire lives now taunted her and ridiculed her, trapped as she was in her disease-distorted body.Note that we use italics to set off internal monologue (i.e., thoughts) from the rest of the text. Otherwise, the tense gets confusing.
If I were evil, I would make you experience what I feel every day. She had loved these children for their entire lives, and their taunts hurt her more than the excruciating pain from her disease-distorted legs.37 words from 54, 31%.
She held the schoolhouse door open, and the students exited like rocks released from a slingshot. She recalled the words of her physics professor as he'd released the ball he'd held high above his head, 'And thus we see potential energy converted to kinetic energy.' Did any of those bouncing, skipping children even know what 'kinetic' meant? Kate turned away from the bright heat of the outdoors to the oppressive dark heat of the small schoolhouse.Minor cuts here, triggered by seeing "of her physics professor", "of those bouncing...", and "from the bright heat of the outdoors to the oppressive dark heat of the small schoolhouse."
She held the schoolhouse door open, and the students exited like rocks released from a slingshot. She recalled her physics professor releasing a ball from high above his head and saying, 'And thus we see potential energy converted to kinetic energy.' Did any of those bouncing, skipping children know what 'kinetic' meant? Kate turned from the bright outdoor heat to the oppressive dark heat of the small schoolhouse.68 words from 76, 11%.
Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, so she almost walked right into David Leland.First, leaving the minor cuts aside, note that 425 original words have passed from the beginning until this event. 324 words, or 3/4 of the total so far, have passed since we've been introduced to David. In other words, 75% or the story so far is waiting for something to happen with David after he was introduced. (In the cut version, it's 343 words and 275 words, or 80%.)
"Pardon me, Miss DeLong." David looked down at his hands in rueful embarrassment. His voice came out slightly stilted as he continued. "I wanted to say that the bellicose behavior of the medieval church resulted in heinous acts of depravity."
Her eyes had not adjusted to the dark, so she almost walked into David Leland.51 words from 57, 11%.
"Pardon me, Miss DeLong." David looked down at his hands in embarrassment. He stammered slightly as he continued. "I wanted to say that the bellicose behavior of the medieval church resulted in heinous acts of depravity."
Kate stood still for a moment, stunned. "Why David Leland Heywood, thank you. And may I say that you used each one of those vocabulary words perfectly correctly." A smile began to creep onto her face, reflecting her inner transformation from jaded spinster-schoolmarm to joyous teacher. David looked into her face at that moment. Her joy in the magnitude of his achievement mingled with her awareness of how much her approval meant to him. The smile slid from her face."Began to creep" or "crept"?
So Kate, will you foil David yet again?
Kate stood still for a moment, stunned. "Why David Leland Heywood, thank you. And may I say that you used each one of those vocabulary words perfectly." A smile crept onto her face, reflecting her inner transformation from jaded spinster-schoolmarm to joyous teacher. David looked into her face. Her joy faded as she thought of how much her approval meant to him.70 words from 88: 20%.
So Kate, will you foil David yet again?
She thought of that first day she had understood his intent. She had fled outside to the back of the chapel, unwilling to watch as Joseph and his young bride, Margaret Henrie, returned home to Panguitch. David had found her in tears. Silently he had gathered her in his strong arms and rocked her back and forth. It was the first time any man had touched her since the disease caused her ankles to swell like mutated gourds. Clothing concealed the details of how the deformity thickened her legs and arms."she had understood his intent" confused me a little bit, so I'd like to cut and be more explicit at the same time. Because I introduced Joseph's name in the first sentence, I replaced it with a pronoun in the second.
By the time she discovered the disease affected her breasts and privates, she'd almost not cared. After all, what man would ever know?
She thought of Joseph's wedding. She had fled outside to the back of the chapel, unwilling to watch him and his young bride, Margaret Henrie, return home to Panguitch. David, finding her in tears, had silently gathered her in his strong arms and rocked her back and forth. It was the first time any man had touched her since the disease caused her ankles to swell like mutated gourds. Clothing concealed the details of how the deformity thickened her legs and arms.105 from 114, 8%.
By the time she discovered the disease affected her breasts and privates, she'd almost not cared. After all, what man would ever know?
But that day, with David's arms around her and the reality of him filling her senses, she'd realized that her body didn't know it was horrific, that no man could desire a woman trapped in such a prison. Her body felt the same heady delight that had coursed through her when Joseph had first held her and kissed her for the first time. But she was no teenager. She'd gently but firmly extracted herself from David's embrace, thankful for the serendipity of a prior appointment to make her excuse real.We probably don't need both David's arms around her (we already know they are) and the reality of him filling her senses. Maybe we can combine them, or maybe just keep one.
But that day, with the reality of David filling her senses, she'd realized that her body didn't know it was horrific, that no man could desire a woman trapped in such a prison. Her body felt the same heady delight that had coursed through her when Joseph had first kissed her. But she was no teenager. She'd gently but firmly extracted herself from David's embrace, thankful that a prior appointment made her excuse real.74 from 90: 18%.
Ever since she had been careful to never encourage David. But he had not waivered in his quiet kindness. He never joined the discussion of whether her scourge was due to her own sin or the sin of another. David simply accepted her.The prepositional phrase "in his quiet kindness" can be collapsed. "was due" can be turned around: "whether her own sin or the sin of another had caused". "joined the discussion" can be collapsed to "joined discussions", and "joined discussions of whether" can be further collapsed to "discussed whether". I think "discussed whether" loses the sense that there are discussions about it already going on, so I'm sticking with "joined discussions".
She had never encouraged David, but his quiet kindness had not wavered. He never joined discussions of whether her own sin or that of another had caused her scourge. David simply accepted her.33 from 43, 23%.
The dark years at the Academy had scarred her soul. The darker reality of being pariah in her own hometown was worse. But her barriers were washed away in his steady, unflinching devotion. Melted in his regard as the ice on the mountains evaporated in the heat of early summer. His faithfulness had freed her."was worse" might be cut. This is really something for Meg to decide, because it changes the sentence structure and the feel somewhat. I really wanted to do something with "OF being pariah IN her hometown" (should that be a pariah? I've never seen that usage before), but couldn't think of a good way to do it.
The dark years at the Academy, and the darker reality of being pariah in her hometown, had scarred her soul. But his steady devotion had washed away her barriers. They had melted in his regard as the ice on the mountains evaporated in the heat of early summer. His faithfulness had freed her.53 from 55: 4%.
She never knew what it was that he saw in that moment. But his face lit up like the sun at high noon. Perhaps her smile crossed the invisible line she'd maintained between them since that January afternoon. He closed the distance between them, gathering her in a kiss."it was that" is a waste phrase. "at high noon" and "afternoon" repeat just a little bit, and I think we can cut "since that January afternoon" anyway.
She never knew what he saw in that moment. But his face lit up like the sun at high noon. Perhaps her smile crossed the invisible line she'd maintained between them. He closed the distance between them, gathering her in a kiss.42 from 49: 14%.
When they broke for breath, he gently stroked her hair away from her forehead.I think this bit stays as is.
"Marry me, Miss Delong." As the silence stretched, he added, "Please?"
She couldn't help it. She laughed. The first laugh she'd uttered in five years.
"I will. I will.”
The air lay stagnant on Kate's exposed skin, and she couldn't even bare her legs to let evaporation cool them. Only a few children even pretended to listen to her history of the Crusades. The rest slept, spittle pooling on their desks.814 from 964: about 16%.
How can information infiltrate sleeping minds?
But David Leland watched avidly. He always seemed to hunger for anything she taught that reached beyond his small-town world.
She looked away, reminded again of Joseph, constant companion of her youth, David’s brother. Joseph, voracious for her company, jealous of any sign that she had interests that did not include him. When Brigham Young Academy had accepted her, he had discovered a zeal for higher education and began planning to follow her to Provo. She had presumed he stopped short of proposing merely because he was only seventeen to her sixteen. But she’d been patient. They had plenty of time.
A pen clanked onto the floor, bringing Kate back to the present.
"Ah hem." She slapped the ruler on the desk, rousing the drowsiest children from their afternoon slumbers.
"Are there any questions about the Cathar Crusade or the Episcopalian Inquisition of the Waldensians?" She waited. No hands went up. "Good. There will be an exam on the subject tomorrow morning. And I will visit each of your parents this weekend to share your progress." The children looked at her as though she were the world's most nefarious witch.
If I were evil, I would make you experience what I feel every day. She had loved these children for their entire lives, and their taunts hurt her more than the excruciating pain from her disease-distorted legs.
She held the schoolhouse door open, and the students exited like rocks released from a slingshot. She recalled her physics professor releasing a ball from high above his head and saying, 'And thus we see potential energy converted to kinetic energy.' Did any of those bouncing, skipping children know what 'kinetic' meant? Kate turned from the bright outdoor heat to the oppressive dark heat of the small schoolhouse.
Her eyes had not adjusted to the dark, so she almost walked into David Leland.
"Pardon me, Miss DeLong." David looked down at his hands in embarrassment. He stammered slightly as he continued. "I wanted to say that the bellicose behavior of the medieval church resulted in heinous acts of depravity."
Kate stood still for a moment, stunned. "Why David Leland Heywood, thank you. And may I say that you used each one of those vocabulary words perfectly." A smile crept onto her face, reflecting her inner transformation from jaded spinster-schoolmarm to joyous teacher. David looked into her face. Her joy faded as she thought of how much her approval meant to him.
So Kate, will you foil David yet again?
She thought of Joseph's wedding. She had fled outside to the back of the chapel, unwilling to watch him and his young bride, Margaret Henrie, return home to Panguitch. David, finding her in tears, had silently gathered her in his strong arms and rocked her back and forth. It was the first time any man had touched her since the disease caused her ankles to swell like mutated gourds. Clothing concealed the details of how the deformity thickened her legs and arms.
By the time she discovered the disease affected her breasts and privates, she'd almost not cared. After all, what man would ever know?
But that day, with the reality of David filling her senses, she'd realized that her body didn't know it was horrific, that no man could desire a woman trapped in such a prison. Her body felt the same heady delight that had coursed through her when Joseph had first kissed her. But she was no teenager. She'd gently but firmly extracted herself from David's embrace, thankful that a prior appointment made her excuse real.
She had never encouraged David, but his quiet kindness had not wavered. He never joined discussions of whether her own sin or that of another had caused her scourge. David simply accepted her.
The dark years at the Academy, and the darker reality of being pariah in her hometown, had scarred her soul. But his steady devotion had washed away her barriers. They had melted in his regard as the ice on the mountains evaporated in the heat of early summer. His faithfulness had freed her.
She never knew what he saw in that moment. But his face lit up like the sun at high noon. Perhaps her smile crossed the invisible line she'd maintained between them. He closed the distance between them, gathering her in a kiss.
When they broke for breath, he gently stroked her hair away from her forehead.
"Marry me, Miss Delong." As the silence stretched, he added, "Please?"
She couldn't help it. She laughed. The first laugh she'd uttered in five years.
"I will. I will.”
A scream echoed through the valley. Jessup stood in the copse of trees, barely breathing. Below the camp of the Faragund army teemed with movement. He pressed back against the tree behind him knowing that in the shadows of the dense trees he would be impossible to spot from below. The scene showed him what a bad idea being captured would be.My first thought is that we might be able to start slightly later, when the king stabs the scout; but I tried that, and it wasn't easy, so first I'll try a more straightforward cut of the introductory scene.
The wind brought the sound of the mages chanting. One of the scouts from Ilkasar hung bound by his hands from a tall stake, feet not dangling a handspan above the ground. The muscles of Jessup's jaw knotted, but saving the man wasn't even a possibility in the middle of an army that stretched nearly to the horizon. Jessup felt fairly sure it was the Faragund King who stood before the prisoner. Five mages stood, covered from head to foot in flowing black robes.
The king was of no great height, but massively muscled with a vast chest and arms. His biceps bulged from his gold brocade vest catching the bright sunlight. The man's blond hair flowed in a mass of braids to below his shoulders. On each of his cheeks, scars ran from mouth to hairline. Long strands of a blond mustache drooped from corners of his mouth.
He raised a long ceremonial dagger and plunged it into the scout's arm. The man gave a hoarse scream. Blood gushed and one of the mages rushed forward to catch the liquid in a bowl that glinted golden in the sunlight.
For the entire day Jessup had watched the scout being bled. The ground around him was black with it. At first they had simply let the blood drip into the dirt while the prisoner had refused to scream. Now his head drooped, and he hardly seemed alive. With each slash, they poured blood onto the stone altar standing nearby.
Jessup stared past the camp into the thick forest of oak to the east where giant trees reached toward the sky and a gentle dark settled between their columns of their trunks. He sucked in a deep breath to slow the pounding of his heart. He had seen horrors in his days, from the day his own people were slaughtered, but watching this was a twist to the guts.
Jessup forced his eyes back to the Faragund camp. The altar he recognized as one to the god Kanandra, but he wasn't sure what magic they were powering with this. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Khyle would want word of their movements though. Jessup doubted that any of Khyle's scouts had escaped.
He had told Jessup that he feared the Faragund had gained enough power to attack the Ilkasar Empire again. It had been twenty years since their last attack had failed, and the Faragund army was wiped out by the Ilkasar's Sharenta mages and the Ilkasar Imperial army. The hatred between the Faragund god Kanandra and his twin the goddess Urthus, whom the Ilkasar worshiped, mirrored the hatred between their followers. Stories still circulated about the fierceness of the fighting. Few families hadn't lost someone to the Faragund.
One of the mages near the king motioned to him and seemed to speak. The sound of the chanting changed, becoming softer but more insistent. Jessup shuddered. He had no magic but even he could feel the surge of power as the chants grew demanding. He sucked in his breath as the King plunged the dagger to the hilt into the scout's chest. Jessup gritted his teeth.
The mages' chanting again changed cadence, growing faster and faster. Smoke swirled around the altar.
The King ripped the dagger up the dead scout's chest. He jerked and sawed and then pulled out the dripping heart. Jessup thought he removed other parts, but with the king blocking his way to see exactly what was happening. He raised both arms over his head. Blood ran down his arms in rivulets as the mages chanted on and on, getting louder with every heartbeat. A roar from out of the smoke ripped the air.
The chanting stopped. Smoke from the altar drifted on the breeze. The king stood motionless watching. Then he turned and struck one of the mages a blow across the face, knocking the man to the ground. The conjuration, whatever it was supposed to do, hadn't made the King happy.
A scream echoed through the valley. Jessup stood in the copse of trees, barely breathing. Below the camp of the Faragund army teemed with movement. He pressed back against the tree behind him knowing that in the shadows of the dense trees he would be impossible to spot from below. The scene showed him what a bad idea being captured would be.Look at the critical data from the first several paragraphs:
The wind brought the sound of the mages chanting. One of the scouts from Ilkasar hung bound by his hands from a tall stake, feet not dangling a handspan above the ground. The muscles of Jessup's jaw knotted, but saving the man wasn't even a possibility in the middle of an army that stretched nearly to the horizon. Jessup felt fairly sure it was the Faragund King who stood before the prisoner. Five mages stood, covered from head to foot in flowing black robes.
The king was of no great height, but massively muscled with a vast chest and arms. His biceps bulged from his gold brocade vest catching the bright sunlight. The man's blond hair flowed in a mass of braids to below his shoulders. On each of his cheeks, scars ran from mouth to hairline. Long strands of a blond mustache drooped from corners of his mouth.
Jessup pressed his back against a tree, using the copse's shadows to hide from the teeming Faragund army encamped below.211 words to 135, or about 36%. Not bad as far as it goes. The picture is still static -- we're setting up for the knife thrust rather than starting with it -- but the reader has 76 fewer words to get through to get there.
An Ilkasar scout hung bound by his hands from a tall stake, feet dangling a handspan above the ground. Blond braids flowed down below his shoulders, and long strands of a blond mustache drooped from the corners of his mouth. On each cheek, scars ran from mouth to hairline.
Jessup's jaw muscles knotted, but the army stretched nearly to the horizon -- he couldn't save him.
A man -- Jessup thought it was the Faragund King -- stood before the prisoner. Though of no great height, he was massively muscled; gold brocade covered his vast chest and arms, glinting in the sunlight.
Five mages stood chanting nearby, covered from head to foot in flowing black robes.
The king raised a long ceremonial dagger and plunged it into the scout's arm. The man gave a hoarse scream. Blood gushed and one of the mages rushed forward to catch the liquid in a bowl that glinted golden in the sunlight."raised...and plunged" is cinematic and draws out the tension, so though I could cut it to just "The king plunged a long..." I don't want to do that.
For the entire day Jessup had watched the scout being bled. The ground around him was black with it. At first they had simply let the blood drip into the dirt while the prisoner had refused to scream. Now his head drooped, and he hardly seemed alive. With each slash, they poured blood onto the stone altar standing nearby.Cut:
Jessup stared past the camp into the thick forest of oak to the east where giant trees reached toward the sky and a gentle dark settled between their columns of their trunks. He sucked in a deep breath to slow the pounding of his heart. He had seen horrors in his days, from the day his own people were slaughtered, but watching this was a twist to the guts.
The king raised a long ceremonial dagger and plunged it into the scout's arm.105 words from 170: 38%. I lost some data, though: "thick oak forest" (not just a copse of trees) "to the east" (orientation) "gentle dark" (characterization of Jessup and the forest). I can fit that in later, as he starts to leave. [In the event, I didn't -- Jeanne will have to decide whether she misses it.]
Jessup winced at his hoarse scream and sucked in a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his heart. He had seen horrors in his days, even his own people slaughtered, but this twisted his guts.
They had bled the scout for the entire day. At first he had refused to scream, and they let his blood drip into the dirt. The ground was black with it. Finally, as now, a mage would rush forward to catch it in a golden bowl and pour it onto the stone altar nearby.
For the entire day Jessup had watched the scout being bled. The ground around him was black with it. At first they had simply let the blood drip into the dirt while the prisoner had refused to scream. Now his head drooped, and he hardly seemed alive.Technically, it's ambiguous whether the ground was black around the scout or around Jessup. Also, Jeanne couldn't easily replace "the prisoner" with "he" in the phrase "the prisoner had refused to scream" -- for just a fraction of an instant, the brain has to figure out whether "he" refers to Jessup or to the scout. To me, it just sounds wrong. If you found the original to be fine, then you might not care as much about the disambiguation I undertook here. As always, it's the author's call.
Jessup forced his eyes back to the Faragund camp. The altar he recognized as one to the god Kanandra, but he wasn't sure what magic they were powering with this. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Khyle would want word of their movements though. Jessup doubted that any of Khyle's scouts had escaped.I ended the last paragraph with a reference to the stone altar. Let's pick up there, and, since he was thinking (it's a flashback), we can continue the same paragraph with additional thoughts.
He had told Jessup that he feared the Faragund had gained enough power to attack the Ilkasar Empire again. It had been twenty years since their last attack had failed, and the Faragund army was wiped out by the Ilkasar's Sharenta mages and the Ilkasar Imperial army. The hatred between the Faragund god Kanandra and his twin the goddess Urthus, whom the Ilkasar worshiped, mirrored the hatred between their followers. Stories still circulated about the fierceness of the fighting. Few families hadn't lost someone to the Faragund.
[...and pour it onto the stone altar nearby.] He could see that it was for the Faragund god Kanandra, twin of the Ilkasar goddess Urthus -- their hatred for each other mirrored the hatred between their followers -- but he couldn't tell what magic they were attempting.141 words becomes 109: 23%.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Khyle would, though. He had told Jessup that the Faragund might attack the Ilkasar Empire again, for the first time in twenty years. Back then, Ilkasar's Sharenta mages and Imperial army had wiped out the Faragund army. Stories still circulated about the fierceness of the fighting. Few families hadn't lost someone to the Faragund.
Jessup doubted that any of Khyle's scouts had escaped.
One of the mages near the king motioned to him and seemed to speak. The sound of the chanting changed, becoming softer but more insistent. Jessup shuddered. He had no magic but even he could feel the surge of power as the chants grew demanding. He sucked in his breath as the King plunged the dagger to the hilt into the scout's chest. Jessup gritted his teeth.Little cuts: "One of the mages near the king motioned to him" seems a bit long. "near the king" and "to him" are prepositional phrases with the same object, but one uses a pronoun, so they can probably be condensed. Make it "One of the mages motioned to the king". (They're already near him; it doesn't matter exactly how near they are; we just need to show change related to the king, since the mages will explicitly change their chanting in a moment anyway.)
One of the mages motioned to the king and seemed to speak. The chanting became softer but more insistent. Jessup shuddered. He had no magic but even he could feel a surge of power. He sucked in his breath as the King plunged the dagger to the hilt into the scout's chest.52 words from 67: 22%.
The mages' chanting again changed cadence, growing faster and faster. Smoke swirled around the altar."again changed cadence" and "and faster" both serve to draw out the sentence. Jeanne might like the way this adds tension. Personally, I don't, so I'm cutting them. This is just a matter of taste, and Jeanne will have to decide what she prefers.
The mages' chanting grew faster. Smoke swirled around the altar.
The King ripped the dagger up the dead scout's chest. He jerked and sawed and then pulled out the dripping heart. Jessup thought he removed other parts, but with the king blocking his way to see exactly what was happening. He raised both arms over his head. Blood ran down his arms in rivulets as the mages chanted on and on, getting louder with every heartbeat. A roar from out of the smoke ripped the air.The only individual sentence that feels problematic here is "Jessup thought he removed other parts, but with the king blocking his way to see exactly what was happening." It's a fragment, for one thing, and I think we can tighten it even so.
The King ripped the dagger up the dead scout's chest. He jerked and sawed and then pulled out the dripping heart. He might have removed other parts, too, but his body blocked Jessup's view. He raised both arms over his head. Blood ran down his arms in rivulets as the mages chanted on and on, getting louder with every heartbeat. A roar from out of the smoke ripped the air.76 becomes 70: 8%, with one fragment fixed.
The chanting stopped. Smoke from the altar drifted on the breeze. The king stood motionless watching. Then he turned and struck one of the mages a blow across the face, knocking the man to the ground. The conjuration, whatever it was supposed to do, hadn't made the King happy.After the tension build-up, the short sentences here work very nicely to show an anticipation that goes unfulfilled.
The chanting stopped. Smoke from the altar drifted on the breeze. The king stood motionless. Then he turned and struck one of the mages across the face, knocking the man to the ground.49 becomes 33: 33%.
Jessup pressed his back against a tree, using the copse's shadows to hide from the teeming Faragund army encamped below.What do you think?
An Ilkasar scout hung bound by his hands from a tall stake, feet dangling a handspan above the ground. Blond braids flowed down below his shoulders, and long strands of a blond mustache drooped from the corners of his mouth. On each cheek, scars ran from mouth to hairline.
Jessup's jaw muscles knotted, but the army stretched nearly to the horizon -- he couldn't save him.
A man -- Jessup thought it was the Faragund King -- stood before the prisoner. Though of no great height, he was massively muscled; gold brocade covered his vast chest and arms, glinting in the sunlight.
Five mages stood chanting nearby, covered from head to foot in flowing black robes.
The king raised a long ceremonial dagger and plunged it into the scout's arm.
Jessup winced at his hoarse scream and sucked in a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his heart. He had seen horrors in his days, even his own people slaughtered, but this twisted his guts.
They had bled the scout for the entire day. At first he had refused to scream, and they let his blood drip into the dirt. The ground was black with it. Finally, as now, a mage would rush forward to catch it in a golden bowl and pour it onto the stone altar nearby. He could see that it was for the Faragund god Kanandra, twin of the Ilkasar goddess Urthus -- their hatred for each other mirrored the hatred between their followers -- but he couldn't tell what magic they were attempting.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Khyle would, though. He had told Jessup that the Faragund might attack the Ilkasar Empire again, for the first time in twenty years. Back then, Ilkasar's Sharenta mages and Imperial army had wiped out the Faragund army. Stories still circulated about the fierceness of the fighting. Few families hadn't lost someone to the Faragund.
Jessup doubted that any of Khyle's scouts had escaped.
One of the mages motioned to the king and seemed to speak. The chanting became softer but more insistent. Jessup shuddered. He had no magic but even he could feel a surge of power. He sucked in his breath as the King plunged the dagger to the hilt into the scout's chest.
The mages' chanting grew faster. Smoke swirled around the altar.
The King ripped the dagger up the dead scout's chest. He jerked and sawed and then pulled out the dripping heart. He might have removed other parts, too, but his body blocked Jessup's view. He raised both arms over his head. Blood ran down his arms in rivulets as the mages chanted on and on, getting louder with every heartbeat. A roar from out of the smoke ripped the air.
The chanting stopped. Smoke from the altar drifted on the breeze. The king stood motionless. Then he turned and struck one of the mages across the face, knocking the man to the ground.
Labels: grammar
I hadn't just blindly picked a school, because it was my parents' alma mater, either. I had been following the list of staff publications with some interest for the last few years. Mom wasn't kidding when she said Dad was one of the best organic chemists of his time. It's just that his time peaked in about 1962. Anyways, one of the professors in the organic chemistry department had been working on developing a strain of ergot resistant rye for years. He finally thought he had got it right, and the university was funding a full scale trial of the new rye, to the tune of ten acres, along with a matching trial on ten non-resistant control acres. They were going through a pretty elaborate process to keep it all buttoned up and prevent the ergot from drifting away free into the atmosphere, but I thought I could liberate a reasonable quantity of it for my own use. With Mom's hidden heartland acres to work with. I could be knee deep in ergot by the end of the next growing season.
It's really a sad commentary on our society that most people don't even know what ergot is anymore. In case you are wondering why I was so hot to get my hands on a quantity, the ergot fungus is what LSD was first synthesized from. Crazy, huh? They think now that that's how the Salem Witch Hunts got started – some funky rye bread was making the rounds, and BAM! Everybody went off on the same bad trip.
I had some ideas on how to extract the lysergic acid from the ergot and combine it was a couple of other tasty little items complements of Tab's home cookin' – a recipe all my own, that would let it pack a wallop, make sure the trip was a good one, and fly under the FDA radar detectors for a while.
It almost killed me trying to stay calm, cool and collected when, the first week of class, the prof I was stalking asked for volunteers to help him with his pet project. I could quote him chapter and verse on the papers he'd published in the last ten years. And, hey, professors don't get a lot of groupies. Plus, no one else had volunteered, so it's not like he had a big choice. It was just too damn early in the semester for any of these short-sighted college kids to be worrying about extra credit. Their loss,my immensely profitable secret gain.
I spent so much time hanging around the labs and doing odd jobs for the professor, that after a few weeks, nobody even bothered to ask me what I was doing anymore. I swiped a small amount of the ergot fungus, and a heaping helping of the non-resistant control rye seed. I like plants, and rye is not illegal. Mom, of course, really wanted me to do well in school, so she gave me five acres of my own on her little backwoods farm, and I was able to get it turned just in time for the grow season. In Michigan, everything grows, so it was pretty much a no-brainer. A little organic fertilizer, some of Mom's special Bug-Be-Gone spray, and voila! Rye crop.
Once the rye was successfully impregnated by the ergot, it was a downhill slide. I had enough of the fungus to psychedelicize the entire city of Detroit for about 100 years. And I was just getting started.
I really admired the creators of ecstasy, in an abstract sort of way, and this was the kind of success story I was shooting for. See, ecstasy is a combination of LSD and a stimulant, usually meth or cocaine (these are the components that stimulate all-important dopamine production). You get the fantastical trippiness of the LSD, driven by the dopamine ding-dong of the coke or meth. It was a pretty sound idea, overall, and I wasn't too proud to build on the work of those who came before me. I just wanted a dopamine driver that wouldn't show up on your basic four-panel drug screen.
Once I had the LSD, Mom and Fuzzwad and I developed the worst cases of chronic major depression ever seen in the Midwest, thanks to the floridly verbose professor in the psych class I elected. Between the depression and the doctor shopping and the fact that nobody had ever heard of someone getting addicted to anti-depressants, we ended up with enough prescription medication to sedate turn J.R. Ewing into a nice guy for an entire season.
Most amazing of all, out of nearly a hundred doctors we visited, a whopping seventeen of them left their prescription pads alone in the room with one of us at some point during their examinations. You know, somebody should warn them about people like us. Cautioning my troops (all two of them) to take a reasonable, not noticeable, amount of scrip papers from each pad, I was really in business. The pills were even simpler to break down and extract the psychoactive components of than the lysergic acid in the ergot had been. Being able to do it all on the university dime, with university's lab equipment only made it easier. I even got Mom in the building a couple of times to assist with the separations. You know, she really is a whiz in the lab. No wonder Dad was so crazy about her.
So, there was my recipe: one part LSD, which had combined nicely with an experimental steroid into a completely new molecule that packed twice the punch of its parents, while being completely unknown to the DEA, twenty parts super concentrated dopamine production stimulator, twenty parts – super-concentrated dopamine re-uptake inhibitor. Plus one small part of essence of safrole, just because I liked it. The lab mice liked it, too. Once Fuzzwad survived a dose and pronounced it “primo”, I was all set.
I hadn't just blindly picked a school, because it was my parents' alma mater, either.
I hadn't picked the school just because it was my parents' alma mater.
I had been following the list of staff publications with some interest for the last few years.
I had followed the staff publications for years.
Mom wasn't kidding when she said Dad was one of the best organic chemists of his time. It's just that his time peaked in about 1962.
And Dad really was one of the best organic chemists of his time -- though that peaked around 1962.
Anyways, one of the professors in the organic chemistry department had been working on developing a strain of ergot resistant rye for years.
Anyways, a professor was developing a strain of ergot resistant rye.
He finally thought he had got it right, and the university was funding a full scale trial of the new rye, to the tune of ten acres, along with a matching trial on ten non-resistant control acres.
The university was funding a full-scale trial, to the tune of ten acres of the new rye and ten non-resistant control acres.
They were going through a pretty elaborate process to keep it all buttoned up and prevent the ergot from drifting away free into the atmosphere, but I thought I could liberate a reasonable quantity of it for my own use. With Mom's hidden heartland acres to work with. I could be knee deep in ergot by the end of the next growing season.
Elaborate processes kept the ergot from drifting away into the atmosphere, but I thought I could liberate a reasonable quantity of it for my own use. Mom's hidden heartland acres would be knee deep in ergot by the next harvest season.
It's really a sad commentary on our society that most people don't even know what ergot is anymore. In case you are wondering why I was so hot to get my hands on a quantity, the ergot fungus is what LSD was first synthesized from. Crazy, huh? They think now that that's how the Salem Witch Hunts got started – some funky rye bread was making the rounds, and BAM! Everybody went off on the same bad trip.
It's a sad commentary on our society that most people don't even know that LSD was first synthesized from the ergot fungus. Crazy, huh? People think that's how the Salem Witch Hunts got started – some funky rye bread was making the rounds, and BAM! Everybody went off on the same bad trip.
I had some ideas on how to extract the lysergic acid from the ergot and combine it was a couple of other tasty little items complements of Tab's home cookin' – a recipe all my own, that would let it pack a wallop, make sure the trip was a good one, and fly under the FDA radar detectors for a while.
I'd extract lysergic acid from the ergot and add some of Tab's home cookin' – a recipe all my own that packs wallop, makes a good trip, and flies under the FDA radar for a while.
It almost killed me trying to stay calm, cool and collected when, the first week of class, the prof I was stalking asked for volunteers to help him with his pet project. I could quote him chapter and verse on the papers he'd published in the last ten years. And, hey, professors don't get a lot of groupies. Plus, no one else had volunteered, so it's not like he had a big choice. It was just too damn early in the semester for any of these short-sighted college kids to be worrying about extra credit. Their loss,my immensely profitable secret gain.
It almost killed me trying to stay cool when, the first week of class, the prof I was stalking asked for volunteers for his pet project. He didn't have much choice: it's not like professors get a lot of groupies, and it was too damn early in the semester for college kids to worry about extra credit. Their loss, my immensely profitable secret gain.
I spent so much time hanging around the labs and doing odd jobs for the professor, that after a few weeks, nobody even bothered to ask me what I was doing anymore.
After a few weeks of hanging around the labs and doing odd jobs for the professor, nobody bothered to ask what I was doing.
I swiped a small amount of the ergot fungus, and a heaping helping of the non-resistant control rye seed. I like plants, and rye is not illegal.
I swiped a little ergot and a heaping helping of non-resistant rye seed.
Mom, of course, really wanted me to do well in school, so she gave me five acres of my own on her little backwoods farm, and I was able to get it turned just in time for the grow season. In Michigan, everything grows, so it was pretty much a no-brainer. A little organic fertilizer, some of Mom's special Bug-Be-Gone spray, and voila! Rye crop.
Mom, of course, really wanted me to do well in school, so she gave me five acres on her little backwoods farm. I got it turned just in time for the grow season. In Michigan, everything grows, so it was pretty much a no-brainer. A little organic fertilizer, some of Mom's special Bug-Be-Gone spray, and voila! Rye crop.
Once the rye was successfully impregnated by the ergot, it was a downhill slide. I had enough of the fungus to psychedelicize the entire city of Detroit for about 100 years. And I was just getting started.
Soon I had enough fungus to psychedelicize the entire city of Detroit for about 100 years. And I was just getting started.
I really admired the creators of ecstasy, in an abstract sort of way, and this was the kind of success story I was shooting for. See, ecstasy is a combination of LSD and a stimulant, usually meth or cocaine (these are the components that stimulate all-important dopamine production). You get the fantastical trippiness of the LSD, driven by the dopamine ding-dong of the coke or meth. It was a pretty sound idea, overall, and I wasn't too proud to build on the work of those who came before me. I just wanted a dopamine driver that wouldn't show up on your basic four-panel drug screen.
I really admired the creators of ecstasy, and I was shooting for their kind of success story. See, ecstasy combines LSD with a stimulant, usually meth or cocaine, to stimulate the all-important dopamine production. You get the fantastical trippiness of the LSD, driven by the dopamine ding-dong of the coke or meth. I wasn't too proud to build on the work of those who came before me. I just wanted a dopamine driver that wouldn't show up on your basic four-panel drug screen.
Once I had the LSD, Mom and Fuzzwad and I developed the worst cases of chronic major depression ever seen in the Midwest, thanks to the floridly verbose professor in the psych class I elected. Between the depression and the doctor shopping and the fact that nobody had ever heard of someone getting addicted to anti-depressants, we ended up with enough prescription medication to sedate turn J.R. Ewing into a nice guy for an entire season.
Once I had the LSD, Mom and Fuzzwad and I developed the worst cases of chronic major depression ever seen, and since nobody ever gets addicted to anti-depressants, we got enough prescription meds to turn J.R. Ewing into a nice guy for an entire season.
Most amazing of all, out of nearly a hundred doctors we visited, a whopping seventeen of them left their prescription pads alone in the room with one of us at some point during their examinations. You know, somebody should warn them about people like us.
Most amazing of all, out of nearly a hundred doctors, a whopping seventeen left us alone with their prescription pads at some point. Somebody should warn them about people like us.
Cautioning my troops (all two of them) to take a reasonable, not noticeable, amount of scrip papers from each pad, I was really in business.
Cautioning my troops (all two of them) to take a reasonably small number of scrips from each pad, I was in business.
The pills were even simpler to break down and extract the psychoactive components of than the lysergic acid in the ergot had been. Being able to do it all on the university dime, with university's lab equipment only made it easier. I even got Mom in the building a couple of times to assist with the separations. You know, she really is a whiz in the lab. No wonder Dad was so crazy about her.
I could extract the psychoactive components even more easily from the pills than from ergot -- on the university's dime, with the university's lab equipment. I even got Mom in the building a couple of times to assist with the separations. You know, she really is a whiz in the lab. No wonder Dad was so crazy about her.
So, there was my recipe: one part LSD, which had combined nicely with an experimental steroid into a completely new molecule that packed twice the punch of its parents, while being completely unknown to the DEA, twenty parts super concentrated dopamine production stimulator, twenty parts – super-concentrated dopamine re-uptake inhibitor. Plus one small part of essence of safrole, just because I liked it. The lab mice liked it, too. Once Fuzzwad survived a dose and pronounced it “primo”, I was all set.
So, there was my recipe: one part LSD, blended with an experimental steroid into a completely new double-strength DEA-evading molecule, twenty parts super-concentrated dopamine stimulator, twenty parts super-concentrated dopamine re-uptake inhibitor -- plus one part essence of safrole, just because I liked it. The lab mice liked it, too. Once Fuzzwad survived a dose and pronounced it “primo”, I was all set.
I hadn't picked the school just because it was my parents' alma mater. I had followed the staff publications for years, and a professor was developing a strain of ergot resistant rye. It's a sad commentary on our society that most people don't even know that LSD was first synthesized from the ergot fungus. Crazy, huh? People think that's how the Salem Witch Hunts got started – some funky rye bread was making the rounds, and BAM! Everybody went off on the same bad trip.
Anyways, the university was funding a full-scale trial, to the tune of ten acres of the new rye and ten non-resistant control acres. I thought I could liberate enough ergot to get Mom's hidden heartland acres knee deep in it by the next harvest season. I'd extract lysergic acid from the ergot and add some of Tab's home cookin' – a recipe all my own that would pack a wallop, make a good trip, and fly under the FDA radar.
It almost killed me trying to stay cool when, the first week of class, the prof I was stalking asked for volunteers for his pet project. He didn't have much choice: it's not like professors get a lot of groupies, and it was too damn early in the semester for college kids to worry about extra credit. Their loss, my immensely profitable secret gain.
After a few weeks of doing odd jobs for the professor, nobody bothered to ask what I was doing. I swiped a little ergot and a heaping helping of non-resistant rye seed. Mom, of course, really wanted me to do well in school, so she gave me five acres on her little backwoods farm. I got it turned just in time for the grow season. In Michigan, everything grows, so it was pretty much a no-brainer. A little organic fertilizer, some of Mom's special Bug-Be-Gone spray, and voila! Rye crop.
Soon I had enough fungus to psychedelicize the entire city of Detroit for about 100 years. And I was just getting started.
I really admired the creators of ecstasy, and I was shooting for their kind of success story. See, ecstasy combines LSD with a stimulant, usually meth or cocaine, to stimulate the all-important dopamine production. You get the fantastical trippiness of the LSD, driven by the dopamine ding-dong of the coke or meth. I wasn't too proud to build on the work of those who came before me. I just wanted a dopamine driver that wouldn't show up on your basic four-panel drug screen.
Once I had the LSD, Mom and Fuzzwad and I developed the worst cases of chronic major depression ever seen, and since nobody ever gets addicted to anti-depressants, we got enough prescription meds to turn J.R. Ewing into a nice guy. Most amazing of all, out of nearly a hundred doctors, a whopping seventeen left us alone with their prescription pads at some point. Somebody should warn them about people like us. Cautioning my troops (all two of them) to take a reasonably small number of scrips from each pad, I was in business.
I could extract the psychoactive components even more easily from the pills than from ergot -- on the university's dime, with the university's lab equipment. I even got Mom in the building a couple of times to assist with the separations. You know, she really is a whiz in the lab. No wonder Dad was so crazy about her.
So, there was my recipe: one part LSD, blended with an experimental steroid into a completely new double-strength DEA-evading molecule; twenty parts super-concentrated dopamine stimulator; twenty parts super-concentrated dopamine re-uptake inhibitor -- plus one part essence of safrole, just because I liked it. The lab mice liked it, too. Once Fuzzwad survived a dose and pronounced it “primo”, I was all set.
Labels: fiction, short fiction
Micah slammed the bailing hooks into the last bale of hay in the cart. The bales were dusty and heavy and Micah's back ached from wrestling them over the cart's high sidewall. Ballard's sons huffed and sweated, stacking the bales Micah had unloaded against the back wall of their father's barn. The last bale thumped onto the barn floor, and Micah dropped the hooks and started slapping straw dust from his tunic.
"Can you handle those?" Micah nodded to the tumbled pile of unloaded bales in the middle of the barn floor. One of the brothers grunted, the other nodded. Micah climbed onto the driver's bench, and picked up the loose-lying reigns. Before he could twitch them, the carthorse ambled forward past the barn door and turned to the left, down the well-worn track to Ballard's house. Micah gave the reigns a tug just before the cart drew even with the front door. The horse looked back at him reproachfully. Father and Ballard stood in the doorway. Ballard was a big man, broad and sturdy, like most of the men that lived outside of the city. Father was larger still, a good four inches taller and broader across the chest. Both men were sun-dark and leathery, forearms corded from a lifetime of labor. Micah resembled his father, and took a secret pride in his inherited physical strength. He was careful never to boast of it, though. Strength was a gift of Thoth, and to boast of it without giving Him credit was to risk losing it.
As the cart drew up, the two men shook hands. Father climbed onto the bench beside Micah, and lowered the sack he was carrying into the cart bed. The horse started forward and turned left again, down Ballard's lane, heading for the cobbled stone road. Micah felt a thrill of pride at the road. The road ran parallel to the Great River though the center whole country, broad and straight from Great River's mouth at the edge of the desert in the south to the mountains in the north. Its whole length was cobbled stone, nearly three hundred miles all told. It had taken more than a generation to build, even with Thoth's aid, and Micah gloried in belonging to a people who could build such a thing. That, Father said, was the difference between their people and the outlanders. Their people were growers and builders who labored for Thoth, and were rewarded by Thoth in His generous mercy. Outlanders were thieves, selfish and godless. Pungent fresh cheese smells leaked from the sack. Micah's mouth fell open in unabashed desire.
"Close your jaw, boy; we'll be home for supper soon enough." Father said. Micah's teeth snapped shut, but his stomach growled.
"Any news from Ballard?" Micah asked, mostly to cover his embarrassment. Travelers on the River Road carried news, and they often stopped to buy feed or a bed in one of the spare rooms at Ballard's. Father leaned out of the cart and spit, careful to make sure his saliva did not land on the sacred road itself.
"More of the same, but worse. Outlanders raiding the southern herds. Big group of them rebuilt that bridge on the Little River near Alhay. They got a flock or two back across the bridge, and scattered what they didn't take. If the rumors are true, Thoth might be displeased with the number of cattle at the fall sacrifice."
"The Judges will recover the flocks," Micah said, believing it. Judges were invincible. "Especially if it is necessary to please Thoth at the sacrifice. They'll chase the outlanders across their own bridge into their own lands if they need to." Micah had every confidence that this was so. "Thoth is with them."
"Surely He is, as He's with all of us. Maybe even more so." Father nodded, then sucked on his teeth, like he did when he was thinking. There was more news. Micah waited. Father would tell him when he was ready.
"A Judge was killed during the raid."
Micah jerked back on the reigns involuntarily. The horse tossed its head and kept walking. "Not Jacob?"
"No, not Jacob, praise be to Thoth. Judge Asher of Alkut. He attacked the raiders alone on their way back to the bridge."
Micah's stomach unclenched. Anger replaced worry.
"There must have been a thousand outlanders to do such a thing! How many did he kill?"
"Ballard says he killed twenty, but rest of the brutes climbed over their own dead and got him."
"Dead?" Micah asked. Excitement and dread rose in his chest. Shame at the reaction followed. Judge Asher was one of Thoth's chosen, to whom the safety of Thoth's people was owed, and his passing demanded sincere mourning. Micah tried to conjure sadness, but the nervous excitement in his gut would not be ignored.
"Dead," Father said. "They'll have to hold trials three months from now, at the fall sacrifice, so they can anoint someone to replace him."
Micah released his breath slowly. There was going to be an anointing, and he was of age. It didn't happen for everyone. Judges were nearly invincible. Thoth protected them Even though they fought constantly against outlanders, they rarely died. They suffered losses so infrequently that many men went right through the age of eligibility without a chance to try. As Father had. Micah would turn twenty-six at the fall sacrifice. Three more months, and his time would have passed. Three months, and he would have been old enough to seek permission to marry. He had set his mind to marrying. But now a Judge was dead, and he, Micah, was still of age. A tremendous weight slammed into his shoulder and he jumped. It was Father's hand. Father was smiling.
"Don't worry, son. You're a powerful strong man—stronger than your brother was. We'll see about making you stronger still come fall."
Micah slammed the bailing hooks into the last bale of hay in the cart. The bales were dusty and heavy and Micah's back ached from wrestling them over the cart's high sidewall. Ballard's sons huffed and sweated, stacking the bales Micah had unloaded against the back wall of their father's barn. The last bale thumped onto the barn floor, and Micah dropped the hooks and started slapping straw dust from his tunic.
Micah slammed his hooks into the cart's last bale of hay. His back ached from wrestling the dusty bales over the high sidewall. Ballard's sons huffed and sweated, stacking the unloaded heap against the back wall of their father's barn. The bale thumped onto the barn floor, and Micah dropped the hooks and slapped hay dust from his tunic.
Micah dropped the last bale of hay onto the barn floor. His back ached. He hung his hooks on the side of the cart and slapped hay dust from his tunic.
Ballard's sons were stacking the heap of unloaded bales against the wall of their father's barn. ["Can you handle those?"...]
"Can you handle those?" Micah nodded to the tumbled pile of unloaded bales in the middle of the barn floor. One of the brothers grunted, the other nodded. Micah climbed onto the driver's bench, and picked up the loose-lying reigns. Before he could twitch them, the carthorse ambled forward past the barn door and turned to the left, down the well-worn track to Ballard's house. Micah gave the reins a tug just before the cart drew even with the front door. The horse looked back at him reproachfully. Father and Ballard stood in the doorway. Ballard was a big man, broad and sturdy, like most of the men that lived outside of the city. Father was larger still, a good four inches taller and broader across the chest. Both men were sun-dark and leathery, forearms corded from a lifetime of labor. Micah resembled his father, and took a secret pride in his inherited physical strength. He was careful never to boast of it, though. Strength was a gift of Thoth, and to boast of it without giving Him credit was to risk losing it.
As the cart drew up, the two men shook hands. Father climbed onto the bench beside Micah, and lowered the sack he was carrying into the cart bed. The horse started forward and turned left again, down Ballard's lane, heading for the cobbled stone road. Micah felt a thrill of pride at the road. The road ran parallel to the Great River though the center whole country, broad and straight from Great River's mouth at the edge of the desert in the south to the mountains in the north. Its whole length was cobbled stone, nearly three hundred miles all told. It had taken more than a generation to build, even with Thoth's aid, and Micah gloried in belonging to a people who could build such a thing. That, Father said, was the difference between their people and the outlanders. Their people were growers and builders who labored for Thoth, and were rewarded by Thoth in His generous mercy. Outlanders were thieves, selfish and godless. Pungent fresh cheese smells leaked from the sack. Micah's mouth fell open in unabashed desire.
[Ballard's sons were stacking the heap of unloaded bales against the wall of their father's barn.] "Can you handle those?" Micah asked. One brother grunted, the other nodded. Micah climbed the cart onto the driver's bench and picked up the reins. Before he could twitch them, the carthorse ambled past the barn door and turned left, down the track to Ballard's house. Micah was still several hundred yards away when he saw Ballard and Father in the doorway. Ballard was a big and sturdy man, like most of the country folk. Father was larger still, a good four inches taller and broader across the chest. Both men were sun-dark and leathery, forearms corded from a lifetime of labor. Micah resembled his father, and took a secret pride in his inherited strength. He never boasted, though. Strength was a gift of Thoth, and to boast of it without giving Him credit was to risk losing it.
Ballard and Father shook hands as the cart drew even with the front door. Father climbed onto the bench beside Micah and put a sack into the cart bed. The horse started forward and turned left again, down Ballard's lane, heading for the cobbled stone road. Micah felt a thrill of pride: the road ran broad and straight for nearly three hundred miles, paralleling the Great River from the desert at its southern mouth to the northern mountains. It had taken more than a generation to build, even with Thoth's aid, and Micah gloried to belong to the people who could build it. That, Father said, was the difference between their people and the outlanders. Their people were growers and builders who labored for Thoth, and Thoth rewarded them in His generous mercy. Outlanders were thieves, selfish and godless. Pungent fresh cheese smells leaked from the sack. Micah's mouth fell open in unabashed desire.
"Close your jaw, boy; we'll be home for supper soon enough." Father said. Micah's teeth snapped shut, but his stomach growled.
"Any news from Ballard?" Micah asked, mostly to cover his embarrassment. Travelers on the River Road carried news, and they often stopped to buy feed or a bed in one of the spare rooms at Ballard's. Father leaned out of the cart and spit, careful to make sure his saliva did not land on the sacred road itself.
"More of the same, but worse. Outlanders raiding the southern herds. Big group of them rebuilt that bridge on the Little River near Alhay. They got a flock or two back across the bridge, and scattered what they didn't take. If the rumors are true, Thoth might be displeased with the number of cattle at the fall sacrifice."
"Any news from Ballard?" Micah asked, mostly to cover his embarrassment. Travelers on the River Road often stopped at Ballard's for feed or a bed, and they carried news. Father leaned out of the cart and spat, making sure his saliva did not land on the sacred road.
"The Judges will recover the flocks," Micah said, believing it. Judges were invincible. "Especially if it is necessary to please Thoth at the sacrifice. They'll chase the outlanders across their own bridge into their own lands if they need to." Micah had every confidence that this was so. "Thoth is with them."
"Surely He is, as He's with all of us. Maybe even more so." Father nodded, then sucked on his teeth, like he did when he was thinking. There was more news. Micah waited. Father would tell him when he was ready.
"A Judge was killed during the raid."
Micah jerked back on the reigns involuntarily. The horse tossed its head and kept walking. "Not Jacob?"
"No, not Jacob, praise be to Thoth. Judge Asher of Alkut. He attacked the raiders alone on their way back to the bridge."
Micah's stomach unclenched. Anger replaced worry.
"There must have been a thousand outlanders to do such a thing! How many did he kill?"
"Ballard says he killed twenty, but rest of the brutes climbed over their own dead and got him."
"Dead?" Micah asked. Excitement and dread rose in his chest. Shame at the reaction followed. Judge Asher was one of Thoth's chosen, to whom the safety of Thoth's people was owed, and his passing demanded sincere mourning. Micah tried to conjure sadness, but the nervous excitement in his gut would not be ignored.
"Dead," Father said. "They'll have to hold trials three months from now, at the fall sacrifice, so they can anoint someone to replace him."
"The Judges will recover the flocks," Micah said. Judges were invincible. "Especially to please Thoth at the sacrifice. They'll chase the outlanders across their own bridge into their own lands if they need to. Thoth is with them."
"Surely He is, as He's with all of us. Maybe more so." Father nodded, then sucked on his teeth. There was more news. Micah waited. Father would tell him when he was ready.
"A Judge was killed during the raid."
Micah jerked back on the reins involuntarily. The horse tossed its head and kept walking. "Not Jacob?"
"No, not Jacob, praise be to Thoth. Judge Asher of Alkut. He attacked the raiders alone on their way back to the bridge."
Micah's stomach unclenched. Anger replaced worry.
"It must have taken a thousand outlanders! How many did he kill?"
"Ballard says twenty, but the brutes climbed over their dead and got him."
"Dead?" Excitement and dread rose in Micah's chest, followed by shame. Judge Asher was one of Thoth's chosen, and his passing demanded sincere mourning. Micah tried to conjure sadness, but the nervous excitement in his gut would not be ignored.
"Dead," Father said. "They'll hold trials three months from now, at the fall sacrifice, so they can anoint someone to replace him."
Micah released his breath slowly. There was going to be an anointing, and he was of age. It didn't happen for everyone. Judges were nearly invincible. Thoth protected them Even though they fought constantly against outlanders, they rarely died. They suffered losses so infrequently that many men went right through the age of eligibility without a chance to try. As Father had. Micah would turn twenty-six at the fall sacrifice. Three more months, and his time would have passed. Three months, and he would have been old enough to seek permission to marry. He had set his mind to marrying. But now a Judge was dead, and he, Micah, was still of age. A tremendous weight slammed into his shoulder and he jumped. It was Father's hand. Father was smiling.
"Don't worry, son. You're a powerful strong man—stronger than your brother was. We'll see about making you stronger still come fall."
Micah released his breath slowly. There was going to be an anointing, and he was of age. It didn't happen for everyone. Judges rarely died, even though they fought constantly against outlanders. Many men went right through the age of eligibility without a chance to try. As Father had. Micah would turn twenty-six at the fall sacrifice, just three months before his time would have passed. Three months, and he could have sought permission to marry instead. He had set his mind to marrying. But now a Judge was dead, and he, Micah, was still of age. The tremendous weight of Father's hand slammed into his shoulder and he jumped. Father was smiling.
"Don't worry, son. You're a powerful strong man—stronger than your brother was. We'll make you stronger still come fall."
Micah dropped the last bale of hay onto the barn floor. His back ached. He hung his hooks on the side of the cart and slapped dust from his tunic.
Ballard's sons were stacking the heap of unloaded bales against the wall of their father's barn. "Can you handle those?" Micah asked. One brother grunted, the other nodded. Micah climbed onto the cart. As he took the reins, the carthorse ambled past the barn door and turned left, down the track to Ballard's house. Micah was still several hundred yards away when he saw Ballard and Father in the doorway. Ballard was big, a sturdy man, like most of the country folk. Father was larger still, a good four inches taller and broader across the chest. Both men were sun-dark and leathery, forearms corded from a lifetime of labor. Micah resembled his father, and took a secret pride in his inherited strength. He never boasted, though. Strength was a gift of Thoth, and to boast of it without giving Him credit was to risk losing it.
Ballard and Father shook hands as the cart drew even with the front door. Father climbed onto the bench beside Micah and put a sack into the cart bed. The horse started forward and turned left again, down Ballard's lane, heading for the cobbled stone road. Micah felt a thrill of pride: the road ran broad and straight for nearly three hundred miles, paralleling the Great River from its southern mouth in the desert to the northern mountains. It had taken more than a generation to build, even with Thoth's aid, and Micah gloried to belong to the people who could build it. That, Father said, was the difference between their people and the outlanders. Their people were growers and builders who labored for Thoth, and Thoth rewarded them in His generous mercy. Outlanders were thieves, selfish and godless.
Pungent fresh cheese smells leaked from the sack. Micah's mouth fell open in unabashed desire.
"Close your jaw, boy, we'll be home for supper soon enough," Father said. Micah's teeth snapped shut, but his stomach growled.
"Any news from Ballard?" Micah asked, mostly to cover his embarrassment. Travelers on the River Road often stopped at Ballard's for feed or a bed. Father leaned out of the cart and spat, making sure his saliva did not land on the sacred road.
"More of the same, but worse. Outlanders raiding the southern herds. Big group of them rebuilt that bridge on the Little River near Alhay. They got a flock or two back across the bridge, and scattered what they didn't take. If the rumors are true, Thoth might be displeased with the number of cattle at the fall sacrifice."
"The Judges will recover the flocks," Micah said. Judges were invincible. "Especially for the sacrifice. They'll chase the outlanders across their bridge into their own lands if they need to. Thoth is with them."
"Surely He is, as He's with all of us. Maybe more so." Father nodded, then sucked on his teeth. There was more news. Micah waited. Father would tell him when he was ready.
"A Judge was killed during the raid."
Micah jerked back on the reins involuntarily. The horse tossed its head and kept walking. "Not Jacob?"
"No, not Jacob, praise be to Thoth. Judge Asher of Alkut. He attacked the raiders alone on their way back to the bridge."
Micah's stomach unclenched. Anger replaced worry.
"It must have taken a thousand outlanders! How many did he kill?"
"Ballard says twenty, but the brutes climbed over their dead and got him."
"Dead?" Excitement and dread rose in Micah's chest, followed by shame. Judge Asher was one of Thoth's chosen, and his passing demanded sincere mourning. Micah tried to conjure sadness, but the nervous excitement in his gut would not be ignored.
"Dead," Father said. "They'll hold trials three months from now, at the fall sacrifice, so they can anoint someone to replace him."
Micah released his breath slowly. There was going to be an anointing, and he was of age. It didn't happen for everyone. Judges rarely died, even though they fought constantly against outlanders. Many men went right through the age of eligibility without a chance to try. As Father had. Micah would turn twenty-six at the fall sacrifice, just three months before his time would have passed. Three months, and he could have sought permission to marry instead. He had set his mind to marrying. But now a Judge was dead, and he, Micah, was still of age. The tremendous weight of Father's hand slammed into his shoulder, and he jumped. Father was smiling.
"Don't worry, son. You're a powerful strong man—stronger than your brother was. We'll make you stronger still come fall."
Pantroth was a thief.Super. Character, conflict, goal, and ghosts. Let's start.
He pushed a stolen dinghy out into the Gray Channel. The dark waters were frigid this early in summer, but for the promise of twenty gold coins, it had to be done. He was bound for Nillith, called the Dark Isle, where the exiled wizards abode -- and where he would find the tome that would earn his pay. He would identify it by the dragon that was engraved upon the spine, for he could not read.
He leaned over the side of the dinghy and rolled in. The oars shifted; they clacked together and against the boat. Pantroth looked around to see if the noise had aroused anyone. The locals were all fishermen, and even the theft of a dinghy could get him lynched.
His pulse raced. He hadn’t become a thief for the excitement – though he had to admit he’d developed a taste for it. He thieved because of the need to eat. No mother or father had ever laid claim to him, no tradesman would apprentice a street rat, and the army wasn’t for him. When he saw no lanterns spring to life, he eased the oars over the side and rowed. There was a chance someone waited in the shadows, but he couldn’t wait to find out. He watched the Port of Bree shrink in the distance.
The Dark Isle wasn’t far. It was centered in the southern mouth of the Gray Channel. Even in the dark, he could see the thick bank of fog that ringed it. Small fingers of energy snatched at unseen targets in varying depths of the fog. The result was a haunting, sapphire-blue illumination. When it flashed just so, he could see the black spires that stabbed toward the sky like the Underlord’s teeth.
Pantroth swallowed hard. He remembered the tales of sailors swallowed by mist that surrounded the Dark Isle; good, experienced seamen that entered the foggy wreath and never left. It was said that the half-rotten corpses still patrolled the mist, searching for lost souls to devour.
That was but one good reason that Pantroth hated magic. A man shouldn’t have to fear the remnants of his own people. It just wasn’t right. But, for twenty gold coins, he would sneak into the Underworld and steal its master’s scythe, if he had to.
As the dinghy’s bow crossed the mist, Pantroth could have sworn he felt resistance. It felt like something was holding the small boat back. He expected to turn and find the death-grin of a weathered corpse, whose ragged hands held tight the dinghy’s bow. But, when he turned he saw nothing and the boat felt free of restriction.
It was just a crosscurrent what had you, he told himself. What would a ghost want with you? You’ve not even seen twenty-four summers, yet. Besides, you’d taste like bung. You’ve not bathed in nigh a week.
When he looked again to the mist, he shivered. He wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t about to enter the Underlord’s lair.
As the mist grew thicker and became a true fog, he glimpsed odd shapes. Mast and sail would become clear for a moment and then fade into the thick gray clouds. Then the noiseless sight of a trireme’s oars would propel it across a thin layer of mist. All manner of strange craft did he see, for a time, in the fog. But nary a ghost stood on a prow, nor bent back for an oar, for he looked to them as they passed.
Wizards and their love of wicked things, thought Pantroth. A man what has seen enough must either become a tainted soul, or mad as a galley rat. He hoped his reason would hold out long enough to collect that twenty gold coins.
The visions disappeared and then came the sounds. Eerie, high pitched shrills, like that of a banshee. Screams and laments that chilled the bone. And the whispers –- Pantroth shuddered -– the whispered mutterings of hundreds of bodiless souls. When Pantroth had realized he squeezed his eyes shut, he made the effort to open them, and keep them open.
It got worse. There were forms made of the mist that took on human shapes. The lamenting spirits circled his dinghy. Some reached out and implored him for help; others turned away, as if afraid for Pantroth to see them. Pantroth muttered, “Give me strength,” to the Allfather, but it lacked the conviction of faith. The Allfather wasn’t known for mercy or kindness, and Pantroth had never seen a miracle – at the least, not a good one.
Then it happened, the most horrible thing of all: a wayward spirit spoke to him. “Turn back, thief,” she said. “Turn back, while you still can.”
Just as he was at his limit, when he’d been about to backpedal and come about with all speed, the bow one again pierced the mist and led him free of it. He heard the spirit’s voice thin with the mist: “Turn back…”
The moon and stars shone clear as Pantroth drifted toward the raised isle. When the black spires towered over him, Pantroth didn’t know whether to be more relieved or afraid. Light blazed in some of the slotted windows, but it was a green light and from an unnatural flame. He could see the glares from the uneven arrow-tipped iron fence that encased the Dark Isle like an old weathered crown. As the island rose out of the drink, it tapered to a sheer rise. One thing was certain, Pantroth decided: this task wasn’t going to be easy.
“Bugger!” he whispered.
He took deep breaths and tried to calm himself. It was hard to shake a spirit’s warning. It had just been magic, he supposed. The mist was a barrier. Everything in it had been designed to stop free travel.
Pantroth was a thief.This clearly isn't necessary for the story -- there are other ways to convey the information -- but IB might want to keep it for effect. I have to question it, though: it's a lot of space to give to two data points (name and occupation). A line of text with 12-point Courier and 1" margins is 64 characters long: he uses only 21 of them. How about incorporating it into the next paragraph?
He pushed a stolen dinghy out into the Gray Channel. The dark waters were frigid this early in summer, but for the promise of twenty gold coins, it had to be done. He was bound for Nillith, called the Dark Isle, where the exiled wizards abode -- and where he would find the tome that would earn his pay. He would identify it by the dragon that was engraved upon the spine, for he could not read.There are a lot of sentences using a form of "to be" here, which is a tipoff that we might be able to cut pretty deeply. On the other hand, this section is dense with data: time, place, goal, motivation, geography, people, illiteracy. There's not much characterization, but there is some, implicit.
Pantroth the thief strained at the oars of his stolen dinghy. His pulse raced, but no shouts broke the night, no lanterns sprang to life. There might be a fisherman of Bree waiting in the shadows to catch him, but he couldn't wait to find out."strained at the oars" might be a cliche, but I'm still in draft at the moment, so I'll go with it.
The Gray Channel was frigid this early in summer, but for twenty gold coins he would brave it. He was bound for Nillith, the Dark Isle, where the exiled wizards abode, to find a tome he could identify only by the dragon engraved upon its spine -- for he could not read.
Soon Pantroth saw the Dark Isle, ringed with thick fog in the southern mouth of the Gray Channel. Small fingers of energy snatched at unseen targets, providing a haunting, sapphire-blue illumination; sometimes it flashed just so, exposing black spires that stabbed toward the sky like the Underlord’s teeth. Sailors told of of good, experienced seamen that entered the foggy wreath and never left, and of half-rotten corpses that still patrolled the mist, searching for lost souls to devour.Better. We got rid of about 40% of the words, and kept most of the data, hopefully without losing the feel of the piece. If we feel like we really need to explicitly say that he hates magic, or to keep the mother / father / tradesman / army sentence, we can add that text back in -- but I think it's really not necessary. I'd rather get to the action.
He swallowed hard. A man shouldn’t have to fear the remnants of his own people.
But for twenty gold coins, he would sneak into the Underworld and steal its master’s scythe. He had become a thief because he needed to eat, not for the excitement -- though he had to admit he’d developed a taste for it.
As the dinghy’s bow crossed the mist, Pantroth could have sworn he felt resistance. It felt like something was holding the small boat back. He expected to turn and find the death-grin of a weathered corpse, whose ragged hands held tight the dinghy’s bow. But, when he turned he saw nothing and the boat felt free of restriction.I don't want to wholly eliminate the eerie feeling of crossing the mist, so I'll leave the paragraph in place. There's a redundancy: "he felt resistance" means almost the same thing as "something was holding the small boat back". Some other words can probably be tightened up as well. "the dinghy" and "the small boat" are redundant, too, but I'm not sure I want to cut one -- the feeling of smallness in the fog is important for the mood. There's also the expectation of turning and the actual turning, which should be condensed.
As the dinghy’s bow crossed the mist, something seemed to hold the small boat back. Pantroth turned, expecting to find the death-grin of a weathered corpse, with ragged hands holding tight the dinghy’s bow. But he saw nothing, and the boat felt free of restriction.
It was just a crosscurrent what had you, he told himself. What would a ghost want with you? You’ve not even seen twenty-four summers, yet. Besides, you’d taste like bung. You’ve not bathed in nigh a week.I don't want to lose this, either. It's good characterization. I'd like to trim out the "you" in most cases, but that's part of the character's voice.
When he looked again to the mist, he shivered. He wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t about to enter the Underlord’s lair.
Just a crosscurrent, he told himself. What would a ghost want with you? You’ve not even seen twenty-four summers, yet. Besides, you’d taste like bung. You’ve not bathed in nigh a week.
As the mist grew thicker and became a true fog, he glimpsed odd shapes. Mast and sail would become clear for a moment and then fade into the thick gray clouds. Then the noiseless sight of a trireme’s oars would propel it across a thin layer of mist. All manner of strange craft did he see, for a time, in the fog. But nary a ghost stood on a prow, nor bent back for an oar, for he looked to them as they passed.The language here is a bit archaic-sounding. More direct language might help get the images across more quickly and more transparently. But that's the author's choice, so I will keep that usage.
He began to glimpse odd shapes through the thickening fog. A mast and sail would become clear for a moment and then fade. A trireme’s noiseless oars would propel it across a thin layer of mist. All manner of strange craft did he see, but nary a ghost stood on a prow, nor bent back for an oar, for he looked to them as they passed.
Wizards and their love of wicked things, thought Pantroth. A man what has seen enough must either become a tainted soul, or mad as a galley rat. He hoped his reason would hold out long enough to collect that twenty gold coins.I'll leave this as is for now.
The visions disappeared and then came the sounds. Eerie, high pitched shrills, like that of a banshee. Screams and laments that chilled the bone. And the whispers –- Pantroth shuddered -– the whispered mutterings of hundreds of bodiless souls. When Pantroth had realized he squeezed his eyes shut, he made the effort to open them, and keep them open.There's a bit of a disconnect here in the imagery. The visions disappeared, he realized he had shut his eyes, and then forms made of mist took on human shape. So did the visions disappear or not? I'm going to go out on a limb and take out "The visions disappeared". Again, I'm editing, making actual changes to the imagery provided, rather than just cutting -- but this is a first draft, so as long as the author doesn't mind (and he told me he doesn't), I think it's reasonable to do so. I'm also going to make the "then came the sounds" part just a little bit more subtle.
It got worse. There were forms made of the mist that took on human shapes. The lamenting spirits circled his dinghy. Some reached out and implored him for help; others turned away, as if afraid for Pantroth to see them. Pantroth muttered, “Give me strength,” to the Allfather, but it lacked the conviction of faith. The Allfather wasn’t known for mercy or kindness, and Pantroth had never seen a miracle – at the least, not any good ones.
An eerie, high-pitched shrill broke the silence. More followed, screams and laments that chilled the bone. And the whispers –- Pantroth shuddered -– the whispered mutterings of hundreds of bodiless souls. He realized that he had squeezed his eyes shut; he forced them open.
It got worse. Misty forms took on human shapes; lamenting spirits circled his dinghy, reaching to him for help or cowering away. Pantroth muttered, “Give me strength,” to the Allfather, but it lacked conviction. The Allfather wasn’t known for mercy or kindness, and Pantroth had never seen a miracle –- at the least, not any good ones.
Then it happened, the most horrible thing of all: a wayward spirit spoke to him. “Turn back, thief,” she said. “Turn back, while you still can.”There's a bit of a disconnect here, too, in that the lamenting spirits of the prior snippet had "implored him for help", and yet it's shocking to him when a wayward spirit speaks to him. I assume that the previously mentioned spirits implored him nonverbally; that could be made explicit if the author chose.
Just as he was at his limit, when he’d been about to backpedal and come about with all speed, the bow one again pierced the mist and led him free of it. He heard the spirit’s voice thin with the mist: “Turn back...”
Then it happened, the most horrible thing of all: a wayward spirit spoke to him. “Turn back, thief,” she said. “Turn back, while you still can.”
He hit his limit. But as he spun himself to come about with all speed, the bow once again pierced the mist and led him free of it. He heard the spirit’s voice, thin with the mist: “Turn back...”
The moon and stars shone clear as Pantroth drifted toward the raised isle. When the black spires towered over him, Pantroth didn’t know whether to be more relieved or afraid. Light blazed in some of the slotted windows, but it was a green light and from an unnatural flame. He could see the glares from the uneven arrow-tipped iron fence that encased the Dark Isle like an old weathered crown. As the island rose out of the drink, it tapered to a sheer rise. One thing was certain, Pantroth decided: this task wasn’t going to be easy.I'm running out of time. Here's my edit. Note (a) rise / rose, (b) an attempt not to use too many adjectives, and (c) a slight rearrangement to facilitate a flow of ideas that lead from one thought to the next, which helps eliminate some words:
The moon and stars shone clear. The island tapered to a rise of black spires above him, and he felt unsure about whether he should be relieved or afraid. Light blazed in some of the slotted windows, but it was a green light from an unnatural flame. Eyes glared from the uneven arrow-tipped iron fence that encased the Dark Isle like an old weathered crown. One thing was certain, Pantroth decided: this task wasn’t going to be easy.
“Bugger!” he whispered.
He took deep breaths and tried to calm himself. It was hard to shake a spirit’s warning. It had just been magic, he supposed. The mist was a barrier. Everything in it had been designed to stop free travel.
He took deep breaths to calm himself, trying to shake the spirit’s warning. Just magic, he supposed. The mist was a barrier, and everything in it was designed to stop free travel.
Pantroth the thief strained at the oars of his stolen dinghy. His pulse raced, but no shouts broke the night, no lanterns sprang to life. There might be a fisherman of Bree waiting in the shadows to catch him, but he couldn't wait to find out.
The Gray Channel was frigid this early in summer, but for twenty gold coins he would brave it. He was bound for Nillith, the Dark Isle, where the exiled wizards abode, to find a tome he could identify only by the dragon engraved upon its spine -- for he could not read.
Soon Pantroth saw the Dark Isle, ringed with thick fog in the southern mouth of the Gray Channel. Small fingers of energy snatched at unseen targets, providing a haunting, sapphire-blue illumination; sometimes it flashed just so, exposing black spires that stabbed toward the sky like the Underlord’s teeth. Sailors told of of good, experienced seamen that entered the foggy wreath and never left, and of half-rotten corpses that still patrolled the mist, searching for lost souls to devour.
He swallowed hard. A man shouldn’t have to fear the remnants of his own people.
But for twenty gold coins, he would sneak into the Underworld and steal its master’s scythe. He had become a thief because he needed to eat, not for the excitement -- though he had to admit he’d developed a taste for it.
As the dinghy’s bow crossed the mist, something seemed to hold the small boat back. Pantroth turned, expecting to find the death-grin of a weathered corpse, with ragged hands holding tight the dinghy’s bow. But he saw nothing, and the boat felt free of restriction.
Just a crosscurrent, he told himself. What would a ghost want with you? You’ve not even seen twenty-four summers, yet. Besides, you’d taste like bung. You’ve not bathed in nigh a week.
He began to glimpse odd shapes through the thickening fog. A mast and sail would become clear for a moment and then fade. A trireme’s noiseless oars would propel it across a thin layer of mist. All manner of strange craft did he see, but nary a ghost stood on a prow, nor bent back for an oar, for he looked to them as they passed.
An eerie, high-pitched shrill broke the silence. More followed, screams and laments that chilled the bone. And the whispers –- Pantroth shuddered -– the whispered mutterings of hundreds of bodiless souls. He realized that he had squeezed his eyes shut; he forced them open.
It got worse. Misty forms took on human shapes; lamenting spirits circled his dinghy, reaching to him for help or cowering away. Pantroth muttered, “Give me strength,” to the Allfather, but it lacked conviction. The Allfather wasn’t known for mercy or kindness, and Pantroth had never seen a miracle –- at the least, not a good one.
Then it happened, the most horrible thing of all: a wayward spirit spoke to him. “Turn back, thief,” she said. “Turn back, while you still can.”
He hit his limit. But as he spun himself to come about with all speed, the bow once again pierced the mist and led him free of it. He heard the spirit’s voice, thin with the mist: “Turn back...”
The moon and stars shone clear. The island tapered to a rise of black spires above him, and he felt unsure about whether he should be relieved or afraid. Light blazed in some of the slotted windows, but it was a green light from an unnatural flame. Eyes glared from the uneven arrow-tipped iron fence that encased the Dark Isle like an old weathered crown. One thing was certain, Pantroth decided: this task wasn’t going to be easy.
“Bugger!” he whispered.
He took deep breaths to calm himself, trying to shake the spirit’s warning. Just magic, he supposed. The mist was a barrier, and everything in it was designed to stop free travel.
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