That was a fairly successful night. I added a more hooky beginning, and then revised the first scene I wrote last week, which seemed to be in fairly good shape.
Bryon’s also been kind enough to download my Vesterheim pictures, so I’ll start getting those cataloged and organized shortly.
Onward with a word count meter, and then…a snippet!
11178 / 90000 words. 12% done!
***
Nick snapped his black whip. His eyes flashed red, and he smiled toothily. The massive horses pulling his wagon were the fastest on and off earth. He wasn’t worried about being caught, but certainly, it would be worth the amusement factor to slow down, and let his pursuer think he had a chance.
He glanced behind him. Rattling about in the back, a wicker basket bounced off the floor. Its contents would stay safe because his magic would keep it so. Over the top of the cart, barely visible in the mist, he could see the sole rider, the most persistent of Feldspar’s loyal minions. Give me the precious cargo, he would say, or something equally cliche. Nick loved that you could count on the heroes and villains to react as expected. Thinking outside the box? Reserved, it seemed, for only an annoying few.
An armored war horse pulled alongside the wagon. The faerie that road him was obsidian black, with gold veins rivering his visible face and arms. “Stop!” he yelled over pounding hoofbeats. “Stop in the name of the king!”
Nick smiled broadly. “I wouldn’t stop for the highest king. Why would I stop for yours?”
The warrior was not to be pulled into any debate. “Give her to me.”
There it was, the good old dependable cliche. “Make me,” said Nick, playfully. “If you can.”
The horseman leaned toward the cart, his horse perilously close to its side. His arms scrabbled for Nick, beads of water condensing on his silver armor. Nick laughed heartily. The horseman snatched Nick’s arm, and pulled it away quickly, as though he had put his hand in fire. He scrambled for balance, clawing his way upright on his horse, which slowed in alarm.
It wasn’t enough. Cats liked to play with their mice longer, and Nick wanted to extend his claws. He pulled the reins, and his horses, well-trained to his hand, stopped. Nick climbed out of the wagon as the horseman thundered forward through the swirling mists.
Nick glanced up from under the brim of his wide hat. He removed his gloves on finger at a time, carefully. The horse thundered forward. Nick extended his hands, palms forward, and the mists of the borderlands iced solid, a silvery window Nick could see through.
Nick clapped his hands in glee as the horse slid into the wall. Red blood slicked down the ice to a paler pink. He was disappointed. He couldn’t tell if the blood was the horse’s or the rider’s, and he always liked to know.
Whistling, he climbed back into the wagon. The rest of Feldspar’s posse would ride out of the mists. He’d already left his calling card. It was time to make some real progress.
With a crack of the whip, the hooves of his horses left the ground. Only the whistling wind could keep up with Nick as he flew his wagon out of the faerie borderlands and into the green country of men.
