Tag Archives: v.m.sang

School

Memories 1. Early Schooldays

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They say you always remember your first day art school. Well I must be strange as I don’t specifically remember that day.

My first school was nearly a mile from my home. I don’t remember being taken by an adult at all, although I must have been for the first few days at least. What I do remember is walking with a girl a few years older than me. I can’t see this happening now: a slightly older child being allowed to take a 5-year-old to school for nearly a mile!

I remember my first teacher. Her name was Mrs Rose, and she was lovely. She had white hair and was rather plump. At least, that’s the picture I have of her all these decades ago. We all thought she was as old as the hills. She loved her ‘babies’ as she called us.

Then I went up to Mrs Buckley’s class. She was as different as you could imagine from Mrs Rose. She was very strict and ruled her class with a rod of iron (almost literally.) If you got your sums wrong, you got rapped across the knuckles with a ruler.

The desks were double desks with an inkwell in the right hand corner of each half. We weren’t allowed to use ink, though, as we were only just learning to write and would have made a mess. Pencil was the rule. By the way, we were taught how to hold a pencil. I wonder if children are taught to do so today as many of the young people I see hold their pens in a most peculiar way. Not a way where you can have fine control. I’ve tried it.

I don’t think that there was a fixed timetable. It seemed that the teachers taught what they wanted whenever the fancy took them. I say this, because we never knew when we were going to have what was called ‘painting’. It was always in the afternoon. Sometimes we’d go in after lunch and find the desks pushed together so four could sit facing each other. When this happened, we went into the classroom and said ‘Oh good! It’s painting.’ We never knew when this treat was going to happen.

Another thing that we enjoyed, but only happened from time to time, as I remember it was ‘drill’. This would now be called P.E. Drill consisted of going out into the school yard and lining up in rows. It was a bit like you see on films of the 2nd world war when soldiers are training. Marching on the spot, star jumps, arms up, out, forward and back. Things like that. We never played any team games. But we enjoyed our drill. It was outdoors, at least.

Strangely, I don’t remember having any friends at this school, but I did have an enemy. One girl bullied me. She used to hit me if I didn’t do what she said. Some of the other children were sympathetic, but no one would even consider going to a teacher about it.

I will continue with my early school memories in another post.

Do you have any early school memories? Let us know in the comments box.

If you would like to receive an exclusive, free short story by me, called The Haunted Table, simply click the link. This will take you to the page where you can download it. This story cannot be accessed by any other means.

Maria and Tom have bought an antique table for the old cottage they have bought. When they hear strange noises in the night that sound like crying, they worry their house is haunted, but the sounds seem to come from the table.

They set about trying to find what is causing the disturbances. The answer is stranger than either of them had thought.

(Clicking the link will add your email address to my email list, but don’t worry, you can unsubscribe immediately if you wish. Nor will you get any spam. I only send out an email each quarter, or if I have any exciting news–like a new release.)

Poetry

Leila. A Cat poem.

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I wrote a doggy poem not long ago and Geoff Le Pard commented ‘What next? A Kitty ditty?’

Well, I didn’t want to write one similar to the doggy one, so I wrote this about my daughter’s cat.

Leila.

Someone said, ‘ Does your daughter own a cat?’

I answered, ‘Not at all, but a cat owns her.’

The puss is named Leila, and if on her chair you sat

She sits at your feet and gives a hard stare.

A pretty cat, she has long tabby fur

But is not very sociable, not liking people much.

But on my daughter’s lap you can hear her purr

As she delights in my daughter’s touch.

One day my daughter’s husband sat on her chair.

This annoyed Leila so she got her own back.

She sat on the Sky box, which he thought unfair

As she glared at him with a look so black

.

She runs the whole family with an iron rod

But the rod is set in a velvet paw.

She knows in ancient Egypt she’d have been a god

And that  knowledge is enough for her.

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history

A French Chateau in the English Countryside

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Just before Christmas we visited Waddesdon Manor, near Oxford. It is an amazing place. It is certainly a French Chateau in the English Countryside.

It was pouring with rain when we arrived, and we had a long walk from the carpark up to the house. The path wound its way through silhouettes of soldiers, sailors and airmen to mark remembrance day.

$CoMmEntˆ

The house belonged to the Rothschild Family and was donated to the National Trust in 1957, and it is run by them and the Rothschild Foundation.

Built between 1874 and 1889 by Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild as a weekend home for entertaining, it contains many treasures. Baron Ferdinand bought the estate from the Duke of Marlborough, but it had no house, park or garden, being an agricultural estate.

Baron Ferdinand wanted to build a house similar to the chateaux in France. I think he succeeded.

$CoMmEntˆ

On Baron Ferdinand’s death, the estate passed to his sister, Alice, who continued to add to the treasures to be found there.

$CoMmEntˆ

You can see from these pictures I took, that the rain did stop and the sun came out!

Sadly, the pictures I took inside are not good. Many are blurred for some reason, so I’m not going to post them, but trust me, it’s an amazing place. If you are ever near to it, I suggest you visit.

The Rothschild family was originally from Frankfurt and rose to prominence first in the 18th century. They managed to establish a successful banking business that was continued through  Mayer Amschel Rothschild‘s five sons who went on to establish businesses in England, Italy, Germany, Austria and Germany.

On their coat of arms, in two quarters, are fists holding five arrows. This is symbolic of the five sons, we were told at Waddesdon. They, like five arrows fired from a bow, went on to establish their banks in the five different countries, mentioned above.

In the village of Waddesdon is an inn called The Five Arrows. We stayed there and found it excellent, with wonderful food. I would recommend it to anyone.

Do feel free to share this post, or any others. Just refer back to this website if you do.

If you would like to receive an exclusive, free short story by me, called The Haunted Table, simply click the link. This will take you to the page where you can download it.

Maria and Tom have bought an antique table for the old cottage they have bought. When they hear strange noises in the night that sound like crying, they worry their house is haunted, but the sounds seem to come from the table.

They set about trying to find what is causing the disturbances. The answer is stranger than either of them had thought.

(Clicking the link will add your email address to my email list, but don’t worry, you can unsubscribe immediately if you wish. Nor will you get any spam. I only send out an email each quarter, or if I have any exciting news–like a new release.)

fantasy, novel, stories

Extract from my latest work in progress.

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I don’t seem to be getting on very well with Book 4 of The Wolves of Vimar. Somehow, life keeps getting in the way. Anyway, it’s currently undergoing critiques from a couple of online critique groups I’m in. As it’s chapter by chapter, and I need to do crits for others before I can post, it’s a long process. Still, we’ll get there. Eventually!

I’m still waiting to hear about my poetry book. It’s been nearly 5 months now, but I hope it won’t be much longer. I’d self-publish it, but as it has pictures, and the formatting of poetry is not straightforward, I’m reluctant to go down that road.

For your delectation, today I’m going to post a bit from Immortal’s Death, Book 4 of the Wolves of Vimar series. Please, remember, though, that this is just the first draft, so might not be perfect. In fact, it’s unlikely to be perfect!

Here Goes.

This is from near the beginning of the book. Thadora was brought up as a thief in the Warren at Hambara, but she was recognised as a daughter to the Duke of Hambara when he saw her remarkable resemblance to his grandmother. He adopted her, thus legitimising her.

Here, Thadora is attending the wedding of her sister, Randa, the duke’s elder daughter, to Prince Almoro. It’s rather long, so my apologies.

Thadora

Outside the great banqueting hall in the palace, Thadora found herself standing next to Sandron, brother to Duke Larrin of Sendolina.

“Have you seen Larrin?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He must be here somewhere. There are so many people it’s easy to miss someone.”

Sandron frowned. “I didn’t see him in the temple, either, but you’re right, he’ll be here somewhere. Allow me to escort you into the banqueting hall, Lady Thadora.” He bowed.

Thadora giggled. “Now you’re Sandron, the courtier. Different from when we first met.”

They had met when a group of bandits, led by Sandron, captured Wolf after they found Sauvern’s Sword. The youngest son of the late Duke of Sendolina amused himself by leading these bandits, but Randa recognised him and he quickly released her and her friends when she promised not to tell his father how he had been amusing himself.

 Youngest sons often found they had little to do, and so long ago they formed a band of mercenaries and called themselves The Red Hawks. 

On Randa’s suggestion, Sandron recruited enough young men to form a new group, also calling themselves The Red Hawks in memory of the band from the past.

Thadora took Sandron’s proffered arm and the pair entered the banqueting hall. 

As they crossed the threshold, Thadora’s shoe caught in the hem of her dress and she staggered, hopping, as she tried to release her shoe without tearing it. “Zol’s balls, I’ve been promising myself I wouldn’t do that.” 

Sandron laughed as he managed to steady her. “Being the Duke of Hambara’s second daughter hasn’t improved your language any, has it? Nor your grace in a dress.”

Thadora pressed her lips together to prevent the swear word that rose to them, this time at Sandron. Instead she simply elbowed him in the ribs.

He groaned and rubbed the sore spot. “Sorry, Lady Thadora.”

Lady Thadora stared daggers at him. “Stop mocking me, Lord Sandron, or it’ll be the worse for you. I won’t always be in a dress.”

He laughed and Thadora joined in.

As the sister of the bride, Thadora was seated at the table next to King Perdillon unable to find words to say to her royal neighbour. 

I must mind my manners. I must mind my manners, she told herself, over and over again.

When the king spoke she thought he sounded so ordinary that she forgot about his royalty. He asked about her adventures and the formation of Wolf, and seemed genuinely interested in her answers.

“So this sword, the one that belonged to King Sauvern, is magical and will be needed soon?”

“Yes. Carthinal found a prophecy. But you know about that. He thinks this Branlow he met in Frelli is the Never-Dying Man, and can only be stopped by using the Sword.”

She looked around the room. The crowd made a continual buzz. How was Fero coping? He never liked crowds, and with Randa marrying someone else, it would be even more difficult.

As her eyes sought her friend, she noticed a couple of spare seats. 

She turned to Perdillon. “Who hasn’t come to the wedding? There are two empty seats next to the Duchess of Eribore.”

The king looked to where she indicated and raised his eyebrows. “I think that’s where my wife put Duke Larrin of Sendolina. I wonder why he’s not here?” He leaned across to Almoro.

“Duke Larrin isn’t here, Almoro. Do we know why?”

Almoro shook his head. “He answered the invitation saying he’d be here. It’s not like him to go against protocol.”

Thadora leaned forward. “Sandron was looking for him, too. He thought his brother should be here.”

“No doubt it’ll sort itself out. There must have been some emergency we’ve not heard about.”

The banquet continued through four more courses, then a messenger came and whispered something in Perdillon’s ear.

The king blanched, stood and left, apologising. 

His wife, Queen Helloria looked up. “What is it, Perdillon?” 

The king told her it was probably nothing, but he had to go and see someone. 

He returned shortly and walked over to where Duke Firbolt of Meridor sat next to his wife. The duke looked unwell. His health had not been the same since the mysterious illness that had killed King Gerim, and many of the dukes. The king bent and whispered something in his ear. The duke immediately stood, said something to his wife, and both hurried out of the room.

Without speaking to the master of ceremonies, who announced the speeches, Perdillon lifted the man’s gavel and banged on the table.

“May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen.” 

Silence fell as King Perdillon began to speak.

“I apologise to Almoro and Randa for this interruption to their wedding festivities, but there has been a serious event. It seems that the army of Erian has entered our territory. They have taken Meridor.”

A hubbub of voices broke out. Meridor had never been taken in battle until now. People called out asking questions, but the king banged the gavel once more.

“From what I have been told, Meridor capitulated without a fight.” 

Gasps were heard around the gathered crowd. 

Perdillon continued. “We have no idea why the Duke Firbolt’s steward surrendered without a fight. The duke has gone to find out. We also noticed the absence of Duke Larrin of Sendolina. We hope there isn’t a similar problem in that duchy.

“Again, I apologise to Almoro and Randa, but, in view of the situation, I’m calling an immediate meeting in the council room. Would the dukes please attend me there? The rest of you please continue with your meal.” 

The king strode out of the banqueting hall, followed by the dukes. 

Everyone else remained sitting in silence. The joyful occasion had turned sour, and few people wanted to eat anything more. 

Seeing this, Almoro stood. “This has spoiled a happy celebration. I’m sorry. I think we should abandon the meal. You can either leave for your accommodation, or we’ll meet in the ballroom. Thank you all for attending, and for the generous gifts you have given to my wife and me.”

~*~

Thadora spotted Carthinal across the room. His deep blue robe looked startling with his shoulder-length auburn hair, and almost matched his indigo eyes. He had trimmed his beard to a short stubble.

No doubt about it, he’s a handsome man.

Sitting next to him at a low table was his wife, the elf, Yssalithisandra. She had plaited her golden hair and wound it around her head. Her robe was a rich burgundy. She smiled at their daughter, Starralishinara, who played with a stuffed dragon.

Starr, as she was known, had her father’s auburn hair, and her mother’s blue eyes, paler than her father’s.

Thadora made her way over to them, accompanied by Randa and Prince Almoro. The three drew up chairs and sat. 

Sandron approached with the little dragonet, Muldee, sitting on his shoulder. Thadora exclaimed with delight at seeing this small relative of dragons. His iridescent scales gleamed in the light coming through the large windows on the south side of the huge room. They changed colour as he moved.

“You’re here, Muldee.” She tried to put her arms around the creature, but he flew into the air moments before her assault. “I thought you’d gone back to the lake to join your brothers and sisters.”

“I did, for a while, but after the excitement of living with Sandron, it was boring. When I came back, and Sandron told me Randa was getting married, I had to come. I wouldn’t miss the wedding of one of my friends.” He studied Randa. “You look lovely, Randa. But Sandron told me to stay away from the actual wedding. What did he think I’d do?”

Sandron tossed his head back and laughed. “I had no idea what you might do. That’s why I said you weren’t to come to the ceremony.”

Thadora looked around. The ballroom had been decorated in blue and white in a similar way to the great hall. Tables surrounded an open space in the centre of the room. 

I don’t suppose the dancing will take place now. That’s good. I would probably fall over my own feet and end up in a heap, the laughing stock of the whole court.

Thadora glanced towards the door where Queen Helloria entered with three year old Crown Prince Gerim. Dowager Queen Carrolla accompanied her. Seeing Randa and Almoro, they approached.  

The company bowed or curtsied to the two queens, Thadora barely managing to keep her balance as she stifled the swear word that sprang to her lips. If she swore in front of two queens, her father would definitely kill her.

“I am really sorry your wedding has been spoiled.” Queen Helloria shook her head and hugged Prince Gerim tightly. “I hope we can avoid a war with Erian. What’s this Master doing, attacking us? We’ve been at peace for so long.”

Little Prince Gerim squirmed. When the queen released him he ran towards Starr. Yssa and Queen Helloria moved off to discuss the merits of their children. 

Queen Carolla turned to Sandron. “I wondered why your brother wasn’t here. Do you think it’s anything to do with this crisis?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Sandron replied, “but I think Muldee, here, might be able to help find out.”

“Ah, yes, your little dragonet. I heard…”

Muldee interrupted the queen dowager. “I’m not his little dragonet. I’m my own little dragonet. I’m not a pet to be owned by someone.”

Thadora stifled a grin that Muldee should speak so to a queen, but the monarch smiled.

“My apologies, Muldee. How can you help find out?”

“You might have heard we dragonets are telepathic. We can hear people’s thoughts. Oh, not everybody, and not all the time.” He giggled. “But it’s fun sometimes to listen to the thoughts of people if they don’t know about blocking.”

“Stop chattering, Muldee.” Sandron turned to the queen who had a slight frown on her face. “I apologise, Your Majesty. Muldee has no idea of rank and treats everyone the same. As to hearing your thoughts, he rarely tries, and even if he does, most people are not telepathic.”

The queen smoothed her face and smiled. “What’s your idea about finding out about your brother?”

“I can ask Muldee to go to Sendolina. It will be much better than sending someone on a horse. He can slip in, listen to people’s thoughts and find out what’s going on.”

“What a good idea.” The queen dowager beckoned to Sandron. “Follow me. We must put this to my son.”

When Sandron and the queen dowager left, the other members of Wolf approached. 

Asphodel smoothed the white robes that showed her as a priestess of Sylissa, the goddess of healing. She curtsied to Prince Almoro before sitting next to Randa. 

Thadora watched The Cat as he squirmed in his seat. She understood why the small thief was uncomfortable. Not long ago he had been a wanted man in Bluehaven and had fled to avoid capture. Now he was here in the royal palace in the company of members of the royal family. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and looked everywhere except at the prince and the queen.

Grimmaldo looked at ease in his yellow robes. She liked the young mage. He made her laugh with his sense of  fun. He did not talk much about his family, but she understood he came from Frind, in the far north, and that his family had been well off merchants. 

Many guests sat on chairs assembled around small tables surrounding the dance floor. From what Thadora could hear, most were discussing the missing duke.

Footmen strolled around the room with glasses of wine and fruit juice. 

All the members of Wolf chose to drink fruit juice, although Basalt exclaimed he would have preferred a good glass of dwarf spirits.

Thadora watched Fero as he looked sharply at the dwarf. “Bas, this is not the place for drinking dwarf spirits, nor any other strong drink. You know what happens when you start.”

“And you’ve never got drunk with me, ranger?” He glanced at Randa and Almoro. “I would have thought this was a perfect time for you to get drunk.”

Fero shook his head. “No, friend. It would spoil her day. That I will not do. I will, however, get blind drunk with you tonight. And perhaps tomorrow, too.”

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Memories of past winters

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With this energy price crisis, I thought about when I was growing up. What sparked this was when a woman on the radio complained about her children being cold in their bedrooms when they were getting up in the morning.

Here are some of my recollections.

Nowadays, we all take central heating for granted. And a wonderful thing it is in many ways. Our homes are, or can be, heated to a temperature we are comfortable with in every room. It was not always like this.

Once, when walking past a house that had recently been built, I was told, “That house has central heating.” On enquiring how one could tell, I was told. “It has no chimneys.”

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Chimneys were an essential part of homes at that time (1950s) because the only means of heating was coal. Every room had a fireplace, including bedrooms, although fires were only lit there if someone was ill enough to have to stay in bed. A fire in the living room was commonplace. It heated that room, but others were cold.

Fires need oxygen to burn, and so they drew in air from any gaps, such as under the door, creating a draught; hence the long sausages people put at the bottom of the doors. One thing I do remember is when we had a Baxi fire put in. This was a special grate that pulled air from outside along a tube that opened under the fire. A great invention. The draught could be adjusted so the fire would burn either high or low.

Image by José Cláudio Guimarães JCGuimaraes from Pixabay

Another disadvantage of having fires was that they need solid fuel. Coal was kept in either a coal bunker or a coal house. These were, of course, outside, and so occasionally someone had to go out to get the coal in. Coal scuttles were filled, of course, but the coal never lasted all evening. And the next day, someone had to go out in the cold to refill it.

Going from one room to another was always a cold experience, and bedrooms were cold. When going to bed at night, it was a rush to get into pyjamas as quickly as possible and under the blankets. Similarly, getting up in the mornings. Talking to friends from that era, they remember, as do I, getting dressed in bed.

I remember, on cold winter mornings, when there had been a frost, there were wonderful pictures on the window. Ferns, flowers, trees, all drawn by Jack Frost in the night. Sometimes the frost was on the INSIDE of the windows! Now we don’t see these pictures. Such a pity as they were beautiful, if transient.

Image by Eirena from Pixabay

Although I love my centrally heated home, I wonder if we really need to heat all our rooms in this time of economic crisis and with a soaring cost of energy. In ones we hardly ever use, perhaps we could turn off the radiators. It would save us fuel, and money, and also help the environment.

I also wonder if living in a constant warm temperature is actually good for us. We are warm, then go out into the cold. A recipe for catching colds, I think.

I didn’t intend for this to be as long as it is. I apologise. If you’ve got this far, Well Done.

If you would like to receive an exclusive, free short story by me, called The Haunted Table, simply click the link. This will take you to the page where you can download it.

Send me my free story

Maria and Tom have bought an antique table for the old cottage they have bought. When they hear strange noises in the night that sound like crying, they worry their house is haunted, but the sounds seem to come from the table.

They set about trying to find what is causing the disturbances. The answer is stranger than either of them had thought.

(Clicking the link will add your email address to my email list, but don’t worry, you can unsubscribe immediately if you wish. Nor will you get any spam. I only send out an email each quarter, or if I have any exciting news–like a new release.)

recipes

Peanut Butter Cookie Day

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Strictly speaking, this isn’t a recipe for cookies, but they are peanut butter based, so I think I can get away with it! I only just found out it’s peanut butter cookie day, so I’m late in posting.

I’m afraid I don’t have a picture for this. It’s a tray bake and I’ve not made it in a while. I would have made some for this post, but I’ve found I have no peanut butter!

Peanut Fingers

Ingredients

170g SR flour

125g caster sugar

4x20ml tablespoons peanut butter

½ x5ml teaspoon salt

2 eggs

60g peanuts (roasted)

85g margarine

2x20ml tablespoons milk

Method

Preheat the oven to 180C and grease a Swiss roll tin.

Sieve the flour and salt together and add the margarine cut into pieces. Rub into the flour.

Stir in the sugar.

Beat the eggs and milk together and stir into the mixture with the peanut butter.

Spread in the tray and sprinkle over with the roasted peanuts.

Bake in the centre of the oven for 25-30 minutes.

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Poetry

Spring. A Poem

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Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.

Newborn lambs frolic in fields.

New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows

And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.

At the edges of woodland the primroses glow

And cowslips their scent fills the air.

Anemones dance when the breezes do blow

And birds sing with never a care.

Then bluebells and campions come into bloom

Their colour the blue of the sea.

The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon,

His call echoing over the lea.

The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.

His notes are so pure and so clear.

Hearing him seems to banish the cold

And brings joy to all those who hear.

Robin is nesting, and other birds too,

The hedgehog is active once more.

The young of the deer and the badger and shrew

Play their games as in old days of yore.

The sun climbs higher and higher each day

Giving more of his heat and his light.

It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.

All smile at the beautiful sight.

Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.

What blessings will come with this day?

New starts can begin once again with each dawn

And send us all hopeful away.

I’ve submitted a book of poetry, including this one, to my publisher. I am currently waiting to hear if they’ve accepted it. I’ll keep you posted about it.

If you like my poem, please leave a comment in the comments box. Even if you didn’t, you can still leave a comment.

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Here’s a bit about the story.

Maria and her husband, Jack, have moved into an old cottage. They want to furnish it with period furniture and buy a medieval table.

That’s when the mystery begins. Strange sounds in the night. Have they bought a haunted house? But a medium tells them it is not a ‘lost spirit’, but something else she does not recognise.

What is it that is causing them to lose sleep? The answer is more unexpected than anyone thought.

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Introduction to a dragonet.

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A red outline of Muldee.

I am at the first edit of Book 4 of The Wolves of Vimar. It’s called Immortal’s Death. Once it’s gone through this edit, I’ll send it to critique partners to see what they make of it.

It will be some time yet before it’s ready to go to my publisher, though, but I would like to tell you a bit about one of my favourite characters.

This character began as a surprise in Book 1, The Wolf Pack. He helped the group known as Wolf to escape from capture by a band of hobgoblins. Then he disappeared until the end of book 3, making a brief appearance.

However, this character was not going to be left out. He did not want a bit-part, and so in this book he has quite an important role.

Who is he? I hear you ask.

Well, he’s not human, elf or dwarf. In fact he’s a small relative of dragons. He and his like are called dragonets, and he is called Muldee.

A dragonet looks to all intents and purposes like a small dragon. In fact, the members of Wolf though he and his siblings were baby dragons, until he put them right.

Dragonets, unlike real dragons, have iridescent scales. Real dragons have scales of a particular colour, but those of dragonets shimmer in blue, red, green, purple, yellow, white, you name it and you’ll see it there.

They cannot breathe fire or acid or anything else, like real dragons, nor are they magical, but they do have one talent.

Psionics.

Dragonets are telepathic, and also have a slight telekinesis ability. They can send what they call a ‘mindblast’ into the brain of another creature. They use this for capturing their prey, but it is insufficient to kill a large creature. If they want to kill or seriously harm something larger than a cat, a group of them will band together and use a co-ordinated mind blast.

A single dragonet is capable of giving a large creature a very nasty headache, though.

So much for the background. I’m going to leave more about Muldee for another post, probably next week. He’s quite a character. I’m sure you will like him.

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A 4*review for Vengeance of a Slave

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I recently discovered this review on Goodreads.

Barbara Ann Author

June 6, 2020

Adelbehrd and his family live in the Roman provinces. Their simple life is suddenly turned upside down when Roman soldiers come to exact revenge for a rebellion in which they played no part.

They randomly choose men to be examples. Adelbehrd’s father is crucified. He and his sister are singled out to be sold as slaves because of their blond hair. Torn from their grieving mother, the two terrified children are carted off to a far-off villa to be enslaved.

For many years, their monotonous life continues. One day, Adelbehrd discovers that his sister is about to be sold. A friend tells him about a group of Britons who rescue slaves. Adelbehrd is determined to protect his sister and hatches a plan to escape.
Will they be successful, or will they suffer the dire consequences?

The book appears to be well researched. The plot moves along and keeps the reader’s interest. I would recommend it to those who enjoy history and intriguing characters.

Thank you Barbara Ann for this kind review.

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the never-dying man

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From today, for 5 days only, The Never-Dying Man is for sale at a mere 0.99 (£ or $)

The above picture shows the western entrance gate to Frelli, the capital city of Erian. In the past, many wars had been fought between Erian and Grosmer, and Frelli developed as a fortress city. On this side, the Grosmer side, the gate and walls fill the narrow valley.

Here is a bit about the book.

After finding Sauvern’s Sword, the companions set off to help a friend rescue his child from kidnappers. Instead, they stray into Erian and find preparations for war. They are drafted into the Erian army but are recognised by an old enemy, who arrests some of them and takes them to Frelli, the capital of Erian, where they are put in jail.

The Master of Erian frees them and offers them work. Meanwhile, Carthinal has to face some unpleasant truths about himself. Is his desire to further his magical career more important than his friends and country? After they discover terrible truths about the Master and his magical research, they will need to escape in order to tell the leaders of Grosmer about the plans for war.

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And an extract.

Carthinal, Randa, Davrael, Kimi and The Cat have been taken to Erian’s capital, Frelli as prisoners. The Master of Erian has freed them and is treating them as valued guests, although they are not allowed to leave the castle.
There is a mysterious tower that all are forbidden to enter, and the Cat decides to climb the walls to find out what is going on.

Carthinal had said there would be traps, probably magical, but the Cat decided that no one would bother to put traps on a window so high above the ground. It had to be fifty feet at least. Glancing down, he saw that there were people beginning to move around in the courtyard below. Should he risk it now, or leave it till nightfall? Both were risky. At night, though, he would not be able to see well, and he judged that it was unlikely that anyone would bother to look up, and if they did, would not believe they saw someone climbing on the walls. People usually saw what they expected to see.

He decided to take the risk and go now. His curiosity as to what was in the tower was burning him up. Tell him not to go somewhere, and that is precisely what he wanted to do above all else.

Scrambling up onto the window ledge, he felt to his left. Yes, there was a secure hold. He gripped it with the fingers of his left hand then felt with his left foot. He quickly found a foothold, and then repeated the movement with his right hand and foot. He was now hanging, face pressed against the rough stone of the wall, next to his window. Moving with great care, he repeated the procedure and moved slowly to his left and the walls of the tower.

Twice he thought he was going to have to retreat as he could find no purchase, but then the smallest ledge made itself felt. Once he almost fell, putting too much weight on a crumbling stone. No one called out from below that someone was climbing on the walls. His luck was holding.

It took him about an hour to reach the tower and manoeuvre himself to below the window. Whenever he thought he heard someone below him, he paused, knowing that movement was what attracted attention. Then he began to climb. This was easier as he could look up and see ledges and crannies, and knowing where they were, could put his feet in them after releasing his hands to find the next cracks. After about a further half-hour he reached the window ledge.

He was sweating profusely by now. The sun was climbing the heavens and it was only about two sixdays until the solstice and the warmth of the sun plus his exertions had made him hot. He paused to get his breath. After a couple of minutes, the burglar hauled himself onto the ledge of the tower window. He peered in. There was no glass here, and the shutters were open, but he could see nothing inside for it was dark after the sunlight outside. He squeezed through and dropped silently to the floor, crouching and listened carefully.

Breathing. Very quiet breathing. Someone in here was trying to breathe so as not to be heard. Of course! Stupid person. He was obviously getting out of practice. His body would have been seen blocking the light from the window. Shit. Suppose this person were to jump him? He remained crouched beneath the window for a second, then slowly and silently crept to one side.

As his eyes became used to the dark he could pick out a shadowy shape sitting on a bench opposite the window. A human shape. It too was sitting absolutely still, as though trying not to be noticed. He moved a few more paces.

The tower room was circular it seemed. It must cover the whole of this floor of the tower. He moved again, felt behind him and touched wood. A door most likely. He was nearing the person on the bench when he heard steps approaching the door. Someone coughed and The Cat froze. Were there enough shadows in this room to hide him when the door was opened? Would the person entering have a lamp? Probably.

More importantly, would the person on the bench give him away? Who was it? Was he (or she, he added to himself) working here or a prisoner? If the latter, why were they being held here and not in the dungeons? So many questions passed through his head in the seconds it took him to leap for the window and pass through to hang, breathing heavily, on the window ledge outside.

Fortunately for him, the man entering took several seconds to unlock the door. When he entered, The Cat heard him speak and recognised the voice of Wolnarb. Gone was the charming man who had wined and dined them and the voice now had a grating quality that made the Cat shudder. He ventured to peek round the edge of the window.

He could see little, but could just make out the shape of a small man standing before the bench on which he had spotted the figure previously. He held his breath, hoping that the person on the bench would not give him away, though he felt that he was fairly safe here, as it appeared the other was a prisoner. He listened to the words being spoken, but could understand little as Wolnarb spoke in Erian.

Wolnarb’s words elicited a slight whimper from the person on the bench and he (for it was indeed a man as The Cat could now ascertain) moved away, shuffling along the bench. Wolnarb laughed an unpleasant laugh, and then he spoke again. The man shook his head and lay down as though in resignation.

Wolnarb laid his hands on the man, his left on the man’s forehead and the right on the man’s chest, where his heart was as much as The Cat could ascertain. Words flowed from the magister that made the hairs on the back of the Cat’s neck stand up. He was aware that magic was being done in that room. He had had sufficient dealings with Carthinal in the past to be aware when magic was being performed. The man in the room screamed once, convulsed, then fell to moaning.

Soon, the murmuring stopped and the man fell back as though he had just performed a great feat. Wolnarb laughed again, not a pleasant sound, then spoke. He indicated a tray he had brought with him, spoke again and left.

‘What is going on here?’ thought The Cat. He considered whether to re-enter the room or go back to his own rooms and tell the others what he had observed. Then he heard the prisoner approach the window and speak. Again he could not understand the words, but decided to re-enter the tower and see if he could make any sense out of what was going on.
After climbing back through the window, he made his way to the bench. On it a young man sat with a tray of food.

The young man spoke as though in great pain.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Erian,’ The Cat told him. ‘Mo hambro Erian.’

‘You from Grosmer?’ a heavily accented voice asked. ‘I speak a little but bad. How you get to window?’

‘Climbed, but why are you here? What was going on?’

‘Climbed? It high. It smooth. Why man from Grosmer here?’

‘Not too high or smooth for a cat burglar. Plenty handholds. As to why I’m here in Erian, I’m not sure, myself, and it’s a rather long story. I’m with some friends though. We’re housed not far from here.’

The young man coughed.

When The Cat looked at him, he saw he looked grey and ill. ‘You’re not well. You need a healer. Tell me, why are you in the tower and not in the dungeon if you’re a prisoner, and what did you do to be held?’

‘I a special prisoner. My crime, being young and strong and believing Wolnarb.’

It took The Cat longer to get back to his room as the day had grown quite warm and the climbing was not so easy in the heat. He was relieved to be back in his rooms, which were cool, facing north as they did. He ran his hands through his hair and hurried off to see Carthinal.

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