The Dragon and the Sword: Sisters and Daughters

So, I read recently that self published authors need to make sure that they blog regularly to build up their web presence...or something like that. Whatever the reason it's something that I have notably failed at, and the reason for that is that I spend so much time writing my next book that I don't have any time to write blog posts.

Therefore, since I need to blog and don't have any time to write anything to blog...have an excerpt of my latest work in progress: The Dragon and the Sword: Sisters and Daughters (Book 4 in the First Sword Chronicles. This is from the novel's prologue, A Whisper of Danger

“You need not keep your sword unsheathed,” Lenwar observed casually. “I mean you no harm, and there are no others here to trouble you.”

Iriali snorted. Her blade was drawn, a short straight sword, double edged, such as a human might wear, the white-gold colouring shining slightly even in the gathering dark of evenfall that had turned her bronze shield and brazen armour dull. “You murdered your own daughter to advance your aims, yet I should trust you all the same?”

Lenwar smiled, though he could not help but notice the flicker of disgust in her eyes as he did so. All his life he had been told he had an ugly face. His brothers and sisters had told him so, his cousins had told him so, even their children had told him so when they had been feeling particularly bold. Even his mother, though she had not told him so, had never doted in praise on his appearance. The looking glass flattered him not, with his crooked nose like the beak of vulture, his elephant ears jutting out on either side of his face, his greasy skin, his hunched shoulders; he knew for sure he was no paragon of beauty, far from it. So, since he had become accustomed to the way that people looked at him, and he had even begun to enjoy it a little. Let them sneer at his looks; he had more brains than any of them. Let them sneer, and scowl, and try to hide how much the sight of him affrighted or affronted them…and they would never see the way that he made use of them.

Captain Constantine had sneered at his looks, though he had hid it well, he had thought him an ugly, foolish man, and had plotted to steal away his daughter. Yet the gallant captain had died by Iriali’s hands, and Lenwar was on the cusp of triumph. Minerva, his own daughter, had shrunk from his face sometimes, and been delighted that she took after her mother instead. Yet he had drained her blood to wake up Iriali, and left her desiccated corpse to rot in Iriali’s tomb.

Let Iriali’s eyes show how much she detested the sight of him. Let her voice her disgust with his looks and his manner if she would. Let her be so proud, the daughter of Beltor, the mistress of the war cry, that she would never see that she, and her precious Dagmar and her pretty friends and lovely Laureia’s beatified shade and all the pride and vanity of the Pact they were all, all just toys to him. Pieces on a board. The means by which he would shatter all that Silwa had worked so hard to achieve. And after that…well, they should think themselves lucky if he deigned to put them back into the box, like a good boy did with his toys.