Sword & Saturday, Week 77 - Speeding Right Along (plus an Important Announcement)
Seems life keeps conspiring to put me behind on these morning Sword & Saturday posts, so let’s dive right into it. Before we start, though, some of you may have caught my announcement from earlier in the week, but in an effort to make sure it’s seen by as many as possible, I’ll repeat it here:
I’ll be going on vacation after next week. In the leadup to this, I’ve got a great deal of tasks both at work and around the house that require my immediate attention. As such, I won’t be sharing any new fiction until the third week of July. Additionally, during the second week of July, I won’t be able to post my Warrior Wednesday, Thorny Thursday, or Sword & Saturday compilations, so do keep that in mind.
One last thing before we get into it; remember to subscribe to
if you haven’t already so you won’t miss their full day’s roundup later this afternoon. Additionally, make sure is on your list as well for her Sunday Castle speculative fiction roundup featuring some of the best in fantasy, sci-fi, and horror on Substack.With that out of the way, let’s take a look at what’s on offer.
The fortress of Mononobe was the largest of its kind in the land of Mittsu. Located in the south of the over-large province it was modelled after one of the larger Takimoto estates in the Montō region from whence the Takimoto clan came. It was thus an important location not only to their prestige but also to their status as regional lords, sworn to the Tennō and the Kwampaku[1]. In this capacity they had the duty of not only defending the north, but also holding it.
The fortress was immense, more than thirty meters high, and almost a full league wide and half that in length. It was often called the ‘bastion of the north’ or the ‘northern bulwark’ for a reason. Surrounded by towering walls that were twenty-five meters high and half that in thickness, and a moat that surrounded the immense fortress, it was white-stoned so that one might well have believed it built out of ice and snow rather than stones. It was connected by the Takimoto Iron-Bridge as it was dubbed, to a small walled town with a wooden palisade all about it. The town had grown up just to the east of the bridge, and was populated by more than twenty-five thousand people who had established themselves there some one hundred years prior. The bridge could not be raised though there were great gates that were kept shut at night and which were overseen by those within the watch-towers next to the gates. It was only by this bridge that one might gain access to the keep and it was through the small city that Satomine hoped to gain entry to the tile-roofed castle where his ancestors going back two hundred years had served faithfully.
It was the favourite of all the places in the land north of the inland sea. And the favourite place of Satomine who adored it and found that the fortress was everything one could hope for in one. Large, was to state the apparent about it, with the fortress one that was more than twenty-five meters high and twice that in width and length, with the fort surrounded by high walls that were fifteen meters high, and dotted with towers every five meters. These gates stood apart from one another, with there being a city that were to be found outside those gates, with there being another series of similar gates that surrounded the city.
The men at the gates could hardly believe their eyes when they saw who it was that stood before them. There were a great many shouts and cries and whispers that raced to and fro from wall to wall as the guards stared in astonishment.
“Do not release your arrows, it is Satomine!”
“Yet why is he dressed like an Emishi?” Others were to ask, yet none had a clear answer to the query.
“Call all guards of the Castle! All soldiers! Protect the Queen!” Ash bellowed, a legion of birds landed onto the floor as Birdling soldiers dressed in black. Most of the Court had come to breakfast unarmed, the guards rushed into the hall, the ladies shrieked, but before all hell broke loose, a single voice overpowered all the noise and the commotion.
“Birdling soldiers! I am your future King, and ruler! I command you to stop this instant! You shall not touch my wife! You shall not disgrace this court!” to everybody’s surprise it was prince Sturnus. His voice had never before sounded so loud. But there it was – a melodious voice of a true King. The swords of the Birdling soldiers froze in the air. All eyes turned to prince Sturnus. All stopped, except his own father, King Olor.
“Do not take orders from that dimwit boy of mine! His mind is clouded by lust. He is a pathetic creature, and always has been!”
While Birdling soldiers stood confused about who’s orders to follow, King Olor himself charged at Gema. Ash stood guarding her, but before his Snakeling sword clashed with a Birdling sword, prince Sturnus jumped over the table, and his sword was the one to stand in the way of his own father.
“I said, this court shall not be disgraced! Nor will the good name of Birdlings!”
“You are a disgrace!” King Olor growled in his face.
“You disgrace the good name of our people! Birdlings are honest folk. Healers, singers, and poets. We honour the will of the Foreverold, not defy it!”
“What do you know about the Foreverold?! You who fell for a Hebenian whore…?!”
King Olor felt his own son’s cold blade gutting him. He fell to the floor without any words of regret.
“I know that the Foreverold does not approve of lies, treachery, and scheming for power. I had endured it far too long,” said Sturnus, sheathing his sword.
“No other’s blood shall be spilled in this hall today. I promise,” he turned toward Pearl, “my love, my deed is dark. I have lost my homeland forever, for a murderer of a Birdling is forbidden to enter Avem, but…”
“Look out!” Pearl shrieked, because the blood-covered King Olor was up, and swinging his sword above his son’s head.
Ash’s narrow Snakeling sword danced through the air shining like a swift strike of lightening. It cut the throat of the King of Birds in a fine red line, as it seemed, but the wretched man fell unto the floor gurgling blood, and a few seconds later he moved no more.
Teithi had no need of a bard to list all the grey-robed men residing in Caer Morgana, the number being easily counted on one hand.
One by one they narrowed the possibilities. The first draig môr Panawr interviewed had arrived in the caer as a young adult, well after the events in the Great Barrow. The second, being several years younger, had been too young to attend in Panawr’s year.
The third, close to Panawr in age, remembered going to the Great Barrow. :Your father, the Consort, was there at the gate.:
Panawr leaned over his bowl of medd reismôr. He, Teithi and the grey-robed draig môr sat in one of the small drinking establishments far from the Royal Quarter. They compared notes and determined they’d served in the winter solstice rite the same year.
:It was the first year nobody saw the Lady. Do you remember?: the draig môr asked, drinking deeply from his bowl.
Panawr nodded. :I’d forgotten all about it until recently. Did anything unusual happen while you were in the Great Barrow?:
The draig môr’s eyes narrowed. :Unusual? Not every child gets to see the Lady, you know.:
Panawr traced the rim of his drinking bowl with a fingertip. :I remember coming across a crying girl. Did you?:
:A girl?: The draig môr frowned. :I don’t remember that. I must have been in a different part of the Barrow.:
Something about the draig môr’s expression made Panawr suspicious. :Are you sure? You didn’t have an issue with any of your Goddess cakes?:
The draig môr leaned back in his chair. :An issue? If my ancestors did, they were too dead to tell me so!:
Panawr quirked an eyebrow in surprise at such an unfilial response. :You don’t like your ancestors?:
:You were there.: The draig môr shrugged his shoulders, his gills flaring. :You know how dark it was. And they certainly haven’t done me any favours since.:
The sky was already glowing a glorious crimson, almost the same shade as Rosie’s face after she had slipped on wet leaves and fallen, by the time Michael and Rosie entered the village of Longwillow. Rosie was still picking leaves off of her dress and out of her hair as they passed through the wooden gate. Inside, Michael saw two elf maids laughing as they collected fresh water, likely not at Rosie, but at some joke they were sharing, probably at some poor lad’s expense. Looking around, it seemed like Longwillow would be lively place during the day, though at this hour not many were about.
The two had been sent by their master, Galin, on some business he wished them to attend to, since he was too busy to do it himself. And here they were, still a day’s journey or two from their destination. Michael usually enjoyed these excursions, whether by himself or with Galin, because he always got to see some new area, obtain some relic, treasure, or ancient tome, or learn something new. Rosie on the other hand, had been rather put off this whole time, preferring to be in bed in the little home Galin let her have, than be off doing Galin’s work, likely his dirty work.
“Let’s find the inn and get us some rooms,” Rosie said, looking around nervously. Michael hoped she wouldn’t complain anymore—at least not tonight.
“Probably at the village square he said, looking forwards to good stew and a comfy bed. Without any further words, they started for the center of the village, where Michael hoped the square was, but he had been to villages and towns with strange layouts, so they weren’t guaranteed to find in right in the middle. The two elf maids, having collected their water, were coming their way.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Michael said with a polite smile, “but can either of you tell me, perchance, where a good inn is?”
One of them was about to say something, no doubt flirtatious, when the other not so subtly elbowed her and motioned to Rosie. Michael tried his hardest not to laugh as the second elf spoke up, “If you’d like to follow us, we’re returning to the best inn in these parts—and the only one in this village.”
The sand seemed to laugh through its sea-soaked grains as Eachann and Connor fled from the Seal People. The lads allowed themselves a single glance over their shoulders to witness their pursuers; over a dozen men chased them. They were short, stout people, with dark hair and eyes, and deep blue spirals of woad tattooed on their naked arms and chests—other images upon them were fishtails and jaws of sea monsters. The Seal People—known as Selkies to themselves—whooped and cried out in their tongue, foreign to the lads, swinging flint weapons wildly above their heads. They had leapt out from behind low crags on the shore and gave chase the moment the lads set foot on the beach. Those crags rose into cliffs as they went down the narrow strip of virgin sand. The waves on the right of the runners licked the shore in sheets of foam. Pungent brine wafted on chill winds from the water, making breaths short-lived and burning their nostrils.
One of the hunters paused for a moment and hurled a spear. It landed right between his prey.
“Macrall!” shouted Eachann, the lad closest to the sea. He was a lean, copper-haired youth with fair freckled skin and grey eyes. A short chuckle escaped his throat—for all the danger he was in, he was still a boy and thrilled easily. He looked to his left and addressed his companion hastily, “Any bright ideas; shall we try climbing the crags?”
The landward lad, Connor, was shorter—or rather, his hunched posture made him shorter—than Eachann. He had sun-tanned skin with hair and eyes as dark as the Seal People’s. Sweat dripping from his brow ran between a symmetrical ridge of proto-horns. He huffed his response, “No, we should swim.”
“These are no normal Picts,” Eachann said. “They’re Seal People; those hides they wear are those of sea lions. They’ll change into them, chase us down there, and probably rend us.”
Connor gave a quick furrowed glance to his ally. “Any other bright ideas, O Knife—”
A huge net, weighted by stones on eight sides, fell from the cliffs upon the lads and pinned them to the sand. The holes in the net were woven too small to reach out of, but they could see the shadows of the Seal People gather above them against the grey sky. The shouts gave way to hasty whispers as they trained their weapons—spears, axes, spiked clubs, short bows, hooked fishing staves, and a single crossbow—over the vital areas of the lads’ bodies. The lads did not dare squirm.
“I don’t suppose you speak Pictish,” Connor grumbled.
The moment had been right. I'd pulled out the ring and asked Aloree to marry me. Now she stared, a sad expression on her face, clutching at whatever lay hanging from her necklace, under her dress. She closed her eyes, lifted it in her hands, and gave it a kiss. I now saw what it was, and recognized it from an image accompanying my brother Velwin's dying words: the two rings he'd given her—the sapphire engagement ring and her wedding band. She loved him still. I knew my brother Veldin had eventually gotten over his jealousy of Velwin; I wondered if I ever would.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30
A tear ran down her face as she began speaking. "I've fallen in love with you. I have. But the war isn't over yet. I know you must fight. I know you must lead from the front. I know you must lay down your life if need be. Do you know what it's like to fall in love with someone, have them die on you... then do it again the next time? Do you? You ask me to lose my betrothed again! Again! It's worse than someone eating your breakfast, lunch, and dinner before you've gotten to take a single bite. It's like having your head dunked in water just as you see the sun, over and over!
"If I say yes, I ask you one thing: copy your memories of tonight soon, then copy your memories when we marry. Don't let the man I said yes to tonight die forever, a new one to try again another day. Be my beloved and never let me lose my beloved forever, again."
"I will," I said solemnly.
"Then yes. I will marry you," she said, blinking the tears out of her eyes. I slipped the ring onto her finger and we kissed, wet tears falling on my face and all.
It’s been a while since
has joined us for our theme days, and she’s honored us by choosing to do so on Sword & Saturday. Behold her gift to us, a lightening of moods in the form of an adorable crochet dragon!Finally, we end the day with something that I hope will prove to be a very worthy endeavor.
is an aspiring new independent small press on the lookout for talented fantasy and science fiction writers. Their stated goal is to do what the legacy publishing industry won’t anymore–that is, publish books that adhere fully to the vision of what the author wants to write. Take a look at their introduction and mission statement below. Personally, I plan to keep a very close eye on their work moving forward.Let’s face it: traditional publishing is fundamentally broken, both for authors and readers. Legions of literary agents and the great publishing houses of New York who enlist them, despite their sprawling editorial apparatuses, are still unable to cope with the sheer volume of manuscripts being queried now, and are further unwilling to take any chances on unproven authors and untested audiences. They already receive a hundred stories fitting the safe mold of the hottest BookTok trends, or a hundred more from authors with large preexisting social followings. It’s not worth their time to find an audience for the nobodies, even if they might be the next bestsellers.
This has left the debut author who hasn’t already been curating a social media presence based on their biting cultural commentary with seemingly no straightforward pathway to publishing their story. After submitting dozens, even hundreds of query letters just to the agents—because many large publishers now only deal with agents—all they might receive is a polite rejection six months later, if they hear anything at all. They may spend just as much time querying as they did writing 300 pages of a new novel. Understandably, this is too much work for the same odds as a scratch-off, and debut authors thus seek alternatives like self-publishing.
Self-publishing offers many benefits to the debut author. There is no mandated editor or censor aside from Amazon. It is relatively easy to format a Word document as an ePub and publish directly to Kindle. Anyone can purchase Illustrator or a free alternative such as Inkscape and whip up some kind of cover. But stocking their novel on digital shelves is not all a publisher does, and the self-publishing author will quickly discover that a publisher is also a book seller, salesman, publicist, advertiser, and marketer. Some authors take to the task of promoting their work easily, finding enjoyment in connecting with readers and other authors. Many others find it stressful and tedious, becoming a second (or third) full-time job that invades the territory of their precious writing time. Many lack either the skillset or the resources to furnish their stories with the quality cover art and design, layout, marketing, advertising and promotion each one deserves. Their words, as well written by a human hand as they may be, are destined to be carried away with the endless waves of AI-generated slop dumped onto Kindle every day. Again, for some dedicated author-publishers, even these obstacles are not insurmountable. But for the author who just wants to write, self-publishing is no greener grass than running the query-letter gauntlet of traditional publishing.
Ultimately, these circuitous routes also prevent readers from enjoying what they like most: good new stories. Readers don’t enjoy “refreshing new takes” if they have been groomed from the very beginning by agents and large publishers as safe bets on a known author and a known audience. Nor do readers enjoy hours spent trawling through the Kindle trash hoping to find an indie diamond despite its rough cover.
Fortunately, for both authors and readers, there exists yet another pathway between these two extremes: the small press.
And there we have it, scribes and scriveners, your morning selections for Sword & Saturday, week 77. As usual, don’t forget to subscribe to
so you don’t miss their roundup of the day’s full selections this afternoon. Until next time, remember to keep your swords and quills sharp, and your inkwells full.My dark fantasy/mystery novella, In the Giant’s Shadow, is available for purchase! You can find it on Amazon in hardcover, paperback, and digital formats. I’ve also got the first two chapters available to read for free on my Substack.
In the Giant's Shadow, Contents & Links
Sinister deeds haunt the town of Jötungatt. Lured to this sleepy farming community by a mysterious white raven, Gaiur the Valdunite soon finds herself caught in a strange conspiracy of ritual murder and very real nightmares. Can she uncover the secret hiding behind the town’s ancient, monolithic gate? Will she be able to survive the truth if she does?
The Leaders of Warrior Wednesday/Sword & Saturday
- Tales of Calamity and Triumph
Champions of Fantasystack
- A Literary Eye
- Crann na Beatha
- Falden’s Forge
- Senchas Claideb
- Kathrine’s Substack
- Redd Oscar Writes
- Fragments and Pieces
- Treats of Writing
- Germanicus Publishing
- Knights of the Autumn Crown
- The Storyteller’s Corner
- Made From What’s Not Real
- Mil y una historias
- Von’s Substack
- The Vaporous Realms
- The Môrdreigiau Chronicles
- Windflower
- R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m
Wednesday Warriors/Saturday Swordsmen & Sorceresses
- Work in Progress
- Always The Horizon
- Goatfury Writes
- Stay Free & Crafty
- Meaningful Differences
- Dan’s Deliberations
- Naptime Novelist
- The Magic Lantern
- Through A Glass, Darkly
- Book of Time
- Donn’s WYKKYD AMBITIONS
- Michaela McKuen’s Metamorphology
- Tales of the Godswood
- A Complete Nutter’s Ramblings
- The Lake of Lerna
- Thunderbolt Fiction
- Josh Tatter Has Thoughts
- Mrs. Has Thoughts
- Scribbler -- The Golden Years
- Wolf
- Mommy’s Writing a Novel
- Dr.’s Substack
- Minuteman’s Monitor
- Lighthouse
- LEAVES
- Cole’s Chapters
- Coracle Voyager
- Choose Fiction
- V.T.’s Substack
- LucTalks
- Tranith Argan Fantasy Series
- Fyle Stories
- Rediscovered Realms
- Tower of Adam
- Victoria’s Books & Short Stories
- The Library of Celaeno
- Victorian Vignettes
- Spirit Animals
- On The Storytelling Animal
- Tales from the Defrag
- Pen of Ben
- The Legend of Leanna Page
- A Writing Diary by E.P Woodhouse
- Your Friendly Neighborhood Abberation
- The Wandering Wonderer
- Joyce’s Place
- The Fantastic and Mundane Chronicles of a Fantasy Writer
- Samuraipunk
- Matrixbearer’s Substack
- AroundSciFi - Read - Imagine - Discover
- Polymathic Being
- THE FICTION DEALER
- Writings of Milton Lane
- Mineya’s Newsletter
- Fragments From the World of Ar’rin
- Pandora’s Box of Infinite Stories
- A.M. Productions
- The Way Teller’s Aetheric Emporium
- Zuko’s Musings
- 365 Infantry
- K.M.’s Substack
- Tenkage HQ
- A Writer’s Journey
- Mechanical Pulp
- Brian Heming - author and pulp fiction fan
- More Magic
- True World
- Resurrecting the Real
- Dave Warr
- Bellageist
Glad to take part this weekend. It's always fun and I love seeing what everyone else has.
Thank you for the shoutout.