"All things conceivable exist, have existed, or will exist somewhere, sometime." -Clark Ashton Smith
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 13)
Here is serial 13 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
"An herb that heals the body. My people have known the secret of it for many years. It's called achras, and it was given to us by our god."
Directly after she said this, she closed her eyes, sighed, made a strange sign over her body--a kind of blessing gesture--and then, sighing again, she placed the palms of her hands to her eyes and rubbed. A great weight seemed to be upon her.
"Your god must be loving, indeed, and wise, to give such gifts," the Rogue said, sipping the last of his tea. He did feel rejuventated and his wounded arm tingled. He looked at the wound: though it gave forth an odorous puss and fizzed and bubbled, the feeling was strangely pleasant. This amazed him. "I would utter a prayer of thanks to your god, if I knew his name!" the Rogue said earnestly.
"Do not speak of HIM!" the girl said. She strode over to the Rogue and, covering his mouth with her hand, hissed for him to cease his speech. The Rogue, however, was a trained fighting-man, and, as she startled him, he reacted with instincts. Believing himself to be attacked, he grabbed the girl's wrist, spun her around, and pinned her, face down, onto the be-carpeted floor of the room. To her back he held the point of his wickedly curved blade. He drew a pearl of red blood from her bare back.
"No, no, no!" she shouted, her fear causing her voice to tremble. "Ix, ix azutha!" she shouted in her language.
Presently two strong lads ran into the tent, spears in hand, and shouted at the Rogue, who stood over the prostrated girl gripping his naked blade. They brandished their spears menacingly, and, foam flecking their mouths, they threw what were obviously curses at him.
The girl, however, shouted over them. The Rogue, whose sense had been lost to the battle-lust, snapped back into consciousness. When he realized what he was doing, where his instincts had brought him, he let his dagger fall to the ground. He let the girl loose and held up his hands.
Labels:
pulp fiction,
sword and sorcery,
writing
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)

No comments:
Post a Comment