Today we are talking to the gifted (and very shy) E.M. Swift-Hook about her Fortune’s Fools series as the latest in the series Mistrust and Treason is out this week. I’m bending the format of our usual Author Feature here - because I can, and because there is so much I want to know about Fortune’s Fools.

 

WTB: Nine books set in one world with the promise of one climactic revelation at the end. How did you even begin to think you had the balls and the endurance to pull that off?

EM: I can’t say for sure that I have, seeing as how the last book still remains to be written. But Transgressor was originally meant to be a stand-alone trilogy. It was only after I had finished it that I realised it had the potential to tell a much greater story. A lot of the ideas I had gathered along the way remained unused and having touched on the broader galactic civilisation, it seemed a good idea to break out from Temsevar and explore that.
WTB: Everybody talks about Durban Chola, some love him and others find him creepily magnetic. How do you see him? Hero? Villain? Or something else entirely?

EM: Oh my! I think ‘enigmatic’ is the best and only way to describe Durban. He is, in a very real way, the axis upon which all of Fortune’s Fools spins. But as he is not consciously aware of that and neither are the other main characters around him, it isn’t something that impacts on how he behaves.
In his own words, taken from the upcoming Iconoclast 2: Not To Be, he says: “I am journeying towards a distant destination and trying to steer events towards getting there as best I can.” But as to what that destination is, you’ll have to wait and see.

WTB: The worlds you have invented for the books are extremely complex, if generally uncomfortable. How do you keep a hold of all the details?

EM: It might sound trite but I know my worlds. I’m not a very organised writer so I don’t keep reams of notes on characters and places and my continuity does slip. I tend to reread and check back if I find myself uncertain.

WTB: At what point in your nonology did you know where the underlying story was taking you? If it has been planned out from the very beginning has it remained set in stone or changed as the books have taken on life?

EM: The point at which the ‘end game’ of Fortune’s Fools became clear was the same point at which I realised there was a bigger story to tell – the end of Transgressor. However, the exact nature of that ‘end game’ has shifted within the original broad parameter a few times as better versions of the original idea have come along and replaced my original thoughts.
As to which version will finally emerge, I think I have a good grip on that now, but until I get into writing Iconoclast 3: A Necessary End it is still open to variation on a theme.

WTB: I know this is like asking which is your favourite bodily organ, but I’m putting you on the spot anyway. Who is your favourite character in the books? And why?

EM: Of course I have a very soft spot for Durban, it would be hard to have him in the key place he occupies in the books if I didn’t. But the character I like writing the most at the moment, although I’m sure I wouldn’t ever want to meet someone like him, has to be Jaz.
One reason is that his worldview, life experiences and nature are light years away from mine and that makes him both challenging and fascinating to write. His role in the book is effectively hired-muscle, the ‘hard man’ but anyone who reads his story will soon realise that whatever the archetype, Jaz is not any kind of stereotype.
But maybe he holds my sympathy because of all the characters his is probably the hardest emotional journey, and that for an individual who has the least resources to deal with it.

WTB: Given the amount of sheer bulls***t talked about the craft of writing, what do you think is the most important thing for a writer to be able to accomplish?

EM: That’s easy, to tell a story in a way that doesn’t keep reminding the reader that they are reading. Writing needs to become invisible, so the reader is caught in the flow and barely aware of the words on the page. Therefore, when it comes to word choice K.I.S. ‘Keep It Simple’ or you will lose your reader from that flow. Equally, don’t break the rules of grammar unless you want to create an impact. Of course, both these are guidelines on how the majority of writing should be, there will be odd occasions to set them aside

WTB: Do you have a piece of advice for new writers? I guess ‘don’t do it’ would be an acceptable answer.

EM: I’ve never seen being a writer as anything particularly special. Most children become fiction writers in English (or their own language) lessons at school, just some keep on with it into adulthood. But, since you ask, these would be my ‘top tips’:

• Read. Read deeply, widely and in as many genres as you can. It is the very best way to learn how to write. If a passage strikes you as brilliant, look at what makes it so. If a book seems dull, think about why.
• Write only if you enjoy doing so. If you want to make money, use your spare time to mug up on how to play the stock market – that will get you a better financial return on your time and effort than writing ever will.
• Own your own creativity. Some writers fall prey to such restrictive beliefs as having a ‘muse’ or that their characters are telling them what to write. Yes, it can feel like that at times, but walk that route and you limit your ability to write and write well by becoming convinced it is not under your own control when it really is.
• If you have a thesaurus only ever use it as a memory aid for words you know. Never assume the words it offers are exact synonyms. English is an incredibly nuanced language.
• Welcome criticism. You can only improve by learning and you can’t learn in a vacuum. Seek out fellow writers online or off and get involved in critique groups. The bonus is that through critiquing others your own writing will improve too.

WTB: Your house is on fire, you may only save one thing. Given that all living creatures are safe, what do you grab?

EM: I think I will disappoint here. I’m not much of a one for material possessions or sentimental value. I’d miss my library, but as I couldn’t rescue that I’d just grab my bag which has my purse in it so at least I had a debit card to pay for the hotel that night!

WTB: And finally. Given that Fortune’s Fools is nearly a done job, what are you going to do with the rest of your life?

EM: Well even when Fortune’s Fools main works have been done and dusted, I plan to bring out a prequel novella (it may be a novel in the end) covering the early life of Durban Chola on Temsevar and in the ‘City and I have a growing number of Fortune’s Fools short stories in various anthologies which I want to collect together at some point too. And, of  course, I am also still going to be working on the Dai and Julia Mysteries with the incredible Jane Jago.
In terms of solo writing, I already have another major project taking shape which will be very different to Fortune’s Fools. It will be historical rather than science fiction, but character driven as always. If you keep an eye on The Working Title blog you will see odd pieces from my rough draft of the start of it under the working title ‘The Cat’s Head.’

WTB: So with the interview out of the way, can we have an extract from Fortune’s Fools?

EM: Sure. What would you like?

WTB: Hmm. The part where Durban’s sister remembers her first ever meeting with him, that always sticks in my mind…

Extract from Fortune’s Fools Transgressor 2: Times of Change

Like a shy creature of the wild, sleep eluded her. Jaelya’s thoughts drifted, against her will, until those time-worn ghosts that hovered about her, led her gently along the paths of unwilling memory to the beginning of everything.
It was, of course, Alize who had been there then.
Her first awareness of life had been of holding Alize’s hand on that day as if she had been flung into the world fully-formed at the age of three. Even now she could still see clearly the high beamed roof, with its painted and vaulted ceiling, arching over the huge black and white slabs of stone which paved the floor. She had stood in the doorway, as if looking into the universe from outside, one hand holding onto a small bundle of clothes and the other gripping Alize’s as hand tightly as if her life depended upon it.
She conjured the scene easily, untarnished by the passage of years. The long table, taller than herself then, the chairs which had seemed made for giants, the fireplace which looked large enough to roast a good-sized ox and the faint, musty, smell of cold ashes and old books. Seated at the table, a heavy bound book open before him and a remote screen set up to one side, sat a boy with a mop of curly hair who had looked up as they entered. To the Jaelya in the memory, he had seemed so grown up himself but he cannot have been much more than five summers her senior.
Feeling confused, she had looked up at the figure of Alize towering beside her and the face that had looked down at her contained blue eyes that seemed to embrace the world and all the stars beyond. Jaelya felt as though she might be swallowed up in their depths, but somehow the thought made her feel safe rather than frightened. Then Alize’s gaze moved from herself to the boy, who got to his feet and was standing quietly behind the table, his square face framed by unruly golden curls.
“Child, this is your sister. Her name is Jaelya and I want you to take care of her.”
The boy had been staring at her with open curiosity as if wondering what manner of creature she might be, but at Alize’s words a miracle happened and his face broke into the most gentle and wonderful smile.
“My sister,” he breathed the words as a triumphal declaration rather than as any kind of question and then the boy had come across to her, his hands held out in welcome, his honey-coloured eyes lit up by the brilliant smile that was for her alone. “Hello, Jae. I am your brother and I’m always going to keep you safe.”
And in that moment Jaelya loved him with a fierce devotion, a devotion which all the years between and all the tests and burdens of those years had done nothing to diminish. So why was it, as she lay now in the dreamless darkness, that the thought of his returning to Harkera filled her heart with nothing but apprehension?

E.M. Swift-Hook takes seriously the words that Robert Heinlein put into the mouth of Lazarus Long: ‘Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.’
Having tried a number of different careers, before settling in the North-East of England with family, three dogs, cats and a small flock of rescued chickens, she now spends a lot of time in private and have very clean hands.

You can find E.M. Swift-Hook on Twitter and Goodreads or keep up with Fortune's Fools and the Dai and Julia Mysteries on Facebook. The Fortune's Fools logo pictured above was created by Bristow Designs.

Mistrust and Treason the first book in the final Fortune’s Fools trilogy, Iconoclast, is available for pre-order now at a special pre-publication price and is out 21 September.

Sometimes she thought she might have lost herself and become just ‘Mum’. 

Even though her husband and children were her life she missed… something. In a moment of madness she signed up for the class, sure in her own mind she would be the only middle-aged mother there. 

But she wasn’t.

And she loved it. 

And it made her feel young again.

The first time she donned the clinging silks and performed a private dance for her husband his smile told her all she needed to know. 

Even a chubby mummy can still be sexy. If she feels sexy…

©️jj 2018

It took her the best part of an hour to bathe, devise a hairstyle suited to the wreath of flowers, and slip into the cream cashmere sheath dress with its matching shoes. By that time, Sam was suited and booted and awaiting her with his customary patience. She straightened his tie and pinned a single cream orchid in his buttonhole.
“Colin again?”
“Yes. He has flowers for everyone, even Bonnie. Reckons she can’t be a bridesmaid without flowers.”

They walked downstairs together to where the others awaited them in the hall. The men wore suits and cream buttonholes, and Bonnie balanced a wreath of flowers on her dark head. Colin walked once around Anna with his head on one side then kissed his fingers.
“You are stunning. Audrey Hepburn with added sex appeal.’
Anna laughed delightedly.
“Thank you for my flowers.”

They piled into the waiting Range Rover and went to have a wedding. It was brief as these things are, but there were a few tears as Sam and Anna made their vows and exchanged rings. The registrar was kind, and praised Bonnie’s exemplary behaviour.
“If all our wedding guests behaved as well as you,” she remarked, “our lives would all be easier.”

Paul took what seemed to Anna to be about a thousand photographs before they were hustled out of the room to make way for the next wedding party, which consisted of about fifty people including a very pregnant bride in a huge white meringue of a dress.

On a bubble of laughter they scrambled back into the car and headed to a pub where Bonnie was welcome for a very giggly lunch.

By the time they returned home it was late in the afternoon and they were all pleasantly tired. Bonnie finally consented to remove her wreath of flowers, and everyone else went to change into more casual dress. When they gathered in the kitchen, Paul started looking through the shots on his camera.
“If I get them down to about twenty or so, can I use your printer Anna?”
“You can.”
“Got any photo paper?”
“Yeah, loads. What are you thinking of?”
“Photos on the wall for the party tomorrow.”
Colin clapped his hands.
“What a splendid idea.”

Anna looked at Sam, and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay. If it makes you boys happy,” she smiled.

Paul and Colin retired to the office to squabble about which pictures to print, while Ben, Danny, Sam, Anna and Bonnie went out for a walk. When they got back Paul and Colin had obviously reached an accommodation as they had printed a sheaf of A4-sized pictures, which they refused to let Anna look at.
“Not till we’re sorted out. Now how do we display them?”
Sam thought for a minute. “I have some big folding screens in the garage, left over from some project or other one of the trendy vicars started but never finished. If we stapled some white paper, or fabric to them then we could put the pictures on that.”
“Yeah, but do you have any white paper or fabric?”
“Old sheets do?” Anna asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay then, let’s go look at these screens.”

The men trooped out together, and Anna went to the airing cupboard for a couple of clean old sheets. She put them on the worktop, then looked at Bonnie in her basket.
“What’s that bugger Paul up to?”
Bonnie lifted her head and waved her tail encouragingly.
“You’re right Bon Bon, he wouldn’t do anything too embarrassing.”

Anna quietly carried on with her preparations for the party, humming to herself as she worked. Sam came in for the sheets and grinned at her.
“I’ll rein them in if they get silly,” he promised.

A while later, Colin appeared in the kitchen looking a bit shy.
“I’m supposed to keep you out back while the rest of them set up the pictures. Ben said I could always offer to help you with your preparations for tomorrow. But that’s a bit awkward. People think I’ll want to take over, or sneer at their cooking.”
“Instead of just being grateful that somebody else is cooking for a change?”
“Exactly,” he grinned.
“Come out back with me and help me check I haven’t forgotten anything.”
They went out to Anna’s very organised utility room and pantry.
“No starter,” Anna said. “Trays of nibbles: olives, Parma ham, cheese straws, mini quiches, baby pickles, nachos and dips. Only thing left to do for that is warm the quiches. Main courses: coq au vin, boeuf bourgignon, fish pie, veggie curry, veggie lasagne. Vegetable rice, jacket spuds, garlic bread, assorted rolls. Bread all made, just needs warming. Spuds can go in the bottom of the Aga to cook, the mains will go in the Aga to heat. Only thing needing attention will be the rice. Puds: chocolate brownies in the tin there, chocolate sauce in the fridge ready to nuke in the microdoofer, ice cream gateaux in the freezer here, meringue nests people can fill for themselves – strawberries macerating in vodka, ice cream, caramel sauce, cream. Finally loads of cheeses. Cold meats in the fridge plus two raised pies, one chicken and ham, one roasted vegetables, with salad stuff. That’s for for supper, as I expect most of them will still be around at supper time. What have I forgotten?”
“Nothing that I can see. Disposable plates?”
“No. Hate them, and for some reason Sam seems to have plenty of that sort of stuff. And we have a humongous dishwasher. But I am using all disposable serving dishes. Except for the cheese boards.”
“I’m impressed. It all seems to be here except plates for the mains.”
“In the warming drawer. Colin, how much did you have to do with the planning of this kitchen?”
“A bit. Sam was floundering and came to see us with the plans. I stuck my nose in, though this is the first time I’ve seen it in the flesh.”
“I thought someone had helped. It’s all so practical. And the big catering quality range…’
“Well. That’s a story. Sam’s builder had done a kitchen for a woman in Cheltenham. The woman specified the range. Three months later she changed her mind and wanted one of those electric pretend Agas. The builder took the range out and advised Sam to offer her five hundred quid for it. She bit his hand off and he got more than five grand’s worth of cooker for five hundred quid.”
Anna laughed.
“Silly cow. Those electric things are pointless and even more expensive to run than an oil fired Aga.”
“Truly. But Sam was the beneficiary.”

Jane Jago

The telegram came on a sultry August day. Rowan read its brief message then went to milk the house cow. She never spoke about it.

As summer drifted into autumn she felt herself fading with the year and her once sturdy body grew thin enough for the wind to almost blow through her.

It was October when Rowan saw the eagle. He rode a thermal and his feathers were burnished by the autumn sun. For a moment she was blinded by tears, then a beloved voice spoke in her soul. 

“Live Rowan, that I may not have died in vain.”

©️jj 2018

I am a muse of good intent
Here to inspire and not torment
My only wish to steer you right
And not keep you awake at night

I am a muse and if you call
I’ll come and grab you by the balls
A gentle muse sir, I am not
But I’m the only one you’ve got

So if you’d keep inspiration handy
Mine’s a double Pimms and brandy

©️jj 2018

In Dragonheart, there is no such word as impossible

The three winged monsters took to the sky and A’a’shanto opened the portal.

The cold and blackness was like sticking your head in a bucket of ice water, and it made Wenda question her own motivation. Was the change in her attitude to Willet any more than dragon pheromones? Was it fair to offer him the hope of a happy ending she may not really be ready or willing to give? But then they landed on the velvet-smooth turf of the Master dragon’s own garden and she looked into her husband’s shadowed eyes. It was a sorrow to realise those shadows had been put there by her coldness and pride, and she understood that it was for her to put things right. However, she allowed none of that to show in her face, merely putting her hand in his as they stood together.
“It would be rude to shift before the master,” Willet whispered.
“It’s no hardship to wait, and I don’t think it’s a power play.”
“No. I’ve been told about this. It’s a ritual and to do with the master’s connection to Dragonheart itself.”
A’a’shanto finished communing with the stones of the castle and his consciousness returned to the sunlit afternoon.
“I thank you for your courtesy,” he said gravely. “I will not take human form for what must follow, but you are welcome to make the change if you so wish.”

The pair flowed into their human shapes, each choosing formal attire. The dragon’s brief nod approved their politeness.
“Follow me if you please.”
Willet offered his arm and Wenda put just the tips of her fingers in the crook of his elbow.

She had never been to Dragonheart before and it was hard not to gape at its sheer magnificence. The wide corridors were richly decorated and hung with priceless tapestries, and everything was built to dragon scale, making her rather regret having made the change to her inferior human size. But then she looked at the polished marble beneath her feet and had a mental image of hooves slithering and sliding on the cold, hard floor. Human form was best suited, she thought.

“The Hall of Judgment,” A’a’shanto intoned formally. “Will you enter to witness dragon law?”
“We will.”

They walked onto a granite platform upon which sat the scratched black stone of the double throne. There was already a female on half of the seat, who Wenda surmised was the master’s mate. The female dragon inclined her head in greeting, and a shifted dragon in the form of a narrow-featured elderly man escorted the centaurs to a pair of ornately carved chairs placed to the left of the throne. They took their seats just in time to see a duo of armoured dragon guards escorting the first of the accused into the chamber.

It was the red dragon. He hung upside down from a pole which was carried on the shoulders of two shaven-headed beings that Wenda would have hesitated to call human.
“Ogres,” Willet breathed.

There was a stir at the back of the hall accompanied by the by now familiar pheromone shock.
“Mama’s come for her pound of flesh.”
“And she has brought N’a’mma,” Wenda said in a sick little voice.
She grabbed for Willet’s hand, which felt cool and firm and seemed able to anchor her to reality.

The ogres dumped their burden like a trussed chicken and left, shouldering their pole. For a moment there was no sound except breathing and the gentle sussuration of draconic scales

The master dragon broke the silence.
“Who speaks the charges?”
An elderly dragon in a black robe spoke slowly and in doom-laden tones.
“The red dragon Z’o’raster is charged that he did aid and abet others in the theft of hatchlings.”
“How do you plead?”
Z’o’raster hissed his defiance.
“I make no plea. I am a free dragon and I do not recognise your petty laws.”
A’a’shanto regarded the red with some distaste.
“Untie me and I will fight you to the death,” the red taunted.
The master dragon’s mate spoke.
“You will fight nobody with your poisoned claws.” She raised her voice. “Kill him.”
One of the armoured guards swung what was obviously not a ceremonial axe. There was surprisingly little blood.
“Dragons know they are dead quite quickly,” Willet explained.
N’a’mma crowed her delight.
“Bad dragon dead.”
“I do believe he is,” Mama purred.

The clean up was brisk, efficient and practised, which made Wenda feel more than a bit queasy.
“I think it’s the contrasts,” Willet remarked quietly.
“Contrasts?”
“Pheromones, and hatchlings, and razor-sharp axes, and the sheer pragmatism of elderly servitors with mops and buckets.”
She nodded, and for a moment just hid her face against the fine white lawn of his shirt. He rubbed her shoulders gently, if a little nervously, pleasantly surprised when she relaxed under his hands.
“I’m sorry Willet,” she whispered. “I’m finding this difficult, and I don’t suppose it is going to get any easier.”
“No. I don’t suppose it is.”

As if by some unspoken signal, the chamber fell silent and the doors opened to admit ‘Auntie’. She was not being carried but walked on her own feet, although she was tethered to four of the giant ogres. When she passed N’a’mma she snarled and tried to pull towards the hatchling, who stared her in the eyes unblinkingly.

Dragging their charge to the front of the chamber the ogres kept a uniform tension on the leashes so the female dragon was unable to do more than snarl and swear.
“Who speaks the charges?”
The same black robe clad dragon stepped forward.
“The female V’a’zza is charged that she did conspire with others of her family to steal and enslave an entire clutch of hatchlings.”
“How do you plead?”
The female looked around her as if seeking support, but seeing nothing but stony faces and dragons who refused to meet her eyes.
“It’s strange how those whose greed for gold produced this plan are only too willing for me to take all the blame. Should I name you?”
There was some shuffling of feet and as a full squadron of dragon guard filed into the chamber and lined the walls.

A’a’shanto spoke with the full weight of his mastery of draconic mysteries.
“The names are known. Each will face judgement. For now it is your own fate that should concern you.”
V’a’zza’s face was twisted with hatred as she stared at him.
“Oh yes. And will you kill me?”
He smiled slowly, and even the defiant old female wasn’t proof against the sheer malice of that smile. She dropped her eyes to the floor and stood in silence.
“Kill you? Why would I do anything as merciful as that? You will be crippled and live out what remains of your life chained in the castle forecourt as a warning that the dragon master is not minded to leniency.”

For a moment, Wenda thought the old female was going to faint, but she pulled herself together and stood straight.
“And who will be brave enough to maim a member of the master dragon’s own clan?” she sneered. “Who will you get to do your dirty work?”
A’a’shanto did not deign to answer her.

One minute he was on his throne, the next in the air above the prisoner. He dropped his head to a place between her wings and bit once.

The awful sound of crunching bone and the single scream of draconic agony almost brought Wenda to her knees. Willet braced her.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” he murmured.
Wenda stared steadily at their joined hands while she gathered enough voice to answer him.
“I’m not. It’s a reminder of what dragon beauty hides. I just wish it hadn’t happened when I was under the influence of sex pheromones. The juxtaposition is disturbing.”
“It would have been worse without the sexual excitement.”

She looked up intending to argue, only to see how rigid was his jawline and how hard he was working to keep a lid on his emotions. He put his free hand behind her head and turned her face into his broad shoulder.
“This you really don’t need to see.”
Wenda had no will to argue and when she heard a horrible slithering sound accompanied by the muffled cries of a creature in agony she was glad to be not looking. The sound of a slamming door was the cue for Willet to remove his hand. She sat back in her chair and the master dragon’s mate regarded her steadily.
“We are not unnecessarily cruel,” she said slowly. “The old one would have crippled N’a’mma in exactly that same way. You do not need to walk or fly in order to lay eggs.”
Wenda wondered just how much more she could take, and if it hadn’t been for her husband’s hand holding hers she thought the world might have slipped from her grasp entirely.

She was saved from possible embarrassment by N’a’mma who bustled up to the base of the dais.
“N’a’mma can come?”
A’a’shanto reached down with one clawed forepaw and the dragonet heaved herself up onto the throne between him and his mate. She pointed.
“Mine friend Wil-let and Wen-da. Haves silly names, but me likes.”
“Should they have dragon names?”
“Should. Can give?”
The master dragon nodded.

He stood to his full height on the black stone throne and the room fell silent.
“The winged centaur Willet and his mate Wenda are declared dragon friend. I name them S’a’aaha and S’h’aaha.”
There came a roar from the floor of the room as the assembled dragons greeted their honorary siblings.
“The names are appropriate. You would say strong flier and pretty bird.”
The centaurs bowed their heads humbly and let the waves of draconic emotion wash over them. By the time the chamber had quietened slightly, Wenda felt like a piece of flotsam that had been battered by a raging storm.

Willet stood and bowed.

“It is our honour,” he said steadily and Wenda was proud that he could stand on his feet and speak with such clarity whilst being battered by dragon thought.

As if aware that the centaurs were right at the limit of their endurance T’i’asharath spoke from the obsidian throne.
“Enough now,” she said softly. “We have unfinished business here.”
“We do,” A’a’shanto signified his agreement. “Read the names of those accused of conspiring with the maimed one.”

The black-clad functionary stood and read out a list of about a dozen draconic names. As he spoke each one, the dragon guard unceremoniously grasped the named one and dragged him away.

“And that just leaves whoever wanted to breed dragons.” Willet looked enquiringly at the master dragon.
“It does indeed.”
Willet and Wenda were vouchsafed the image of a man. A man sitting in a richly decorated chamber, with a priceless glass of deep red wine in his hand watching as a mostly naked woman danced to a sensuous rhythm. Willet swore and Wenda looked at him in some surprise.
“He is known,” Willet grated.
“Known and yet still he weaves his vile schemes,” T’i’asharath spat.
“He does. Believes himself untouchable. And thus far it has been no more than the truth. Our justice cannot touch him. Perhaps it would serve all of our purposes if he was brought to face the might of draconic law.”
A’a’shanto smiled. “What a splendid idea,” he all but purred. “However it would require a certain amount of turning of a blind eye.”
“That could be arranged.” Willet turned to Wenda. “Will you await me here? I won’t be long.”
Wenda didn’t want to be left alone in a chamber full of excited dragonkind, but she could see no alternative. She set her chin and nodded.

N’a’mma sensed her disquiet and smiled in reassurance.
“S’h’aaha will be safe. N’a’mma gives oaf.”
There was a moment of shocked silence in the chamber before the whispering broke out.
The dragonet lifted a pudgy paw.
“Be silent,” she commanded. “Would shame by behaviour.”
A’a’shanto snapped his teeth together and the room come to order.
“Did you not hear your princess?” he asked with deceptive mildness. Then he spoke formally. “I name S’h’aaha guest friend.”
After having dropped his bombshell he snapped his wings and was gone, with Willet on his tail.
“Temper, temper,” his mate was openly amused. “I suspect that he had plans for you, my lady.”
Wanda felt herself flush uncomfortably.
N’a’mma reared up on her hind legs.
“Not do,” she said firmly. “N’a’mma give oaf.”
T’i’asharath bowed her proud head.
“I stand corrected little one.”

After that it got easier, and Wenda managed to not cringe in her chair although she still mentally counted the moments until Willet returned. She was beginning to feel that she may have been abandoned when there was a small disruption in the light and a rather flustered Badger appeared in the seat next to her. The room fell silent as the dragons stared at him. He sat up straight and snarled.
“I am sent by the master dragon A’a’shanto. He would have a cage prepared and placed on the stone of judgment.”
For a second nobody moved, then T’i’asharath hissed.
“Did not my lord send an order?”
Two of the dragon guard bowed very low and scuttled off.

N’a’mma smiled her baby dragon smile.
“B’a’dger,” she crowed delightedly. “You still got hrrdudu?”
“No. Master dragon took it.”
“He big feef. Is mine.”
Her mother spoke from the back of the hall.
“It is not yours miss naughty.” Then the golden queen’s voice changed from motherly affection to high formality. “I name B’a’dger guest friend. Hear this well.”
The shock in the room was palpable as the queen made her way to the front of the room and ascended the platform to stand beside Badger and Wenda.

For once in his life Badger said nothing, merely regarding the room with his round golden eyes. Wenda put a hand on his head and he turned to favour her with a canine grin.
“Who’d a thought it,” he breathed. “A dragon with some sense of decency. And now we wait. Shouldn’t be long.”

The first thing that happened was the return of the dragon guardsmen accompanied by half a score of ogres who were manhandling a sturdy iron cage. The ogres carefully set the cage on a particular spot in the floor, then bowed to the dragon throne and went to wait quietly in the rearmost corner of the chamber.

Badger twitched his wet black nose.
“They are coming.”
Wenda looked into his eyes and receive the ghost of a wink before there came an enormous bang and the smell of sulphur.

The empty cage now housed a nobleman dressed in claret velvet, who still held a Venetian glass goblet in one hand. He looked about him in surprise and some hauteur. Because he was facing away from the dragon thrones, he saw only a room full of well dressed people all of whom were regarding him with unfeigned interest.
“To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” he drawled.
Nobody bothered to answer him, and he frowned in displeasure.
“I asked you a question.”
T’i’asharath hissed and the man’s head snapped around. He found himself looking at three dragons, one woman, and a dog. He focused on Wenda.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” he demanded.
She found herself unwilling to bother with such arrogance, so she just looked limpidly into his furious eyes.
“What’s the betting he throws the glass?” Badger was amused.

Almost as he spoke, the priceless vessel flew through the air, only to be neatly caught by an athletic male dressed in smoke grey robes.
“Finders keepers,” he said as he tossed off the small amount of wine left in the bottom of the glass. “An excellent vintage. I do so hate to see good wine go to waste.”
“Quiet fool,” T’i’asharath spoke mildly enough, but even so the young dragon subsided.

The man in the cage began to swear, before he collected himself and started to weave a spell. One of the watchful ogres peeled himself off the rear wall and approached the cage. He shot a snake-quick arm through the bars and clasped a thick-fingered hand about the man’s throat.
“Naughty, naughty,” he rumbled as the man’s eyes started to bug out. “Live or die ma’am.”
T’i’asharath looked at the struggling human and her eyes were pitiless.
“Live. For now. But don’t tolerate any disobedience.”
The ogre loosened its grip and the prisoner drew in a laboured breath. He opened his mouth and the ogre squeezed.
“You only speak when you are told to speak.”
The man’s face was turning blue before he was allowed his next gulp of oxygen.
“Be careful not to break its larynx,” the golden queen dragon recommended, “my brother may want words with it”.
The ogre laughed.

Came the sound of wings outside and A’a’shanto shouldered his way into the room followed by Willet. They shared a particularly draconian grin.
“I wasn’t even sure that would work,” the dragon remarked.
“Well it was certainly impressive. Now they know he’s gone, I wonder how long the party at his house will go on for?”
“Days. Maybe even weeks.”
The master dragon looked at his prisoner.
“Is he not behaving?”
“Not. Sweared rudely.” N’a’mma piped up. Her uncle smiled down at her, but this was a completely different expression from the pitiless draconic smile he had bestowed on the prisoner.
“Does N’a’mma want the hurrdudu?”
“I do. It mine.”
“Let Mama take you home then. The hurrdudu is at the place where you play.”
The dragonet gave a crow of delight and scrambled up to sit between her mother’s wings.
“We go,” she announced dramatically and there was a sudden flaw in the light.

A’a’shanto looked at the centaurs and Willet nodded.
“My mate doesn’t need to see this, and to be quite honest neither do I. If you have no further need for us.”
The master dragon laughed wickedly.
“You cannot be persuaded to remain for our own party?”
“Least of all that.”
T’i’asharath looked at her mate in some exasperation.
“Leave them. We owe better courtesy than that.”
“It is only to joke my love. The centaur and I understand each other well enough.”
“You do?” Wenda was openly incredulous.
“We have spoken,” Willet explained, “spoken of our differences and our agreements. But now would you like to go home?”
“I would. Although I will confess to a desire to know what comes to that creature in the cage.”
“He dies,” T’i’asharath was coldly dismissive, “and it will not be an easy death.”
“Oh. Good. I think. As long as I don’t have to watch.”
“You do not. B’a’dger will bear witness.”
The German Shepherd shook his blonde ruff.
“I will so do. If the master dragon will declare me guest friend.”
A’a’shanto drew himself up to his full height.
“I declare B’a’dger guest friend. To disrespect him is to disrespect the Dragon Thrones.

The silence was as deep and dark as a forest pond and T’i’asharath looked at Badger for a long moment.
“Have you ever wished you could fly?”
“Almost every day of my life ma’am…”
Wenda gripped Willet’s hand as if her life depended on that connection.
“Surely she cannot. That’s an impossibility…”
“I don’t know, love, they say that nothing is impossible to those bonded to Dragonheart.”

Badger walked over to the basalt thrones and the dragon mistress leaned forward to blow her cold draconic breath into his nostrils.
“I name thee brother,” she intoned and somewhere in the bowels of the castle a deep-toned bell sounded.

Badger sneezed, then turned himself almost inside out trying to look at his own shoulders. His wings didn’t grow as Wenda and Willet remembered their own wings growing it was just that one minute Badger was an ordinarily handsome canine, the next he had white feathered wings. He flexed them experimentally then lifted himself off the ground to hover about three feet in the air.
“I can fly,” he cried in a great voice. “I can fly.”

Willet looked at his friend and a smile spread from one cheek to the other.
“At least you won’t be needing a lift home.”
“Cheek. I could still bite you.”
The unspoken love she heard in those few words made Wenda feel once again how near she had come to pushing Willet away and nursing her own bitterness into a lonely old age. Badger looked into her face and winked.
“Just keep a hold of him now.”
“I will.”

The dragons all looked suitably bewildered, although Badger privately thought that A’a’shanto understood a lot more than he was prepared to give away. He gave Willet a little push with his nose.
“Take Wenda home. She’s had about as much as she can take.”

Willet looked at his drooping wife.
“Will you trust me to carry you?”
Wenda nodded and he flowed into his true form. She clambered onto his back and wrapped her arms around his naked torso.

And so they went home, leaving Badger to bear witness – both to the messy and protracted death of one who sought to breed dragons for his own profit and to the wild orgy that followed.

Much later, as she lay in her husband’s arms, Wenda asked the question that was uppermost in her mind.
“Was there going to be a wild party in Dragonheart?”
“Probably. I hope Badger is enjoying it.”
“Would you have stayed if it wasn’t for me?”
He laughed and rubbed his face in her soft brown curls.
“Not me. Didn’t we have our own party here?”
Wenda stirred and writhed against his warm skin.
“Correct answer my husband. Correct answer.”

© jane jago 2017

'Follow That Dragon' is one of the stories in The Dragonheart Stories: Fairytales for Grownups by Jane Jago

Beauty sat at her mirror.

“When did we get old?” 

The man who sprawled in the wreckage of her bed laughed gently.

“Speaking for myself, long back. But you, my beautiful, remain as young as a May morning.”

As a diversion it succeeded as well as anything, and she even smiled her carefully practiced smile.

And yet, once he was gone back to his life she couldn’t stop seeing crows feet at the corners of her eyes.

A handful of tablets could not promise eternal youth, but they did guarantee dreamless rest.

And that would have to do…

©️jj 2018

I was biting my time as dust fell
And my bloody dire rear it was hell
I had swallowed some dollop 
Which I hope picked a wallop
But waiting was making me smell
Alongside me was my escape goat
A man who grasps time by the stoat
He has wobbly knees
And old timers disease
And his hearbuds are down by this throat
As I wrote this verse I could have sworn 
That you wouldn’t find any eggcorns
But it’s quite up to you
If you see one or two
Said the maiden alone and fallorn

©️JJ 2018

One greets the assembled disciples.

Should it be that you are a lost soul, who has recently slipped into the back of the class in the hope of improving your limited literary endeavours, allow me to introduce myself. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, fondly referred to as IVy by my chums. The acclaimed author of that prodigiously enchanting science fantasy work ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ which has been removed from the shelves on a temporary basis so it can return and be lauded as it truly deserves.

The end of summer is upon us and as harvests are gathered in I am once more returned to my writing room to reap the rich harvest of a summer gleaning inspiration from the very lap of the Muses in their homeland. Thus I was less than delighted to be disturbed whilst revisiting the profound passages of my previous literary highlights and admiring the lavish style, the graceful similes, the elegant turns of phrase and the superlative use of descriptive ornamentation.

It was, of course, my maternal parent who was well into her second admixture of Benedictine and Calvados. I knew that because the sickly smell of honeyed apples hung on her breath as she stuck her face into mine, muttering: “Why did I do it? What was I doing? How did I ever do something to deserve this?” Then, fuelled by alcohol and the disappointment she feels in her own sad little existence, she trailed off into a long-winded monologue in which I was unflatteringly compared to a chocolate teapot, a leadless pencil and other random objects.

Once I was again mercifully alone, the door bolted to avoid any further distractions, I realised Mumsie had unwittingly pointed out an area of English grammar that I have been remiss in bringing to the attention of my pupils. The ‘doing’ words.

How to Write Right  – Lesson 7. The Write Verb

Right class! Today we shall explore one of the backbones of any sentence. Indeed, that without which it is not a sentence at all.

Verbs are words which inform us of action. You all knew that of course, so I shall skip over asking for a show of hands and cut to the chase: how to choose the right verb for your sentence.

The important message I need you to take from today’s lesson is that any sentence can be instantly improved if you consider varying the verb. Truly. It can. Allow me to demonstrate briefly:

The stars shone.

Nothing wrong with that at all. It tells the reader the simple fact and they will absorb it and move on. But oh what a wasted opportunity! Instead of having the reader merely register the idea of the stars being there, doing what we all know stars do, you could have informed their imaginations with your creative genius (however small that might be) and awed them by your command of the depth of beauty in the language. Thus, thusly:

The stars blazed.
The stars lustred.
The stars scintillated.
The stars effervesced.
The stars coruscated.
You, by now, begin to assimilate the idea.

Thusly, my innocents, do not ‘walk’ but ‘promenade’. Never merely ‘jump’ when you can ‘frolic’. And remember, dear disciple mine, any noun can be enverbed to add to your treasure trove of possibilities:

The handsome young man entabled his firm buttocks, peachifying my day by his very beauty. (Voila mes crudités, deux pour le prix d’un)

And thus have we indeed ‘done’ the doing words.

Now go and try some out.

Until we next…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join IVy’s Adoring Fans!

The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter. Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom.

Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.

It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs. His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.

“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.

A Drabble by Jane Jago inspired by original artwork from Ian Bristow.