Before I write much more, you ought to know that
Amazon are running a deal (they approached me – I’m not paying for it) with the
kindle of ‘The Golden Sword’ over the next couple of weeks. It will cost 99p in
the UK and $1.40 in the US.
And the US:
As for me on this glorious afternoon, I’m sitting in
my lounge (sitting room), looking out at the bare trees and drizzle. The tops
of the moors are shrouded in cloud. It’s not great weather. It’s what we call
in Cornwall, mizzly (drizzle and mist). Even the cats aren’t impressed!
One of the great things about this weather though is
that if it’s too miserable outside, it’s better to stay in and write - cocooned in my very
own storyteller chair.
So that’s what I’ve been doing and the book - number
four in the Camelot Inheritance series - is forging along. It will still be a while
until it’s out there but it’s coming ever closer.
I’m going to put an excerpt on the end of this post, so
you can get a flavour.
However, I also wanted to flag up the next competition
I’ll be running soon on here and on Facebook. It will feature a unicorn and
Merlin’s Vow. The two go very well together!
In the meantime, those of you in the UK and other cold
spots, keep an eye out for spring …
 |
This one was taken recently on the coast close to us.
For those of you who've read any of my books, it's close to Pendrym. |
And now, from the beginning of Chapter One -
Tamar nudged Arthur.
‘Don’t look now … but that statue blinked.’
‘What?’
‘The statue behind you, the
one with wings and a human face, it blinked.’
Despite her instruction, Arthur
spun round. ‘The one that looks like a lion with wings?’
She nodded.
‘O-kay.’
Catching a statue moving
wasn’t new to him. He’d come across one before - but that had been on his side.
He didn’t fancy finding out whether this one was friendly. It was way too big.
He caught hold of Tamar’s
arm, ‘Let’s move.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Slowly.’
‘It can’t do anything …
can it?’ Tamar asked. ‘I mean how can an ancient Assyrian statue, in the
British Museum in the centre of London, do
anything?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t
want to find out.’ Arthur said, edging away. A memory rumbled. ‘It could
listen.’
Tamar examined the statue’s
head. A sort of headdress covered any ears it might have.
‘We weren’t saying
anything worth listening to, were we?’
‘Just think what we were
talking about!’
She did a quick re-run of
their conversation and realised that the stuff they’d been discussing had
definitely been worth hearing. She risked another look: the statue was massive,
probably several metres high. It towered above the tourists and groups of
schoolchildren. If it did do anything there could be carnage.
Arthur grabbed her hand,
pulling her away as he whispered, ‘You’re the history geek. Remind me: why were
these statues made?’
Tamar didn’t need to
check her notes. ‘They were meant to be gatekeepers against evil spirits.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said softly.
‘Now I remember.’
Arthur flipped through
his memories and one slid to the front of his mind: of him outside the Granite
House on the moors, and the stone knights on the gateposts glowing - just
before he’d been captured by the Crow Man.
He cast another look over
his shoulder. A Japanese tourist was taking a close-up photo of the statue,
standing under it and angling his camera upwards so that the photo would
demonstrate the statue’s dimensions. As far as Arthur could tell it wasn’t
moving, but he wasn’t going to chance a closer look; he and Tamar were probably
the reason behind the blink.
‘We need to get away. We could
be sending out vibes. After all, you are
the Time Keeper. You haven’t always been stuck in this century like the rest of
us, have you?’
‘That’s true.’ Tamar’s
hand instinctively sought out the Time Keeper’s watch hidden deep in her
pocket. Gentle, rhythmic ticks ran along her thumb. The fob watch had her name
inscribed on it: Tamar Tamblyn, the latest in a long line of Time Keepers.
‘Come on.’ Arthur’s brown
eyes were worried. ‘There’s a new café on this floor. It might be safer. We can
get to it to through these galleries … and don’t look at any of the statues.’
Tamar didn’t need to be
told. A blinking statue was enough to worry anybody; even someone who’d met
ancient knights.
They attempted a
nonchalant amble along the gallery, away from the human-headed lion, but the
amble quickly turned into a brisk walk and then their legs took over and the
walk turned into a run.
The first gallery was packed
with carved friezes of helmeted men on horses. Insanely, Arthur’s brain buzzed
with facts: the carvings had come from Greece and were over two thousand years
old. ‘I don’t need to know this now!’
he thought as they hurtled past.
Arthur knew without a
shadow of a doubt that if Tamar said that she’d seen a statue blink - it had
blinked. He also realised that when inanimate objects begin stirring it’s
usually time to make a retreat.
‘I knew this school trip
was a bad idea,’ he muttered, as they skidded past a group of excitable
Italians. ‘We’re away from Cornwall, and
we’re separated from the rest of the Guardians.’
‘Not much we can do about
that now,’ Tamar pointed out. ‘Boy, this place is a maze, where’s the café?’
‘Through here – come on.’
They ran past more
statues and galleries of antique objects. Lively chatter bounced off the stone
pillars and floors, and cameras clicked, storing memories. Under normal
circumstances, they’d love it here; but these weren’t normal circumstances.
Arthur checked the
miniature sword hanging from the chain around his neck. The gold was at body
temperature, which generally meant there wasn’t an immediate threat.
‘My sword’s okay,’ he
informed Tamar as they spun past a clutch of schoolchildren.
Instinctively she put her
hand to her own silver sword. ‘So’s mine - and the pocket watch is quiet too.’
Sliding over the polished
floors, they rounded another corner and there was the café in front of them; glossy
and modern with just one statue in the far corner of a man on a horse. From
what he’d learned so far, Arthur guessed that it was about a couple of thousand
years old; Roman probably. But at least this one didn’t look threatening. . .
