The structural edit of DAWN OF WOLVES (Book #3, The Kingdom of Mercia) is done, and I'm now working on a revised draft of the novel.
This draft is crucial. It's where I begin to polish the writing, and ensure the story flows properly.
I focus on things like the metaphors and similes I've used - making sure they are as original as possible, and tied to the setting. I read dialogue aloud - to ensure it's natural. It's also the stage where I delete, add and move scenes around. This is where the editor's feedback is crucial. As the writer, I'm way too close to the story to notice any structural issues. Yet, these are essential to the pacing and flow of a good story.
For example, in DAWN OF WOLVES, my editor noted that Chapter One needed to start 'in the middle of things' rather than having a bit of scene setting first. Hence, I have deleted the following scene and, instead, woven some of the details into a revised start where our hero, Wulfhere of Mercia, storms Tamworth to take back the throne.
I still like this scene though... so here it is for you to enjoy. :-)
--
“Your brother has sent word,
Milord. When the moon has fully risen, men will open the low gates.”
Wulfhere looked up from
where he had been sharpening his sword, Shield
Breaker, and fixed the messenger in a cool stare.
“So, he is ready then?”
Werbode – a tall, muscular
man with a shock of black hair and a neatly trimmed beard – nodded. Like
Wulfhere, the warrior was clad in boiled leather, ready for battle. “He assures
us that Oswiu’s stewards are ignorant of our plans. He will be waiting for you
in the Great Tower and has a group of men, loyal to him, who will join us once
we storm the town.”
Wulfhere cast aside the
whetstone he had been using to sharpen the double-edged blade, and rose to his
feet.
Finally.
After two years in exile he
was about to take back his birthright. Yet, caution tempered his impatience to
enter Tamworth.
Is Aethelred loyal?
In truth, his younger
brother had always been easier to like than Paeda, his elder brother. Paeda had
been a snake. He had betrayed their father on the eve of battle and given away
true power over Mercia so that he could marry Oswiu of Bernicia’s daughter, a
young woman he had obsessed over. However, wyrd – fate – had turned against
Paeda in the end. Rumor had it that Alchflaed, the flame haired beauty Paeda
had wed, had slain him while he slept.
Wulfhere had liked
Alchflaed, although, in his opinion a woman with such a fiery and willful
temperament did not make a good wife. Yet, if she had truly killed Paeda, he
applauded her for it. After Paeda’s murder, Alchflaed had disappeared. Both the
Northumbrians and Mercians had hunted for her, but she was never found.
“You look pensive, Milord,”
Werbode noted, ever watchful. “Does something worry you?”
Wulfhere favored his friend
with a thin smile before he slid his sword back into its scabbard.
“We must be wary tonight,”
he said, before glancing around the wide clearing where over two-hundred
warriors gathered. “I trust few men, and my brother is not among them. When we
enter the Great Hall, I want you to keep a close eye on Aethelred.”
Werbode nodded, his gaze
shrewd. Wulfhere knew he could depend on the warrior to watch his back tonight.
Dense woodland surrounded
the small army. They waited only a few furlongs distant from Tamworth. It was a
damp, grey afternoon and the rain was beginning to fall in a light drizzle, the
kind of rain that falls silently without disturbing a blade of grass. The rise
and fall of men’s voices and the rasp of iron blades – seaxes, swords, axes and
spears – being sharpened punctuated the stillness.
Wulfhere’s pulse quickened.
It was the sound of men preparing for battle. Long had he awaited this day;
long had he planned for it. During the past two years, he had learned patience.
He had bided his time, gathered his friends close and built up his strength.
There was no point in launching an attack before he was ready. He would only
have one chance to retake Tamworth, so he had to do it right.
Wulfhere left Werbode then
and walked amongst his men. He listened to their conversations, and exchanged
the odd word with some of them. One of his most trusted warriors, Elfhere,
waved to him and Wulfhere nodded back.
“Tamworth awaits,” the
warrior reminded him. “This time tomorrow you will be sitting upon the high
seat, Milord.”
Wulfhere nodded, returning
Elfhere’s smile. The tall, blond warrior had left Tamworth after the
Northumbrians had taken control of it, and sought Wulfhere out in the
wilderness. Elfhere limped slightly, from an old injury, but he was still one
of Wulfhere’s best.
Wulfhere continued on his
way through the crowd of leather-clad warriors. Morale was good, and they
responded to him with smiles and respectful nods. Three Mercian ealdormen had
joined him: Immin, Eafa and Eadbert. They were powerful, respected men who had
brought their own warriors with them. Wulfhere passed Immin as he circuited the
clearing. The hulking ealdorman with a mane of grizzled blond hair grinned at
him.
“Fire in your belly yet,
Milord?”
Wulfhere grinned back. “Aye.
I’m ready for a fight.”
In truth, he was more than
ready. He longed to spill Northumbrian blood, to cut down those who had no
right occupying his hall or commanding his people.
Soon.
And once it was done he
would see Ermenilda again.
Even a year later, he could
still picture her clearly. He had known the moment he saw her, that he wanted
her. Young and slender, her ethereal beauty had ensnared him. Long, straight
blonde hair, a few shades darker than his, flowed over her shoulders, framing a
delicately featured face and soulful eyes the color of walnut.
The girl had a demure
manner, yet she had held his gaze unflinchingly at the door to her father’s
hall. Ermenilda had looked radiant, her cheeks flushed with cold, with
snowflakes in her hair.
She was just one more reason
he had to take Tamworth.
Wulfhere stopped his circuit
around the clearing and glanced up at the sky. The rain was beginning to clear,
allowing the watery winter sun to peek through.
Good, we need to be able to see the moon tonight.
Everything depended on this
attack going smoothly.
Wulfhere reached up then,
his fist closing around the small iron spear he wore on a leather thong around
his neck – Tiw, the god of war’s spear. He had not yet renounced the old gods,
although the time was coming when he would have to do so. He was not sure he
would ever truly cast them aside for the gods of his ancestors meant a lot to
him.
Tonight, Tiw would guide his
sword and help him regain his birthright.
--
