The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)
Page 50
She released him reluctantly, a set task pulling her away.
“Master Loamtoes,” she said, rising from the bed.
Pocket looked past her and saw a gnome, slumped in a chair, fast asleep.
“Master Loamtoes,” Moragh repeated again, hovering over the chair. “He’s awake.”
The gnome’s eyes opened, and he looked at Moragh for a moment, frowning, then her words registered and he jumped to his feet. He came over and looked Pocket over, gave a grunt of approval and something near to a smile almost made it across his cheeks.
“Broth,” he told Moragh a little gruffly. “And water.”
Moragh continued to smile despite the gnome’s manner and returned to the hearth. The gnome gave Pocket’s eyes a final inspection, then withdrew. Pocket heard the door to the cottage open, the sound of gulls slipping through before it closed again. He felt suddenly tired and scooped Napper, displaced after Moragh’s embrace, back into his lap before falling back onto the pillows.
His eyes closed, and he slipped back into black throbs of pain. When he opened his eyes again he found Sir Corc looking down at him.
“You’re alive,” Pocket said, his voice weaker than he expected.
“Yes,” the knight said. “I have you to thank for that.”
“And…the others?” it was becoming difficult to speak.
“Can you not hear it?” Sir Corc asked gently.
Pocket listened, and somewhere outside he made out the distinct sound of wood striking something over and over.
Pocket smiled. “Flyn.”
“Damn racket!” the gnome complained, coming to the bedside and handing Pocket a bowl of steaming liquid. “Drink this down. All of it now!”
Pocket did as he was told.
His eyes were feeling heavy by the time the bowl was half empty, and the pain was lessening.
“I thought I was dead,” he said.
“So did we,” Sir Corc replied, laying his hand gently on Pocket’s shoulder. “And many still do. It is better that way. Sleep now. Rest.”
Pocket did not think he could do anything else. His lids dropped, and he fought them open one last time.
“Are you going to be here when I wake up?” he asked, his own voice sounding distant.
He felt Sir Corc squeeze his shoulder and heard him say, “I swear it.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Books are akin to blades. They take a great deal of heat, pressure and time to produce. And once forged, require more exhaustive labor to hone before they are ready to wield. That may be a trite analogy for a fantasy novelist, but it remains true for me. The following are the people that, knowingly or unknowingly, helped me work the bellows, swing the hammer, grip the tongs and mop the sweat. To all, I am grateful.
To the co-workers in the various day-jobs I have suffered in order to fund this little story, including: the fine folks at Northwest Drapery Service, the rogues at store #646, and most currently, my fellow CSRs.
James MacMurray, for providing the very first AF artwork. Drew Staton, for letting me talk…alot. Michael French, the original Coltrane. David Hoodge, the original Curdle. Graddy and Gamaw, for being Norman Rockwell grandparents. Matthias Weeks, for inviting me to the Basements & Drakes gaming crew and becoming my GM, my friend and my web master. Matt Gale, for his boundless friendship and shenanigans. Jake Burt, for being less a cousin, more a kid brother and entirely a Best Man. My father, for instilling a love of the outdoors and showing me the qualities of true strength. The city of Chicago, for being my anvil. Saadi Mazjoub, because I left him out the night I became an Eagle Scout. Lindsey Luxa, for her generosity and compassion. Ivan Zanchetta, for designing a cover I never imagined and could not forget. To my fallen Hero, a sorcerer-cat and writing companion that is deeply missed. Christopher West, for collaborating with such enthusiasm and producing stunning artwork to march alongside this book. And to the two men who are more than fans, more than friends, more than brothers; Vas and Rob, thanks for sharing the battlefield with me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Tennessee, Jonathan began reading comics at an early age. (Conan the Barbarian Annual #11 was his first.) His love of fiction, folklore and by-gone days was further fueled when his family relocated to the United Kingdom. At the age of nine, Jonathan found himself crawling over castle ramparts, visiting old churchyards and getting neck strain marveling at towering cathedrals. He returned to the U.S. as a teenager where he survived parochial school and a rebellious year in New York City (where he unknowingly met his future wife), before earning his degree from Brevard College in the captivating wilds of Western North Carolina. After developing the world of Autumn’s Fall, Jonathan moved to Chicago where he began writing in earnest. His greatest literary influences are Robert E. Howard and Lloyd Alexander. He currently resides in Atlanta with his wife, son and cat. More Autumn’s Fall is on the way!
Visit him at www.exiledheir.com