2015 - original writing excerpt
Here's some of what I wrote in January. It's pretty clunky and I'm not really confident I'll keep it at all, let alone as Chapter 1, but I'm just kinda glad to be past it. 2000 words or so.
*
It was approaching evening, though the midsummer sun still
hung high in the sky. It beat down on the almost empty courtyard of the police
headquarters, its sole occupant a young woman training against a target. Sounds
from the city were faintly audible, carried on the wind, but it was evident
that she was completely oblivious to everything but the exercise she was
concentrating on. She wore a simple short-sleeved tunic and close-fitted
breeches with thick hide boots, and in her left hand she held a lacquered baton
of burnished hardwood. It was around two feet in length, with a strap at one
end and a side-handle set a little ways up from it. Off to one side lay a
studded leather jerkin she had carelessly discarded before starting her
workout.
She had been drilling intensely for almost ten minutes,
carrying out the movements with the brisk, efficient air of deep familiarity. The
courtyard offered little shade; beads of sweat flew from her as she smoothly
cycled through a variety of movements against the training dummy, striking
heavy blows directed at locations that would disarm or disable a living,
breathing target. She finished her set with an attack to the dummy’s head that
reverberated through its entire frame, releasing a satisfying grunt of exertion
as she did so. Routine finished, she exhaled and relaxed, tucked the baton into
its sheath on her belt and wiped away some sweat from her face.
She made her way over to a water pump situated off to her
right, primed it and promptly stuck her head under the ensuing stream. The
water was closer to lukewarm than cool, coming as it did from an underground
reservoir fed directly by the river, but it was nevertheless refreshing against
her skin. Sufficiently cooled, she straightened up, dried her face on her tunic
and ran a hand through her hair, brushing water out of the tight curls.
She was just making her way back to pick up the jerkin from
where she’d left it on the ground when she heard the sound of approaching
footsteps. The courtyard was located towards the rear of the building where
there was little traffic outside of training times, so it was always easy to
hear people coming. Her hand idly lowered to rest on her baton, more through
force of habit than anything else.
When the approaching figure rounded the corner and stepped out
into the light she snapped to attention, her hand immediately falling away as
the chief of police came in to view. He was a broad-chested, middle-aged man;
the burdens of his position were evident in the worry lines on his face and the
amount of grey in his hair, yet despite that there was a welcoming air about
him. Unlike her, he was wearing the full uniform, which constituted a deep navy
jacket bearing the insignia of the Memoria Constabulary and epaulettes
displaying his rank.
He caught her eye and
a smile spread across his face, and he made a gesture that was half salute,
half easy dismissal.
‘I thought I might find you here. At ease, sergeant.’ She returned
the gesture and grinned back at him.
‘Hey chief, you were looking for me?’
‘Yeah, I thought we might head back together for a change. It’s
too damn hot in my office, I’d rather finish my work in the comfort of my study.
I checked your office first; when I saw that you hadn’t left yet it made sense
to look here next.’
‘It’s always a treat
to see the chief of police display the brilliant deductive reasoning that got him
to where he is today,’ she said dryly.
Seeing them together, the family connection would have been
obvious to anyone. Being in each other’s presence seemed to invigorate them
both; the chief was more energetic, and she seemed more relaxed. There was the
distinct impression that together they could take on anything.
'You're lucky I'm off duty, brat. What were you up to
anyway, just going through the motions?’
‘Yeah; I was only going to take inventory, but one thing led
to another...’ She shrugged, and then shot him a sly look and inclined her head
towards where the equipment was stored. ‘Actually, seeing as you’re here, do
you want to spar? Just a quick best of three!’
Her father laughed and shook his head. ‘Honestly Wren,
you’re incorrigible.’
‘Oh, come on! Besides, you missed last week; you owe me.’
‘True enough. I suppose I have been letting work get in the
way of training...’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Fine, we might as well get a
couple of rounds in.’
Wren cheered as he strode into the courtyard, shrugging off
his coat and draping it neatly across a railing, and followed behind him as he
made his way towards the equipment racks. If they were going to spar then she
would need a shield, something she’d eschewed against an opponent that couldn’t
fight back.
The police in Memoria favoured two different types of
shield. One was large and rectangular; it protected most of the body and was
adept and stopping crossbow bolts and pushing back against crowds. The other
was a small, circular variant of folded metal. It had a convex surface that a
gifted combatant could use to turn away blades, making it invaluable in a
mêlée. Wren immediately gravitated towards the latter, but her father paused
thoughtfully before choosing his. Owing to his greater bulk he found it no
great handicap to manoeuvre with a tower shield, and it suited the more
defensive approach that he often adopted. Still, he was no slouch with either; after
all, he had been the one to instruct her in the use.
‘Ah, what the hell,’ he said, picking up a round shield.
‘Let’s live dangerously.’
They made their way back to the centre of the courtyard, and
then squared off facing one another ten paces apart. While her father
stretched, Wren sucked in a deep breath to steady herself and bounced lightly
on the balls of her feet. The ground was hard packed earth, compacted over the
years by thousands of recruits carrying out countless tough drills given to
them by tougher sergeants. She had been in both of those positions, and yet
none of it compared to sparring with her father. He had been training her ever
since she had first expressed her desire to join the force, testing her combat
skills almost every week since she had turned sixteen.
Across from her, the chief unsheathed his baton and raised
it in his typical salute, to which she followed suit. She took him in, curious
about his choice of shield; his stance was relaxed, almost aloof, with his
weapon arm slightly out in front and the shield covering his centre. Years of
experience had taught her to underestimate him at her peril – while she could
usually take a round or two, and she’d started winning every so often, it was
far from a common occurrence.
He stood motionless, anticipating her approach. She sucked
in another breath, took a few steps towards him to close the distance, then
lunged forward in attack. Her first move was a feint towards his left side to
test what he would do; he stepped out of her range and made no further move
that would have allowed an opening. She continued to press him as he avoided
her every attack, until a thrust directed at his throat forced him to bring his
shield up to block it. The sound that rang out as her weapon connected was like
a gong signalling that warm-up was over.
He immediately shifted into high gear to counter-attack, relentlessly
sending blow after blow her way and leaving her no room to retaliate. The
repeated impacts on her shield sent jarring shocks through her arm, and she
realised that she wouldn’t be able to weather it for long without her arm going
numb. She gathered her strength, bracing herself, and when the next attack
came, put all her weight behind her shield and shoved.
Despite her regular training and athletic build, under
normal circumstances Wren would have been hard pressed to shift her father’s
stocky frame. She had caught him by surprise however, and thrown him off
balance. Capitalising on the opening she’d just created, Wren stepped forward using
the momentum from her shove, and twisted around bringing her baton in a
backhanded arc aimed at her father’s ribs. He brought down his own baton to
meet the blow, parrying it awkwardly, but she had anticipated this and aimed a
kick at his knee even as their weapons met. He dropped to one knee to take the
hit, and with a deft flourish she switched to her baton’s side grip and swung
in the direction of his lowered head in the same movement that she had been
practicing just a short time earlier.
She executed it swiftly, but not swiftly enough. Her father
hadn’t simply dropped to one knee, but instead had continued forward into a
roll, causing her swing to go wide. Realising that she’d left herself open Wren
tried to re-centre herself, but her father swept her feet out from under her
and within moments had her pinned to the ground, his baton at her throat.
‘Yield?’ he asked, a smile playing about his lips.
‘I yield,’ she agreed with a sigh. He let her go, and she
grasped his proffered arm and let him haul her back to her feet.
‘You reacted well there,’ he remarked with a smile. ‘You didn’t
pull any punches either, good.’
‘You were one step ahead of me the whole time, weren’t you?’
‘Well yes, that was the point. It’s easy to predict what
someone’s going to do when you back them into a corner and limit their options.’
Wren frowned. Whenever they sparred the first point was
always the most hotly contested, and she hated losing it because it inevitably
led to a sermon along these lines. It also meant that he would do pretty much
the same thing the next round to give her a chance at figuring out where she
went wrong. It was such a dad move to pull, and she knew that at least part of
the reason he did it was because of how much it wound her up.
True to form, the second round went in much the same way as
the first. This time round Wren was able to better exploit the gaps in his
uncharacteristically aggressive style and was able to take the point. Her heart
wasn’t in it however, and he cleaned up the final round. Frustrated with
herself, she bowed stiffly, then yanked the shield off her arm and started
towards the equipment storage before she could get another talking to. Her
father jogged up and fell into step next to her.
‘You know,’ he said, his tone gently chiding, ‘it was your
idea for us to spar in the first place.’
He was right, of course. She was 21, and a sergeant at that;
she couldn’t keep acting like a child forever. She stopped and turned to face
him, apologetic. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just... if that had been
a real fight, there wouldn’t have been a round two or three, would there? You
don’t get second chances out in the field.’
He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘You’d be
surprised. It’s not always as simple as that, and sometimes you don’t have the
luxury of giving up.’ She met his gaze, but didn’t say anything.
‘There’s more
to it, isn’t there? Were you really just letting off steam earlier, or do you
have something on your mind?’
‘What? No!’ said Wren, then hesitated. ‘Well, maybe. We can
talk at home later, I guess.’
‘Why not now?’
‘I want out of this shirt before it starts to smell, for
one,’ she said, getting a laugh out of him.
‘Fair point, I could do with a change myself. You sure
you’re okay?’
‘Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll swing by your office once I’m
done.’
*
This was a bit of an agonising hump to get over, followed by... another agonising hump. Writing is hard.
