The King's Thief

Where have I been?


Well, I find that during term time, it's tough to write. As the term or half term comes to an end, it seems to come back, the will to write. And the ideas. Strange. Kind of a self-imposed writer's block. I wrote a couple of writing prompts, nothing TKT related, and had some good ideas for other stories, which will eventually appear.


When I came back to it, it was over a large rum and diet coke, as usual; seems my best writing happens with alcohol. Perhaps that's just my opinion. I think that this represents the end of a 'part'; Perhaps Chapter 20 will start Part 3, as I think the 'travel' section represents Part 2, while the intro is Part 1.


Anyway, here is the next chapter of TKT. Enjoy :D



Chapter 19


Malketh turned suddenly; it was as if a voice had called him from far away. He sat for a minute, motionless, one hand holding a struggling mouse, the other a small bottle. The fire crackled merrily in its grate, heating his cluttered quarters. Above his desk, a delicate spherical weaving of translucent bars hung, rotating slightly, no more than a foot in diameter; already cracks were appearing at the joins.
There it came again; not a vocal cry, nothing so crude as words, but definitely a use of magic, and not too far away; enough to rise above the general background magic. The sun would be up soon, and generally speaking the most powerful among the magicians would be slumbering.

This one came slowly at first, like... I don't know, like trying to squeeze that last little bit of toothpaste out of the tube, folding it on itself until you have a bubble of paste, then when you relax your grip to put it on the brush, it darts back inside.
Then I got to a certain point, and suddenly it was like squeezing a full tube. It was just so fluid!

Anyway, here it is!

Chapter 18

Beck’s entire body throbbed with power, his senses completely overwhelmed. If he concentrated he could still feel his naked body, sat on the dusty workshop floor. He was hungry, and thirst nagged at him, but if he relaxed for even a second, control would never be restored. Around him lay the bodies of several cats, fuel for the spell that had allowed him to send his thoughts into the form of his Banshee. Dried blood stuck the hairs of his legs to the floor. His eyes were open, blinking occasionally by reflex, but otherwise barely moving. He gazed deeply into the mirror as it reflected images onto his pupils, trees flying underneath him, the countryside rolling past at great speed. It was nearly over; only the complexities of the flight engine required him to personally direct the movements of his tool; soon he could release her, the raging, driving force of hatred driving her towards his enemy. The mental link was so secure that he could feel the wind buffeting his body, hear the ringing scream that was, frankly, beginning to bore into his own consciousness; Most importantly, he could feel the control he had placed in the Banshee’s hand, a simple button that was magically linked to the pouch on the rear of the flying engine.